Nevermind my bollocks

Parenting Mistake 103: Toe Jam

2011-06-12T18:46:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago Jake reminded me of a parenting mistake that I may have made about a year ago. He had just got out of the bath and was as naked as the day he was born. He looked at me in the tub, shouted "TOE JAM!" and moved his hips in a circular motion - trying I'm sure, to replicate a curious penis-windmill-type maneuver from the music video. If you aren't familiar with this music video then check it out below. Its brilliant!

I was obviously a little shocked by this so I grabbed a Shampoo bottle (pretend microphone) and started singing along! You can't turn back the clock on a parenting mistake - so you may as well join in, right?

"I was asking New York City, do you like my clothes..."

To be honest with you, it'd be wrong of me to accept the blame for this mistake. You see, about a year ago I discovered The BPA and was forced by Jake and Luke, under much duress I might add, to search for it on Youtube.

We were instantly hooked. It was just so funny... It wasn't until the 3rd or 4th iteration that I noticed that it wasn't exactly kid friendly. Oh well, I thought, what's done is done. Its not like the kids will remember it.

Parenting Mistake 102: Conflict Resolution

2011-05-30T20:39:00.007-05:00

This mistake ended with Luke sliding down the wall. He was semi-conscious and confused. When he regained his composure (and his consciousness), I couldn't help but wonder just how dead I was gonna get when Susan got home.

I considered bribing the kids to keep quiet, but I knew they'd let me down. They always do. Here's an example from the week prior. After a little drive I told them,

"No need to tell your Mom about that little blast off back there!"

And here's what they heard,

"Please tell Mom immediately upon entering our home that our maniac of father almost killed us!"

They elaborated further by adding,

"We're just lucky a Police Officer didn't see – he'd have been arrested for sure!" And "I'm sure we hit 1000 miles per hour!"

To make matters worse, they always lead me into temptation. Using puppy dog eyes and Jedi mind tricks likely learned from their Mother, they plead me to go "blast off". I know what you're thinking and I agree 100%. The blastoff was so absolutely not my fault… After all, who could fault me from doing an itsy bitsy blastoff under those conditions? I have a good mind to tell my kids that there are Amish Children out there who will never experience the thrill of a 0-60 dash in 6 liter V8 muscle car!

You know, thinking more on this, I'm wondering if it's a trap set by Susan? Maybe Susan asks the kids to ask me to blastoff in hopes that I'll give in and willingly let myself be led into temptation? You know, like those P.I's that are hired to look like Jessica Alba? Those P.I's are paid to tempt a loving husband away from his wife for a night of other-worldly coitus-maximus with the hottest piece of crumpet on planet Earth. I just have no idea how so many loving husbands take the bait. Animals!

Anyway, back to Luke… Just like many of my other mistakes - this one wasn't really my fault either. Susan left me and the boys together while she went out on the town. She knew I was grumpy. She knew the kids were being little hellions. She knew that I'd had a long hard day of watching TV and eating chips. Yet she still left us! All things considered, it could have been much worse. Nobody had to visit urgent care this time around.

Before I get to what happened to Luke, I need to tell you about my Dad. He was the youngest of 4 brothers. Growing up he told me legendary stories of heroic battles on the lawn – battles between good and evil (him and another brother). He told me that my Granddad settled conflict the only way he knew how – pushing the kids outside and letting them duke it out.

I bet you can see where this is going. All day Jake and Luke were fighting like cats and dogs. All day I had mediated between tears and fists – tears usually won. At 7:40pm I had enough. I screamed at them in a voice that caught me off guard. It wasn't the booming Dadda voice. It could have been the voice of that "maniac father that almost killed his kids". I shouted at them to stop fighting like little girls and get serious. After all,

"If you really want to fight each other then at least do it properly!"

At that I grabbed Jakes sparring bag and divided up 1 set of sparring gear between the two of them. Luke got the head protection, left foot pad and right glove. He was 5 and likes snuggles, riding his bike and telling jokes. The left glove and the right foot pad went to Jake. Jake was 7. He likes a lot of the same stuff as Luke but is also a red belt at Taekwondo.

They squared off. I screamed "FIGHT!". Jake shook his head and pleaded with me not to make them fight. I screamed "FIGHT!" for the second time and Luke stepped forward with his right hand drawn so far back that he was clearly ready to put his brother in orbit. The next bit happened in slow motion. Jake stepped to Luke's left and delivered a picture perfect round kick. Jake's right foot hit Luke's left jaw in an upward motion just as Luke was stepping forward… And then the fight was over.

! PARENTING FAIL!

Lost in Translation

2011-05-29T09:06:00.006-05:00

Sunday is the day that separates Christians from Jewish, Muslim and Hindu. Today is the day of the week that a great many of us dedicate to our faith. Some of us will be taught goodwill to all men, others will be taught non-tolerance. Today is a day full of magic. It's is the day that many of us are told that our faith is right and that others are wrong. For many, today is the day when faith becomes fact.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not anti-Christian or any other faith. It just bothers me that we spend so much time concentrating on the things that make us different – when we should be concentrating on the things that we have in common.

Let's start first with the Zoroastrian faith. It introduces us to Mithra - "the pagan Christ". Mithra was born on the 25^th of December, performed miracles, was known as "Messiah", died and resurrected on the 3^rd day.

Over in Hinduism we find that Krishna was a carpenter. He was an Earthly manifestation of God, was born of a virgin and baptized in a River.

From the Egyptian Book of Dead (1280 BC), we are told that Horus was the son of God. He was baptized in a river, born of a virgin, had 12 disciples, healed the sick, walked on water, was crucified and later resurrected.

More than the similarities in the stories are the similarities in the message. Almost all popular religion today spread the same message of goodwill to all men, treat others as you wish to be treated and tell us that stuff like murder, rape and incest are bad (lets just ignore Lot's daughters today, ok?).

Christianity and Islam believe in the supreme God – maybe even the same God? There are differences in the scripture, sure, but the messages are pretty much the same. And, really, is it any wonder that there are so many interpretations of the same teachings? We've been playing Chinese Whispers since the Bronze Age.

Could it be that Christians, Buddhists, Muslims and Hindu's and just about everyone else actually believes the same thing? Perhaps we're just lost in translation here? Even the Hindu's with their seemingly endless list of Gods believe that they're all just facets of the one Supreme God (Brahma). Is this that different to Christians believing Jesus to be the Earthy manifestation of God? Consider for a moment the 100's of different translations of these texts. I contend that by getting all literal with these texts that we're missing something. I fear that what we're all missing is the one thing that we need to find in this day and age – common ground, respect and understanding.

The more loving one by W. H Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

Yellow snow

2011-05-28T22:31:00.001-05:00

This tent offers no shelter from the cold

Snot freezes on nights like these -

And the damn toilet block is as far away as the morning sun

Who cares if yellow snow marks the places where I've been?

I remember writing this poem back in '03. The camping trip from hell. Who the hell goes camping when there's snow on the ground? I did.

Scratch made biscuits

2011-05-28T22:26:00.001-05:00

O' Betty from Bojangles

You created this biscuit from scratch

You're the one who milled nothingness

to bring all of this

to a head in this 99c Sausage biscuit.

Just found this lil poem… Makes me miss Bojangles. Those Sausage biscuits were the bomb.

Parenting mistake 101: Bedtime reading

2011-05-28T13:41:00.002-05:00

It's a difficult job being a parent. There's no instruction manual, every model is different and there's no place for the batteries to go. It seems to me that parenting mistakes are a given. I started making them the day the first baby popped out. I haven't been able to stop myself since.

I think the first 100 of these should be free. This post marks mistake 101 - bedtime reading.

Jake (7) is a veracious reader. I think it's because we've always sent the kids to bed early to read. This is also best for the continued health of our boys. After 8pm and they turn into monsters. I'm not talking monsters like cutesy Animal from the Muppets. I'm talking crazed, emotional, fire-breathing monsters. They fight. They scream. They cry. 'Nuff said.

Anyway… Recently Jake has taken an interest in my graphic novel (comic book) collection. Pretty early on, he identified his favorite style (Manga) and author (Tezuka). I dedicated a shelf to appropriate Tezuka books for a kid his age. I did this in a very methodical and systematic way. First I looked at the picture on the front scanning it for inappropriate content like swear words or boobies. Next I flipped through the book looking for more of the same. Much to my joy, I discovered that my whole Osamu Tezuka collection was appropriate.

I'm a Buddhist in denial and secretly I want my kids to be as well. So I was thrilled when Jake picked up Buddha vol.1 to be his first read. In around 2 weeks he finished all 8 volumes and picked up "Swallowing the Earth" to read next.

A few days passed before I asked him about it. At 9pm I went in to check on him and found him glued to the book. I asked him how the book was. This is what he said,

"Its pretty good. It's a story about a pretty woman that kisses men and stuff then kills them…"

I was in a state of utter disbelief, frantically trying to recall the details of a book that I read a few months ago… Jake continued,

"She tried to kill Seki but couldn't because he gets his strength from drinking the alcohol. He's just like you Dad!"

! PARENTING FAIL!

Compassion TV

2011-05-24T21:48:00.003-05:00

Yesterday they were probably sitting just like me

Legs draped over the arm of an easy chair

Wondering where the hell the remote was

Bathed in mind-numbing mindlessness
And whitewashed in fatigue

Not even boredom sits still anymore

Today a million glazed eyes are steadfast upon hypocrisy -
Who can tell the difference between good and bad?
Morality is a personal concept

Watch the true face of war stain the streets red

Don't avert our eyes to the play of the righteous

The compassion of carnage starts on channel 24

How there's any blood left for hearts to bleed peace

God only knows

The 5000 people who died today

(...from my '03 vault of poetry... just seemed fitting)

Shakespearean Pokemon

2011-05-16T12:00:00.015-05:00

Susan took the boys to a Martial Arts tournament this weekend. Baby Peach and I were homebound and sick. Yacketty-yack, woof-cough and snot-splosion. There was no way we could leave the house for longer than 30 minutes. Aquarium out. Zoo out. Museums out. Mall out. Everything cool was out. Bummer! We had to entertain ourselves.

From Saturday morning to Sunday afternoon we were abandoned and alone; fighting for survival in a land of chaos and destruction (you should have seen the mess the boys left). We didn't let boredom faze us. We were strong. We committed to not let frozen meals and the obligations of absolutely nothing distract us from the U-Verse (AT&T's cable service). We started with PBS Kids and gradually moved on to more adult-themed shows on Teen Nick and beyond.

It seems to me that Kids TV shows are getting more and more advanced all the time. I predict that 10 years from now, the adults will be watching shows like SpongeBob and the kids will be watching post-apocalyptic, cyber-punk versions of Hamlet and The Tempest. Of course, the kids will also be simultaneously recreating Escher paintings out of Lego, texting "LMAO" and fragging their parents in Halo - all at the same time… But that kind of goes without saying, right?

Still don't believe me? Take the following speech from a Final Fantasy show,

"… That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again."

Sound familiar? Rich, complex and seemingly nonsensical? Bad translation? It could be all of the above… and I for one wouldn't be surprised to hear that uttered from one of the wide-eyed misfits from the Final Fantasy franchise. It wasn't though. I lied to you. The quote actually came from Caliban in the Tempest by Shakespeare.

In a funny way, these "kid shows" draw a parallel with Shakespeare. Here's my highly scientific list of things that Shakespeare has in common with Pokemon and Bakugan:
Silly names *check*
Crazy outfits *check*
Funny language *check*
Outlandish plots *check*

See? I contend that no fully grown human today can actually understand either. And I just feel stupid watching them. What's interesting about Kid TV these days is that the shows themselves aren't stupid. In fact, quite to the contrary. Stupid I can understand. Archer, Family Guy or American Dad I can understand. They are stupid. But these new kid shows like Bakugan elude me like Shakespeare eludes mortal man.

I asked Luke to explain a Bakugan show the other day, this is more-or-less what he had to say,
"Darkus Alpha cranium 5000 attack Haos with 720G from the sister multiverse. Haos reconfigured to counter-defense with a second deck multiplier".

Luke then shot me a look that I interpreted as sadness/empathy/pity/"man, are you that old?" I was with him right up to the point of counter-defense – I mean, that doesn't even make sense! Sensing an area of vulnerability, I asked him to explain the concept of counter-defense and how it applied to Ju-Jitsu. He couldn't – and I felt much better. So maybe there's hope yet for us Old Gits?

Then again, maybe not.

What I have in common with a Navy Seal

2011-05-07T20:41:00.001-05:00

I left the pre-procedure appointment with serious misgivings about whether I wanted to let Dr. Milsten anywhere near my meat 'n veg. I also left with a booklet that explained the procedure in a very straightforward way. It even had pictures! It amazes me that anyone is crazy enough to sign up for a vasectomy. The pictures alone would force even The Rock into the fetal position, shaking, crying "no, don't let them near my tenders!"… Not me though. I'm tough!

Accompanying the lil book of horrors was a series of instructions. Prep work that the patient was expected to do the morning of the snip. One of the tasks on the list was shaving.

I realize that there are guys out there that routinely shave their tenders. I call these guys names like "crazy" and "masochistic". Imagine for a second shaving the fuzz off a peach with a vegetable peeler… No, that'd be too easy… Shaving ones nuggets is like juggling with chainsaws... No, that doesn't cut it either (no pun intended). The fact of the matter is that there isn't an analogy that works here – and that's because shaving down there is a crime against nature!

Rest a razor blade on your crackers and you can't help but question your mortality. One wrong move; one sneeze, one twitch, one evil spouse "boo" and its end game… Intense concentration times 10 bazillion! This is *exactly* how I imagine those Navy Seals minutes were before they perforated bin Laden's noggin.

Anyway… An hour or so later, I found myself half naked; balls blowing in the wind and feet in stirrups. I was ready for action! The doctor's assistant examined my handy work.

"Nice work here!" he said.

To snip or not to snip

2011-05-01T13:12:00.006-05:00

Less than an hour before the events that transpired in my previous post, I received a call from her.

She asked me if I was sitting down. Then she asked if I'd left for the "snip" appointment yet. I replied that I hadn't. Then she told me that she was pregnant.

I couldn't believe it! I closed my office door, sat back and laughed-out-loud at how brilliant the timing was. If I hadn't have laughed, I'd surely have sat there and cried. What did this mean? My head was swimming. I had to make some decisions.

As I understand it, the stork doesn't take returns - at least not in our house… So the first decision was an easy one to make.

The next decision; whether or not to go through with the snip was more difficult. I was happy that we were going to have another peanut. So did that mean that I wanted a forth peanut? I had to weigh up the pros and cons.

- Poo. From the very first black tar diaper, poo is never too far removed from babies. With the other two, I'd had numerous close encounters of the poo kind. I'd been in the tub when the first brown destroyer floated up from the depths. Evacuate! I'd also been on clean-up duty after I'd decided that Jake was old enough to go potty by himself. *shudder* It was on the walls!

- Sex and sleep. Sex is not that big an issue really. I can live without sex for a day or so… but sleep? Hell no! Sleep in our house is worth more than diamonds, money, sports cars, food and even sex!

- Questions. Very occasionally kids' questions and observations are insightful. More often than not, they sound like the musings of a mad man. Let's take yesterday as an example. Jake asked me "why do frogs like humans that walk on their toes and always roll their eyes?" A day later and I'm still thinking about it. I admit it. He's stumped me! Why didn't he ask why the sky is blue again? I was ready for that one. I'd already Google'd it.

- Paranoia. Kids have a death wish. It's my job to see that their wishes are never granted. The other night I watched a Giraffe being born on TV. It popped out, rolled around for a couple of seconds then got up and walked off. Luke is 5. Five years on and he's still often minutes away from certain death. Riding backwards down the driveway? Death wish. Picking on his brother? Death wish. Clogging the toilet the second time in one day? Death wish. Smack-talking his Mom? Death wish. See?

+ Get-out-of-jail-free card. This "news" meant that I didn't have to go through with it. I could use it as a get-out-of-jail-free card. I can't say that I was thrilled at the thought of getting my balls sliced open with a machete, knife, "scalpel" or whatever you call it… It didn't matter that the incision would be tiny and the actual cutting was on something thinner than spaghetti. It was my nuggets!

In the end I chose to at least go to the first appointment. What could it hurt? How wrong could I be?

gulp

2011-04-30T21:12:00.001-05:00

Doctor Milsten seemed a little too quiet and reserved – like I imagine a serial killer would be. He didn't smile. He sat so close to me that I could see his pulse through a vein pinched in his collar. We had barely exchanged pleasantries when he asked me to stand up and drop my pants.

I didn't hesitate. I stood there with my gentleman sausage on full display - roughly 12 inches from his face. And he did nothing. He just sat there and stared at it. Thinking back, I'm sure he was in awe of my splendor. Who wouldn't be?

Anyway, I'm not sure who won the stare off between the Doc and my meat 'n veg, but after roughly 2 hours of intense concentration the Doc leapt into action. Ok, maybe it was more like 10 seconds… So picture a Praying Mantis eyeing a fat juicy fly. The Mantis sits perfectly still until - like an insect Ninja - it strikes! And the Doc moved so fast that I instinctively twitched. The next thing I knew, the Doc had a vice-like grip on my tenders.

Words fail me here. There is nothing I can write that can help you to understand how utterly shocked / scared / vulnerable I felt standing there. And then it got worse. He proceeded to isolate one of the lifelines connecting left tender to my body. Vas dermis pinched between his thumb and forefinger, he looked up to meet my eyes.

"This is where I'll cut", he says.

I said nothing. Just… *gulp*.

She is a Jedi Master

2011-04-24T19:42:00.001-05:00

Something weird has happened to me. She has trained me. I kid you not. I am now not only 100% fully domesticated. I’m also a robot that reads minds.

Let’s take the other night. She and I are in bed – and she, in a very nonchalant way, comments that it’s a little warm. Before I realized what I was doing, I found myself standing in front of the thermostat. It was like waking from sleepwalking - standing there and staring at the soft green light of 74 degrees... And it happens all the time. Yesterday I found myself emptying the dishwasher when there were still clean plates in the cupboard! I know right... Weird!

She is a Jedi master.

Culture Peeping

2011-04-23T22:20:00.000-05:00

About 2 years ago I started filling out online surveys hosted by RewardsGold. The survey takes a couple of minutes and the magazine subscription that I receive as payment lasts a year. Sounds like a good deal to me!

At first I looked for magazines that interested me like Motor Trend, Car & Driver, Maxim etc. You see for as cultured and educated as I often pretend to be, my #1 interest in magazines was still pretty much exotic ladies and cars. This stage in my subscription habit could be called my “T&A and Car Porn” phase. And what is car porn you ask? Morgan Aero 8 pictured on a winding country road at sunset is 100% pure Car Porn.

Unfortunately there are only so many options for T&A and Car Porn. As time wore on, my options in these categories declined from slim to nil. In fact, more often than not I was forced to pick between magazines like Ebony, Woman’s Day and Home and Gardens. And that presented a dilemma. Neither of those magazines really appealed to me. I’d just slaved over a survey. What was I to do? I didn’t want it to go to waste. So Home and Gardens it was.

After 6 months or so I received Forbes, Maxim, Home and Gardens, Wine Spectator, Men’s Health and a couple of other magazines that I thought I’d probably enjoy. I didn’t. For the most part they ended up in the trash after a quick T&A and Car Porn check. For the most part they were all boring! That’s when I decided to quit choosing them and just pick them at random. The one that was offered first would the one I’d pick. Anything at all, I reasoned, would be better than Home and Gardens.

And I was right. You see on the 8^th month, my highly overworked (and likely very confused) mailman delivered a magazine called The Advocate. I quickly flipped through it and decided that it was like GQ only better in every possible way. I left it on the kitchen counter and thought nothing more about it until the following day.

When I arrived home from work the next day, my wife Susan had the magazine splayed out on the counter. In a funny way, it reminded me of when my Mom found my porn stash when I was a teenager. Lots of “what is going on here”, “you’re disgusting” and “why” looks… Eventually Susan settled on a quizzical, yet unmistakably confrontational stance. Hands on hips, she asked why I was reading a gay magazine.

She continued to flap the magazine in the air and shoot confused looks at me. As it became clear to me what I’d done, I started to find the whole situation really quite funny. Never one to miss an opportunity to confuse and frustrate her, I replied that that the magazine “interested me”. Susan slapped the magazine on the counter that sounded like WHATEVER with an exclamation mark.

In truth, had I have realized before Susan had, that The Advocate was a gay magazine, I’d have trashed it. But now I felt pressured into actually reading it!

To my astonishment, I thought The Advocate was a great read (and still do). It reads like GQ or Men’s Health that isn’t trying too hard to be masculine…. Speaking of which, I must digress for a minute to explain my theory about masculinity. I think that too much of it turns one a little queer – like the Village People or the guy in my neighborhood with the massive, noisy, manly full-dresser Harley Davidson with tassels flowing from the handlebars and a studded saddle bag. If that isn’t camp (flamboyantly queer) then I don’t know what is. He’s gone ‘round the bend if you ask me. Take that Men’s Health for example; that’s just Out magazine in drag to me.

Anyway 2 years on and I have broadened my tastes to include a broad swath of culture. Along with my Playboy (only one I actually pay for), I get magazines as diverse as Maxim, Out, Ebony, Town and Country, Metropolitan Home and Conde Nast Traveller. All of which I have found to be insightful in their own ways.

I like to think of my little habit as culture peeping.

Remembering Room 425

2009-05-24T21:36:00.000-05:00

It started with a phone call from my mum. I was pooping. I answered with uh–huh’s, yeah’s and hold- on-a-sec. I covered the mouthpiece, flushed and took up the soul destroying, too-much information position by the window.

I loved the view from the 4th floor – it was almost parallel to the roof of the pool. Gravel, dirt and air conditioning bulk. It was always a nice contrast to the bright blue or black, but rarely in-between, Oklamhoma sky. The Radisson on 41st was a home away from home. One week every other week - I spent half a year in that hotel. I knew people at that hotel.

30 minutes later and I’m still saying uh-huh - thinking of the joint comforts of room service and internet porn. Then I notice a twinkle in the hallway. Closer inspection reveals a steady stream of water seeping from underneath the bathroom door and out into the hallway beyond. Oh shit! Literally.

I’m used to working hot issues. It’s what I do for a living. Software issue at a casino? Losing $1200 a minute in fines and lost revenue? No big deal. I’m the best at what I do. I’m the fixer… So I tell my mum that I need to call her back. I pick up the phone next to the bed. I call down to reception only to discover that I’ve lost my composure. And I NEVER lose my composure…

“Uh, yeah, hello… Hello Marcy, how are you?...”
“Good, good. Well I’m uh ok, I guess…”
“I had a long, uh ah, day at the office today…”
“How can you, um, help me? Oh yes, right… see that’s the thing…”
“I’ve flooded my room in poop water!”

I think she hung up. I didn’t know what to do next. I flung open the bathroom door like I meant business. A torrent of water ran between my ankles and instantly soaked my socks. Up to my ankles, I paddled around like a kid in a splash park. How is this possible? Water is flowing so fast that the trash can has been pushed against the door. I can do this, I tell myself. I look for the shut –off, shit-off value turny thingy. This toilet doesn’t have one! Now what? I know. I’ll call my mum…

“Mum, yeah, it’s me again. I think I flooded the room. The toilet won’t stop flushing. There’s poopy water everywhere.”… splash, splash, whimper “… help me… mum?”

Then my mum starts laughing. Big belly laughs. Then she’d stop, breath in, compose herself and start again. Bollocks! I could see she wasn’t going to help. I clicked her away and got back to the business of panicking.

I didn’t know what to try next. Staring at it really hard didn’t seem to do much so I decided to open the room door. I figured the maintenance man would be here any second. Even if he didn’t get the call from reception, he’d likely know there was a problem. In about 10 minutes, he’d be getting a shower down in basement. Isn’t that where all maintenance people live – down in the basement?

I poked my head around the door and saw my lil jobbies floating down the hallway towards the elevator. I closed my eyes and pinched myself. This couldn’t really be happening to me, could it?

Extreme embarrassment coupled with a profound sense of relief. I wanted to cry more at that moment than at any other time in my life. And then my savior arrived! Complete with a tool belt, tool box, builders cleavage and a shop vac. First a stroll in the far off distance. Power walking next. Finally he was sprinting towards me. Then he arrived. His first words were “Oh shit!”. Second were “out-of-way”.

In one fluid motion the maintenance guy had pushed me aside, paddled across the rapids, whipped the back of the toilet off and jammed a wrench somewhere dark and damp. With a gurgle and a grunt from maintenance guy the water slowed to a trickle until it finally stopped.

Maintenance guy called reception. All I heard was
“…unless you want to bring up a canoe, you’ll need to move him to a new room”… I took up residence outside in the hallway – upstream of course – and waited for further instruction.

I sat with my head in my hands. I stared hard at the floor and waited for it open up and swallow me whole. I didn’t have to wait long. My next door, downstream, neighbor opened her door. She shot a look at my door, down the hall and back to me.
“You did this didn’t you?” she said. Her face said the rest “…you dirty little boy!”
She was obviously disgusted, (and rightly so) appalled. I watched a bit of toilet paper glide past her feet. I nodded and started to smile. The smile gave way to a giggle. When I looked up she was still there. Then my giggle turned into full on belly laugh. I just couldn’t stop myself! She slammed the door.

I’m pretty sure that they had to evacuate the whole floor. On my way to my new room, I looked back and said to myself “oh yes, I did that”. I did that.

Surgery update

2009-05-23T21:48:00.000-05:00

My mums spine surgery went well on thursday. She's still in a lot of pain, but not hooked up to the narcotics-r-us pump anymore. The last of the drains and IVs came out this afternoon. She even got up and walked around with a walker earlier today. I couldn't help but ponder her mortality as she shuffled and groaned her way to the nurse hole and back.

The wing that shes in seems to be a trauma hot bed. I haven't heard so much screaming, yelling and crying since the last episode of greys. Thankfully, non of this has been from my mum - she grunts and occasionally whimpers an "oooh". She's a trooper alright. Had I have been in her position, with two drain pain, piss tube pain, IV pain, pin pain, fusion pain, bone pain, brace pain, pain pain... well I know that I'd have turned the air blue... and if Susie (the worst nurse this side of daryl hannah) had got in range, I'd have... well I dunno... something involving nasty.

Health care in America is shit. Truly totally sucky. This country could be utopia if it is wasn't for the aweful healthcare system. I have seen lots of fuck ups already. I swear my mum would be a in a whole different situation if it wasn't for the eagle eyes of myself and my step dad. If US healthcare had a slogan it'd be "blinded by the dollar - black in the heart".

I'm sharing tonight with a nice dry (as a nun) and dirty (as jenna jameson) gin martini... Step dad is on watch and I'm ready for sleep without worry.

Beatin' Pop-Pop

2009-05-03T11:27:00.000-05:00

I think that most boys, at some point in their lives, want to beat up their dad. I’ve discovered, much to my surprise, that this is true for step fathers also.

This weekend I got to live out a dream by hitting my step dad repeatedly, when he was down, with huge boxing gloves at Wookies birthday party. The best thing about this experience is that everyone, myself included, thought that this was the funniest thing ever. Step son and step dad in the kid’s bouncy castles – gladiatorial, punching to the end of the laughter. We punched each other until we couldn’t lift our arms anymore – at which point we resorted to charging each other. When we couldn’t charge anymore we just collapsed into a sweaty hug-slash-pile.

It was the best birthday party ever! And oh yeah, Wookie is now 4! He had a good time also.

Tornado Kick!

2009-05-03T07:35:00.000-05:00

We of the Wheatley clan have a history of extreme behavior. We don’t parachute, race cars or backyard wrestle. We don’t white water raft, nor do we compete in marathons or any of that crazy, life risky exercise stuff. We are extreme suburbanites. Our extreme behavior is common behavior done extremely.

Let’s use last night as an example of this. A parent may encourage his 5 year old Taekwondo star to learn new techniques by watching his qualified instructors do it. Not me. I use youtube to learn moves and then attempt to “teach” the new cool move to a very skeptical child. Last night it was the mighty tornado kick. This is what its supposed to look like:

OK, OK, I lied... Although I'm sure there's a tornado kick somewhere in there. To be honest, the tornado kick is actually not that impressive and well, this guy Steve Terada is. So substitute him in the video for me and you'll get a perfect mental imagine of me in action!

Anyway, once I have the move down, I then attempt to teach it to Jake. Bless his cotton socks, he always humors his old man and genuinely tries not to laugh. He doesn’t roll his eyes when I suggest that we learn a new cool move together. He almost never ridicules me when I usually learn, 20 minutes into a painful unintended split, that the move is actually called ChonChopChop. He’s also very humble as I sit like a wounded bird with a broken wing and watch him execute ChonChopChop like Jackie Chan of Kindergarten.

Another problem with this is that I’m not very well coordinated. I don’t take direction very well and I don’t actually take any Taekwondo classes myself. I’m also very impatient and usually consider myself “informed” before the end of the video.

This is how I sprained my groin. This is why I hobbled out of bed this morning at 6am to get some painkillers and an ice pack. This is why right now, as I type this, I have an ice pack on my groin. This is also why my balls are turning blue.

I won’t be able to teach Jake any kicks today and this makes me sad. We won’t be able to spar today – him in his robokid pads and me in my PJs. I won’t be able to kick him in the head today. He won’t be able to kick me in the stomach, hammer fist the back of my head and then knee me in the nose like last week. Sad isn’t it? This is why today I’m going to teach him the thunderous spinning back fist technique… It’s easy enough. I just looked it up on youtube.

Shake your head and look away

2009-05-02T16:53:00.001-05:00

The smell of violence is fear. The changing room stank of it. Barry held a small knife to my throat while he whispered sweet nothings in my ear. He asked me if I like that. He asked me why I was such a fucking wimpy fuck. He asked his audience – a group of 20 to 25, 14 year old boys – if anyone would notice if he cut me. His hard stare darted around the room. Each boy in turn shook his head and looked away.

A month before this day, Barry and his pals spat at me while I climbed into the PE basket – the one for stinky clothes that needed to be washed. I did it because he asked me to. I’d have sucked his dick if he’d asked. Thank god he never did. I curled up in the fetal position as they flipped the basket over and kicked me around the changing room. They told me to stay there when they had exhausted themselves. Gavin said that he’d be waiting outside and that they’d be back to check on me. If I got out of the basket then they’d fuck me up. They told me that my mum wouldn’t recognize me when they’d got through with me. Barry added that she wouldn’t care because she’d be fucked by his knife. Barry asked what my mum’s name was. I lied and told him it was Barbara.
“Ugh, Barbara, you fucking like that? Huh? Knifed in the fucking pussy?”
Nervous laughs accompanied the role play. A few minutes later they all left me. The PE class finished at 3:30. The cleaners found me in the basket at around 6. It took me about three years after that to have the balls to ride the elevator again. My Mum shouted at me when I got home.
“Always so unthoughtful!”, she screamed…

A week from knife day, I’ll climb into my best friend’s attic. I’ll aim his rifle at Barry’s head and he’ll never know what hit him. He’ll never know because I never had the balls to pull the trigger.

A couple of months from this day, I’ll watch Barry get beaten with a large wooden bat. Tears will fill my eyes and I'll fear sorry for him. His best friend will stamp, kick and gnaw his way through Barry’s thick skin. There’ll be 20 to 25 other boys watching, shaking and slowing pissing themselves. There’ll be tears and the room will be saturated in the sound of violence: silence. And it’ll all happen in this very room. Just like today, nobody will say anything. Nobody ever does. That’s the rules.

Three years from this day, Barry will stab another boy with a screwdriver. The boy will be taken to hospital and Barry will be taken away, kicking, screaming and biting, by the local police. Nobody will see either of them again.

But today I’m back in that stinky room with Barry’s pen knife held against my throat. He didn’t cut me. He was just playing with me like a cat plays with a mouse. I didn’t know this. My ears filled with liquid. My mouth dried and I tasted violence. The metallic taste filled my mouth. Time slowed and I could hear my heart beating. Barry took a deep breath just as Mr. Bainbridge called from his office,
“Hurry up lads, get to your next class!”
Barry licked my face and slid the knife back into his pocket.
“See you next week”, he smiled.

His Fatness

2009-04-25T10:03:00.000-05:00

A few short years ago, I sat on an airplane and waited. I waited with baited breath to see if the fat man waddling up the aisle was going to be sat next to me. I didn’t want the blimp sat next to me. Who does? I didn’t want to be squished. I didn’t want to smell the BO. This guy was so fat that I’m sure that when he weighed himself, the scales read “to be continued…”.

I was on my way back from Florida. What’s funny is that this guy could have been baptized with Shamu! Ha!

The flight represented the end of a long family vacation. I was looking forward to sleeping in my own bed that night. Florida family vacations are always tiring. This one was no exception. There had been theme parks and beaches. I’m sure it was the most exercise I’d had all year. Not that I needed it. Unlike today, back then I could turn invisible with a profile view. I could have been used as a toothpick for this guy. I didn’t need a belt. When I was 22, I wore kid’s clothes that fit like a glove. Funny that, in contrast, this guy’s belt could have been used to measure the equator!

I let out a sigh of relief when the fat bastard took a seat two rows down. He was safely on the other side of the plane. It’d throw the balance off for sure, but at least I wasn’t going to get squished!

A few moments later an incredibly attractive girl took the seat next to mine. She smiled with innocence that I’m sure I lost before I hit middle school. Short skirt, long legs, blonde hair – yum, yum, yum! Her makeup looked like it had been painted on, but I didn’t care. She had breasts that made me want to cry – nipples, I’m sure, that I could have hung a coat on. It was going to be a good flight!

Meanwhile, two rows down, the blimp was having parking troubles. His incredibly fat ass wasn’t going to fit. His face turned red. The lady in the seat next to him grimaced and pretended that it wasn’t happening. Her eyes were fixed on the tarmac. She began to sneer like it was going out of fashion. I smiled with something like empathy for the lady. I asked the girlie next to me if she thought they had a giant shoehorn for people like that. She left an uncomfortable smile hanging in the space between us. It was her way of letting me know that she found it distasteful.

Five minutes later the armrests were removed. The fat bastard folded layers of fat and slid in with an audible thud and creak. I'm sure that the lady sat next to him also questioned if this guy was really fat or just just 5 feet too short.

The entertainment started to subside when the trolly-dolly stewardess asked his fatness to buckle his seat belt. He couldn’t. Fully extended it barely covered half of Mount Belly. His plump face turned red as he apologized profusely. The stewardess grunted something about an extension and left him hanging.

By this time, everybody in the cabin was having a good hard stare. Those that were sympathetic were now just pissed. The comedians like me had shelved comedy for the time being. This fat fuck was delaying our flight!

The stewardess returned with a belt extender.
“Here’s your belt extender, Sir”
She handed fatso the belt as everybody in the cabin listened in. It still didn’t fit. The stewardess huffed as she watched him struggle. All eyes were directed to the guy that could have had his own zip code. He panicked and looked to the stewardess for help. She looked away, tapped her feet impatiently and waited for him to ask.

Then he started to sniffle and sob. The stewardess immediately reached over and released some more belt. Everybody else, including the ice queen in the seat next to his, threw a sympathetic look his way. It was too much for a guy who wanted to be swallowed up by the world. He bowed his head and cried. Big blubbery sobs drenched the cabin. Tears fell like grains of sand in the desert.

The girlie turned out to be 14 years old. Her parents were four rows back. I gave one word answers to her advances. My eyes were glued to the window. I spent the remainder of the flight pretending not to cry.

Punctuated by violence

2009-04-18T15:42:00.000-05:00

Somebody is prodding me in the back. I open my eyes. The world is buzzing like a TV without a channel. Full of static. Anything but still. Head pounding. Whole body ice cold. I’m lying face down on cement.

“Mate, mate, MATE!”
Somebody is kneeling next to me and screaming. I hate it when people scream at me! As I turn to face him, he begins to heave. There are bits of reality missing. I can’t tell if I’m having flash backs or just blacking out every few seconds. Seconds could be hours.

The stranger is still here. Now he’s standing next to a tree. I see vomit hitting his bright white shoes. The trail of vomit starts to wind its way to me. I feel the warmth on my legs. I’m cold, crusty and ambivalent.

Peeling myself from the concrete, I kneel to face him. He’s still vomiting.
“Stay there!“ he gurgles more vomit. I wish he’d stop doing that!
“Blood… Fuck!” he’s still screaming. This guy is nuts!

Then it registers. Blood. He said blood. With the help of a railing I stand. He must be hurt. Maybe he needs help? I try stepping towards him and stumble - grappling wildly with a slippery railing that's as dry as a desert.

I manage to catch some light from a far off streetlamp. Looking down, I notice that the front of my pale green shirt is drenched in shadow. My trousers are damp. In a moment of panic it registers. The blood isn’t his. Its mine! There’s blood everywhere! I’m bleeding!

“Help me”, I whimper, “I’m fucking bleeding!”
He’s wipes his face as I slide down the railing to sit. I pat wildly at my face. Feels OK. I pat my chest. OK. Legs? Check. Feet, belly, balls? Check, check, check. I run my tongue around my teeth. Teeth? Check.
“Lift your shirt”, he suggests.

I do. I hold my shirt and do my best to turn around so he can see my back. He nods. I’m fine. I drop my trousers. Nothing. There are a few small cuts, some juicy bruises and scrape or two, but nothing to explain the blood.

“What happened?” I ask him. He shrugs his shoulders. My hands hurt. Bad. He gestures towards them.
“Fucked if I know mate. I’d hate to be the other guy!”
I look down. My knuckles are bloody – white in places. I recognize this. I’ve been here before. I’ve been fighting. By the looks of my hands, I’d say quite a lot.

“Do you remember what happened here? That’s a bucket load of blood!” He’s still wiping vomit from the corners of his mouth with his shirt sleeve.
“I thought you were dead! Oh, thank fuck you’re not dead. Fucking hate dead geezers!”
He smiles big white teeth. Dark skin. I smile back as he puts his arm around me. I thank him. He supports my body weight.
“Need the ozzie?”
“No hospital. I think I’m fine thanks. Just bruises”
“K. Name’s Keith, we better get you home. Where do you live?”
I point down the hill and he takes me home.

The night started off with a friend stopping by for some drinks. We usually did this to save money. My Dad did a lot of those beer runs to France. I was always well stocked. Whiskey, vodka, beer, beer, and more beer. Because of this, my place was often first stop for a good night. I remember leaving home with Colin in Glen’s motor.

I remember sitting in the back seat of Glen’s car. Bass thumping. Lagered up – four of us spitting songs through open windows, the sun roof and at passing cars.

I remember it being Jack special night. I usually avoided liquor unless I was on my own. It made me more me. More aggressive, more outspoken and less restrained. But hell, for 50p a shot, it was the best bang for the buck in town! I didn’t really care about the taste. It was all about the alcohol. Jack was an easy choice. Bad friends always are.

My new friend, Keith, found me at around 4am. My last memories were around 10pm. I wracked my brain for answers but only found questions.

Keith helped me to my room. I thanked him profusely. He left, letting himself out. I turned on the TV and watched the news until it was dark again outside. I was worried sick: terrified that I’d hurt somebody. Killed them maybe? You don’t get that much blood from a fist fight. This was serious.

I cried a lot that night. I always cried after a fight. There was a fear of myself and of losing myself. More than this was nagging self-loathing. I was disgusted with myself. The very same stories that I bragged about often cried me to sleep. That night I knew that things had to change. It should have been the turning point. Sadly, it wasn’t. It’s just another story. I have years of stories. Many of which are just as punctuated by violence.

Easter: Halleluiah, Amen and all that...

2009-04-12T11:56:00.000-05:00

So what’s this Easter all about then? Today is Easter Sunday. It’s the day of Christ’s resurrection. He was dead then we he was alive again. Halleluiah! Amen and all that.

It’s also a day when non-Christians give their kids chocolate and wonder what they’re doing. I’m not a Christian. Not really. I don’t believe in God. I believe in goodness for goodness sake. So why am I watching my kids eat chocolate? And why did I feel like a needed to tell my kids a story that I believe to be little more than a fairy tale?

This notion of fairy tale intrigues me because I didn’t present the story as a fairy tale. I presented it as a belief. A selective fact: one to believe in if it tickles your fancy. It’s like the Easter Bunny and Santa, I guess – neither of which are any more real to me than Christ. So why did I do it? Hmm, the only reason I can come up with is a vague notion of fitting in. Of wanting my family to be like all the others today. Happy, fat and a little ignorant? Sure, I may feel like a religious imposter but at least the kids won’t.

But I just couldn’t shake this feeling of outsider. This morning I felt like a fake. Now I feel like a tourist. This transformation happened when I remembered that the story of resurrection is an old one. It’s a story of fresh starts. And it’s a story that is repeated in almost all other major religions. It may even have been borrowed from Zoroastrianism and early Hinduism. It was this realization that prompted me to dive into my bookshelf. It took me less than 15 minutes to find some comfort food for thought.

Psalm 82 of the Bible says, "You are Gods, sons of the most high, all of you; nevertheless, you shall die like men, and fall like any prince.” This is echoed throughout the story of Prince Siddhartha Gautama (historical Buddha).
The Buddha said, "At death a person abandons what he construes as mine. Realizing this, the wise shouldn't incline to be devoted to mine." Very Christian, don’t you think? In fact, thinking more on the story of the Buddha, its one big tale about resurrection, transformation and rebirth.

The Koran says, "To God belongs the East and the West: wherever you turn, there is the Face of Allah; Allah is All-Embracing, All-Knowing." This seems very Buddhist to me. It also reminds me of the Stigmata-made-famous Gospel of Thomas "…split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift up the stone, and you will find me there."

Now I realize that today presents an opportunity for my own rebirth. An opportunity to dust off the ego; box up anger and pack up for paradise.

Good days vs bad days. Disgruntlement vs contentment. Happiness vs sadness. These are all choices that I make each and every day. Today I choose to be happy. Today I choose to embrace the essence of Easter and resurrect the happy-go-lucky fun Dadda. Today I choose to make this the best day possible. Today I choose to learn from Jesus. Today I choose life. Happy Easter!

Tooping: unfortunate tales of texting while pooping

2009-04-08T16:13:00.000-05:00

A few short weeks (or perhaps months?) ago I wrote a blog entry about dropping my phone stylus in the pot. It was an unfortunate little tale that turned out to be quite a giggle – at least to me. It was one of those cripplingly embarrassing things that happens about once a year to me… LOL – who am I kidding? This stuff seems to happen at least once a week to me! And last week it happened again!

Phone ringer off. Paper present. Lock secured. Seat present. Phone mute enabled. Phone stylus securely secured. Check, check, check. After last time, I’ve come to learn that satisfactory pooping takes preparation. Hmm, I’m sure there’s a snappy acronym in there somewhere…

Anyway, there I was. Calm, relaxed and prepared. Then somebody entered the stall next to me. Damn! Don’t you just hate it when that happens? It always turns into a modern-day O.K Corral showdown. Fifty paces at dawn: fifty paces after lunch - desk to restroom! Why does it always turn into a poop standoff? Nobody wants to be the guy to unload first.

These days (in the days of mobile phones) a standoff can take all day. OK, maybe that’s not correct – but it feels like all day. That’s if you’re not unfortunate enough to get a grunter next door – or worse – a talker! It takes just one Niagara-like episode followed by “oh mY GOD!?!” to cause any stall-neighbor to reverse-poop. Oddly enough, I’ve found discussion about gay porn to have the same effect on me?!?

But this time it wasn’t me! I didn’t drop my stylus or my phone. I wasn’t even tooping (texting-while-pooping)! I just sat there and listened to it all unfold in the stall next door.

First there was the call. He struggled to muffle an A-Team ring tone. In the process I heard the telltale tinny sound of the stylus hitting the floor. Then the phone… Off it went! It slid along the floor and under his door. I heard it all! I heard the frantic shuffle, the quick flush, the “I-gotta-get-out-here-before-somebody-sees-me” blind panic. I felt the heat from flushed cheeks through the stall wall. And then he was gone!

I burst out laughing. I had been there. I knew what he went through. The embarrassment! The shame! The comedy! Just when I was tiring of laughing at my own antics, I get rewarded with the stupidity of another! Isn’t life just brilliant that way?

The Crow

2009-04-05T09:54:00.000-05:00

Before the stop sign was a wheat field
A mighty old oak tree sat at the center
Its roots were scaffolding
And its limbs cradled the valley

In that tree sat a crow who watched the wind tickle the crops to bloom

Today the crow is perched on a rusty stop sign
Waste reflected in his beady, black eyes
He cries all day and night
Kaw! Kaw!
Kaw, in disgust.

Chasing carrots

2009-04-05T09:43:00.000-05:00

Its 9:30 already. The kids have been up for 2 hours. All I can remember doing is drinking coffee. What happened? Where did my morning go? Hold on. Where did my life go?

A lot of what I see down memory lane is carrots. One of the biggest carrots was dangled by my father when I was 15. He sat me in the kitchen and asked me whether I’d be going to work with him when I finished school. I hadn’t really thought much about the future but I knew that I didn’t want to work in his factory.

My dad’s carrot took the form of a proposition. He said that if I worked hard that he’d put me through college and university. He also made it very clear that if it didn’t work out then I’d be working in the factory quicker than you can say backache. Head down, pen in pocket, I chased the carrot for five years until graduation. Then I went to work in the factory.

The next carrot came in the form of a job opening over 3 thousand miles away. I chased it relentlessly. In no time at all, I found myself skipping the pond from England to North Carolina.

Countless carrots later I find myself here in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I have a wife, 2 kids and lots of stuff. I have a sports car, a six figure salary: a handful of carrots. It seems on the surface that there’s not many carrots left to chase… But that’s complete bollocks. There are so many carrots left to chase that it makes me dizzy thinking about them all.

What’s really troubling me this morning is the thought that any day now I’m going to wake up in a hospital bed, dying, wondering whether the carrots were worth it. I hope that I’ll look back at all of this and scream “Hell no!” Then I’ll take a stroll down memory lane, enlightened with the realization that the journey definitely was.

No sleep lost

2009-02-14T09:16:00.000-06:00

There’s something hiding down here. It’s way down deep. It sits underneath silliness, sarcasm and smiles. It never goes away. It’s ever-ready to darken even the brightest of days. It festers and stings. It is relentless. It is shame.

Sitting on top of the shame is reasoning. I draw some comfort from my belief that life has no beginning and no end. I take comfort in silly foreign philosophies and bath in religiosity. Who were you before your parents met? It’s a Japanese koan. Enso! I kid myself. Nothing provides an answer. Nothing provides relief. I feel love, hate, anger and pain but I understand nothing.

It started in a waiting room. I was waiting for my girlfriend. My future wife was seeing the doctor. It was a long wait but I didn’t mind. I was reading one of my favorite magazines. Motor Trend magazine was road testing the Dodge Viper. I wasn’t oblivious to what was going on. We had no choice, I reasoned. It was what had to be done. A doctor was aborting our child less than 100 feet away. I felt no pain. I felt no regret. In fact, I spent some time debating whether the Viper could best a Porsche 911 turbo in a quarter mile. There was no empathy. There was no regret that day. I lost no sleep.

Today is valentines day. Susan is sleeping in and our kids are playing. I hear them in the other room: Bakugan and Bob the Builder. There are tears in my eyes. My heart burns. I want it to hurt. I want to be punished. I want to be free but I know that I am undeserving. Undeserving because I know that this pain, this regret, this love, this humanity is all more than my unborn child had the opportunity to feel.

Live to poop another day

2009-02-07T18:07:00.001-06:00

My ringtone is distinctive. It’s the soundtrack from Super Mario Brothers video game. Everybody in the office knows who has that ring tone. It’s a company phone and it’s the coolest one they have. There are only two people in the office that have it.

There are times when receiving a call can be embarrassing. Like Super Mario ringing on airplane, during sex, in a movie theatre, or in the bathroom. All have happened to me. But the last one seems to happen a lot more than it should. I just don’t know why people wait to call until I’m sitting on the John – but they do.

I expect to receive at most 6 or 7 calls at work during the course of an average day. Yet every single time I sit on the John my phone rings! How can this be? I only go once a day! Now, I’m a logical kind of guy. I work with computers. I know for a fact that, statistically, these numbers just don’t make any sense. It’s like I’m cursed by the God of pooping peace or something.

Anyway, yesterday at work proved to be no exception to the rule. I’m sitting there expecting it to ring. Knowing it will ring. I wait for it. I sit on the crapper, check my email and text messages and wait. 10 minutes later, still no call. I put it back in my pocket and get prepared to “get down to business”. Yep, you guessed it…

In a flurry of activity to press the “Ignore” button, I reach for the phone. It’s stuck. I yank it. Hard. Then in maxtric-like slow motion the phone flies up into the air. I grasp wildly, almost falling off the toilet. In an act of pure butter fingers the phone slips through my hands. Thunk! It hits the rim of the toilet and skims along the floor to safety. It even stops ringing! I want to punch the air in celebration! That is, until I hear the next sound. Plink! I open my legs and peek down. The stylus fell in! It’s sitting on the bottom of the crapper. I wanted to cry.

I had lost the urge to poop by now. I had other things on my mind! I retrieved the phone and sat there contemplating just how badly I wanted that stylus. It took seconds for me to reach an answer. Not that bad, I thought.

So I flushed. It didn’t move. I waited and flushed again. And again - Flush! I even bundled a wad of paper and tried flushing that. Nothing. It just sat there looking up at me. So now I was forced to ask myself another question. Did I actually want to leave the stylus in there? Everyone in the office would know that it came from my phone. It’s sculpted stylus perfection. It could only fit one phone. I had no choice. I rolled my sleeves up and dived in!

I’m sure that the complete stranger that saw me walking towards the sink with rolled up sleeves and dripping hands thought that I was quite mad! Thank God for perfect strangers, I thought! Anyway, what did I care? I had the stylus! I’ll live to poop another day, I thought.

Sock Drawer

2009-01-18T11:57:00.000-06:00

Suz and I took the kids for a walk yesterday. We constantly had to herd the kids out of the way of manic power rangers and tubs of lard on wheels. They came from the front, the back and the sides. Always clad in Lycra. Always going way too fast. Always looking as bent as a corner. They used to make me laugh. Now they make me mad.

Why oh why do cyclists feel the need to dress up like power rangers just to cycle around the neighborhood? I understand that it’s highly important that their happy sacks are aerodynamic; but does everyone else really need to see it? I’m just so tired of throwing up a little in my mouth at the sight of a 300lb, Lycra-clad fruit tart consuming a bike seat – the hard way. They must be masochistic. I mean, why else would you sit on something that is guaranteed to make you impotent as it slowly slices you in two? I'm sure some of those seats have to be surgically removed.

Cyclists are role-playing. I get that. They are playing Lance Armstrong like my kids play cowboys. But enough already! I don't dress like Jeff Gordon to drive to the grocery store!

They are also a polarized group. If they're not channeling Ken Doll then they are the complete opposite - looking more like Drew Carey than Lance Armstrong! Either way, dressing up in Lycra doesn’t make them look more like Lance – it makes them look like shrink wrapped turds!

No more. I’ve had enough of smiling and pretending that it’s OK to put my life in their hands. I’ve had enough of their egos, the unsightly bulge, the lard on wheels. I've had enough of them endangering my kids. The next time one of those Armstrong-alikes almost hits me or my kids, I’m going to act. Act like a talent finder for PlayGirl perhaps? Or that show on TV - The Biggest Loser? I dunno what I'll do, but I've got to do something before they take over the planet - one walking trail at a time.

- mobile sock drawers or alien balls? -

My Disease

2009-01-10T19:22:00.000-06:00

God is playing with the remote control again
I was playing at normal speed just yesterday
But now I’m stuck in slow motion
Drowning in life’s ocean and watching the world pass me by
I’m too tired to care anymore
About a 1000 pin pricks running through my panicked legs,
Frightened, I’m sure
That if they don’t move soon
They never will again

This mind numbing fatigue whitewashes all the color out of the day
Everything is softened and blurred into shades of gray
Voices, clicks and ticks have lost their edge
And the whole body of existence has been sanded,
Rounded and molded, as if from clay
Woven into the fabric that I call today

Yet as I stifle the 100th yawn of the morning
My illness cries back at me
That I risk the loss of opportunity
For I to catch up with me
So I light some incense and offer thanks for the good days
And listening closely to the soft pounding of fatigue at my door
I extend some compassion for those who would consider
That my worst day is often their very best

Only after abandoning the rhyme of reason do I see
That it’s only ever another love that rescues me from forever’s rest
So now let’s feed each other as best we can
With all the gushing love that we can find
Project it forth from this shallow mind into the absolute all
Let’s fall at its feet in servitude
Bow to each other and drink all the love that we can stomach.

The Numb-O-Wand

2009-01-09T20:12:00.001-06:00

When I was a kid, ChupaChups lollipops were the most expensive lollipops you could buy. I only knew of one place that sold them and that was the local pharmacy. They were 50 pence. Consider that Cola-Bottles were 1 penny at the time and you’ll understand why, to a 10 year old, a ChupaChups lollipop was the high of decadence. Like Lucozade (read: fizzy sugar water believed to be the elixir of health), Chupa Chups were reserved for only the sickliest (or spoilt-rotten) kids.

Yesterday I found a new lollipop to topple Chupa Chups. It’s a lollipop that’s so special that you have to get a prescription from a doctor for it. It’s called the “Compound Tetracaine 1% Sucker” and it costs $30.

Ever one to outdo the missus, who just last week had a nasty case of Laryngitis and Bronchitis... I now have a cough, cold, aches that befit an old git and a nasty case of Strep. The doctor gave me a prescription for some antibiotics and a lollipop. This is what he said,
“…and here’s a prescription for a lollipop…”
And here’s what I heard,
“…and here’s a prescription for a fantastic new medical marvel. I’m going to call it a lollipop because, quite frankly, you’ll never be able to pronounce the true name for this orally administered numb-o-wand”.

I was excited. I’d never had a numb-o-wand before. I imagined that it’d shoot Strep fighting nano-machines down my throat or something. It didn’t even occur to me that what I had a prescription for was actually a lozenge on a stick that was going to cost me $30. Hmm, I’m finding myself repeating myself here. But, hell, $30 for a lollipop is daylight robbery!

Anyway, back in the local Walgreens, I gave the nice lady named Cranky Pitbull my prescription. She barked that it’d take 20 minutes to fill it. I said that I’d wait then immediately set off to explore.

It always amazes me what you can buy in stores like Walgreens. Back in the motherland, a Pharmacy sells medications and nothing else. Here they sell everything. Yesterday afternoon I found a set of “Real Stainless Steel Handcuff’s – padded for your comfort”. They were in the toy aisle.

The next aisle over sold magazines. I picked up a copy of Maxim for reading while I waited. I could have picked up National Geographic, but I chose Maxim because it had Hilary Duff on the cover and she looked hot.

On the way back to Cranky Pitbull, I walked down an aisle that sold all kinds of cool stuff like padded seats, heat lamps and personal massagers. I found it pretty funny that they’d sell anything called a “personal massager”. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling - so that’s what these corn fed Bible thumping Midwesterners call vibrators then, is it? Funnier still was the thought of one these grannies that I shared the aisle with actually buying one of these. “Ooh, I say, it’s a feisty little one, isn’t it?”. Knowing full well that all Grannies can read minds, I decided to move on before anyone got suspicious and I was subjected to “the look”.

With my curios-o-meter set to high; I set out to find something else to make me smile. If they had “personal massagers” then they were sure to sell other risqué items. I found one of these back at the Pharmacy’s Pharmacy. Just to the left of the Pitbulls hideout was a piece of equipment called the “dysfunction eradicator”. Actually, I can’t remember the real name, but I’m sure you get the idea. The picture on the box showed a plastic piece of tubing attached to a pump. A penis pump! Ha! “This is too much!”, I thought… And then I noticed that right next to it, and I’m not making this up, was a $29.99 paternity test.

I seemed to be doing a fantastic job of passing the time because a quick glance at my phone told me that I’d been wandering the store for 30 minutes. It was time to get my anties and numb-o-wand and hit the road. The Pitbull told me that it’d be right out and to take a seat. No big deal, I thought. I’ve got a magazine to read.

I sat down and started to read the silly magazine. It was then that I caught a “I hate you, you disgusting filthy pig” stare from a hairy-lipped tub-o-lard with legs. She must have seen the provocative cover and just couldn’t stop herself from passing judgment. What’s funny is that I wasn’t even ogling the girly pictures. I think its bad taste to do that in public. But when I caught that look, I opened her right up. Scantily clad Hilary in all her glory. Bam! I threw her a shit-eating smile for good measure and spread Hilary out on the chair next to me. This was, coincidentally, right next to where she was standing in line. I moved over to the massage chair (they were on sale for $99.98) and set the massage to the “oh yeah” setting to celebrate making her feel so uncomfortable. I guess it worked because she dropped out of line, suddenly remembering that she’d forgotten her Hostess cakes or something.

After a nice relaxing massage or two, I checked my watch. Much to my astonishment I had now been waiting for almost an hour for my meds. I went to the window only to find Pitbull gone. She’d been replaced a young guy who seemed confused about what I was asking of him. This isn’t uncommon. It seems that my English accent confuses a lot of people.
“What - do - you – want?” he asked as slowly as humanly possible.
“To… pickup… my… prescription…” I checked his face to make sure that he was following along before continuing. “I’ve… been… waiting… for… the… past… hour”.
Our conversation continued in slow motion for a few minutes until he suddenly realized what I was asking of him.
“Oh”, he said, “Wheatley is it?”, he said as he rummaged through a pile of bags. “I got it!”

This pissed me off no end, but I decided that I should let it go. My chances of being able to explain why customers don’t like it when they are forgotten seemed pretty remote. It had, after all, taken a matter of minutes for him to just to realize that I wasn’t from the planet Zod.
“OK”, he said inspecting the bags, “that’ll be 4.99 for the Maxim, 10 for the Azithromycin and 30 for the lollipop...” I wasn’t listening. I just swiped and paid.

It was on my way to the car that I realized that my numd-o-wand was really just a lollipop after all. It didn’t release nano-machines, nor did it have any cool drugs in it like Oxi-space-eyes or whatever its called. It was also the most expensive lollipop ever! I shook my head, threw it in the passenger seat and just knew that I’d be writing about it tomorrow.

Coincidentally, the lollipop didn’t work very well and tasted like a moldy cherry soaked in nasty. It numbs the whole mouth and not just your throat. If you like drooling on yourself, throwing money down the toilet and have longed to choke with every drink after it then I can’t recommend it enough. However, if you have even half a brain left then just buy the ChupaChups and call it a day.

Empty pockets

2009-01-09T17:58:00.000-06:00

My mantra in life is that every day represents an opportunity to learn something. It’s not a very successful mantra. When I boil it down, I have really only managed to learn three things since I popped out. These are
1) No revenge is as complete as forgiveness
2) Nothing is ever what it appears to be
3) I really know nothing for sure

As a teenager, I knew stuff. I really knew (or thought I knew) everything about everything. Now, at 30-something, I find myself walking around in a daze. “Empty as a pocket” is how I like to describe this state. I like to think that the emptiness in a pocket is what defines its purpose. Since I know nothing at all (see 3) then I should take a little comfort in this very Zen-like self portrait. But I don’t. It goes against my every western sensibility. This is because deep down I have this feeling that a pocket full of stuff would be so much more useful. Like right now, for instance, I’m thinking that a pocket full of wisdom, humor or just plain fact would be more useful than this incredibly empty pocket.

Venue 68

2009-01-04T18:51:00.000-06:00

I have visited many nightclubs. They are all loud and jammed packed with the latest audio equipment, hipsters and trendsetters. They often instill a sense of euphoria. I have visited cozy venues of less than 200 people. I have also frequented the mega clubs of Ibiza, where it isn’t unusual to dance the night away with 12,000 other clubbers. I have danced on the bar at the Ministry of Sound in London, suffered adventures in foam at Es Paradise and sprinted down the Champs-Elysees after a ruckus at Queen in Paris. However, I have never experienced a nightclub quite like Venue 68. This is because Venue 68 isn’t a nightclub at all. It’s a church.

Venue 68 has many things in common with a nightclub. First there is the size of the place. It’s a huge expansive warehouse bursting-at-the-seams with the latest in audio-visual equipment. It houses about 600 people, which is small compared to the other two service centers on site. I attended the modern service. There was also a classical and contemporary service at the other buildings within the Asbury compound. In total, almost 5000 people got their holy on at Asbury church today.

The band was warming up as we arrived. The acoustically-sound warehouse hosts a complete band with electric guitars, lights, drums, video projectors and flat screen TV’s. No expense has been spared. It’s top-notch. The band sounded good. The lead singer, a pretty boy in his mid twenties; reminded me of an Emo rock star like Chris-thingy-ma-bob from Dashboard Confessional. I could imagine the female of the flock drooling over his syrupy vocals.

If you’ve ever experienced a nightclub at opening time then you’ve experienced Venue 68 before the show. It was like a night clubbing on a Tuesday night. It’s the same music as Friday or Saturday, just not the same atmosphere. As the sermon progressed I got a distinct feeling of the uncertainty from the congregation. Even though I suspect that many in attendance would deny this, I sensed a palpable question mark hanging in the air. It was like 600 people standing at the edge of a dance floor, tapping their feet, but not quite ready to jump in.

I expected to see people talking in tongues and shouting Halleluiah! What I got was an agreeable show with very little audience participation. We sang along to the syrupy Emo-God lyrics with the rock band, but really only because the band leader instructed us to. Red was for the leader to sing, black was for us. Much to my surprise, I even hummed and tapped along to a few of the songs.

I expected people to be dressed in suits. I always thought that’s what church people wore. There were no suits. There were however plenty of Coach Handbags, fake tan and gold chains on display. A lot of the women wanted to be noticed. This surprised me somewhat. I expected modesty and humility to be the dress code for the day – not bling. Thankfully, whilst sloth, envy and greed were clearly on display in some of the congregation, the clergy seemed unaffected. In fact, the Pastors appeared to embody a spirit of gentility and humbleness. In many ways, it reminded me of Buddhist sermons that I’ve attended. The Pastors, much to my surprise, were nothing at all like the Evangelical, egotistical maniacs that I’ve seen on TV.

The sermon wouldn’t have been out of place in a Zendo. Just replace God with Buddha-nature and the message is very familiar to me. Believe in the Word (Dharma), trust in God (or Buddha-nature) and embrace your spiritual community (Sangha). These are the precepts of Buddhism: to take refuge in the Dharma, the Buddha and the Sangha. There was no bravado or clever wordplay at work at Venue 68. No hellfire and damnation. No smoke and mirrors either - just honest messages delivered with sincerity.

A few hundred years ago, a Zen master (Dogen) wrote that the true person is not like any person at all, but like the blue color of a limitless sky. Now I know this sounds like a bad interpretation of a Japanese poem, but to me it describes a moment of grace. Without getting all psycho-babble weird, let me try to explain this in everyday terms. One night at a nightclub in England, I danced beside a 6 foot speaker and became the music. For a short time I felt as though I was indistinguishable from it. I was the crowd, the DJ and the light. I was the world. I was at peace and, as cheesy as it sounds, completely “at one” with my surroundings. It was an experience that I have felt only a handful of times so far in my life. Other experiences have occurred during more traditional settings like during meditation. These are what I perceive to be spiritual experiences: a brief glance into the nature of Heaven. For me this is proof that there is no single way to attain peace and it touches on the reason why I (a devout non-Christian) would attend a Christian service. Quite frankly, there aren’t many Buddhists in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

The Dalai Lama says that it’s best to embrace the Religion of your community than to look outside. I have heard him ask his western followers if they have given Christianity a chance. He argues that all religions are vehicles to salvation. I’m not sure whether I agree with him or not, but I do know that his message of inclusiveness is not shared with his peers in other religions. I just can’t see an Imam repeating a similar message to his Muslim flock. The Pope, for example, believes that Catholicism is the only path for a Christian to get to heaven. So the simple truth of the matter is that whilst all religions offer similar results, the method is very different. My morning spent at Asbury reaffirmed that Christianity is just another vehicle - one that I took on a brief test drive this morning.

I would love to call Asbury my church. Its buildings are magnificent and majestic. The spiritual leaders seem guided by the light and the followers seem like many friends in the making. I would love nothing more than to throw myself at the cross. At the end of the day though, Christianity just isn’t for me. It just doesn’t fit. Or more to the point, I don’t fit in it. I believe that we should question everything. I believe that God can only exist in the hearts of those who worship him. I believe in an interdependent, interconnected world. A deity separate from my own experience makes no sense to me at all. You see, it doesn’t matter how many times I attempt to make the exoteric esoteric. No amount of clever word substitution like God for Buddha-nature is going to cut it. My beliefs are just not compatible and it’s a terrible shame. I crave the comfort and community of likeminded people.

So what’s next for Dean? I was thinking Islam or Hinduism. Who knows where my next religious excursion will take me. No matter where I end up, I hope that I can remain as open minded and inclusive as the Dalai Lama.

Calling Dad

2008-12-16T10:54:00.000-06:00

I called my Dad today. We hadn't spoken for almost 4 years. We didn't fall out. There was no argument - he just dropped off the planet one day. Disappeared. The only thing I had left of our friendship was an old pic from my graduation.

I hadn't planned on today being "find Dad" day. Suz was writing Xmas cards and was wondering if we should send a card to my Dad's last known address. I wasn't sure. Before I knew it Suz had run a search on BT online and had a list of all telephone numbers for every Michael Wheatley listed in Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire. There were 10.

Looking through the list I found myself wondering if my old man was behind one of those numbers. I could have done the same thing numerous times over the years but I never did. Part of me didn't want to. I didn't want to know if the reason that we lost touch was because that's what he wanted. After all, our once best friend relationship had been strained at best. My parents divorce was as ugly as they come. I hated him for what he did to my mum and he knew it. He knew it because I took every opportunity to tell him so. In fact, thinking more on this, I'm not really sure that I wanted to talk to him again until today.

Without thinking twice, I picked up the phone and dialed the first number. I worked my way through the list and spoke to some lovely people today. It makes me wonder if I'm half as nice as the other Wheatley's that I spoke to this afternoon. One lady, upon hearing the story of how my father and I just lost touch continued to call every Wheatley she knew. I heard her asking her husband, Michael, to "get out the phone book". At one point this lady put me hold, very apologetically, while she "made a cupper". "Christmas is such an emotional time" she explained over a hot cup of tea (sipping loudly).

In the end I failed. Nobody I called knew who I was talking about. I sat here, in this chair, feeling the lowest of the low. Then out of nowhere I remembered an old telephone number of a relative I hadn't spoken to in over 5 years. My grandmother - 3-1-8-2... I can't tell you how odd this is. I don't know my own telephone number. I struggle to recall birthday's of just about everyone.

I called the number. As if poised by the phone, waiting for it ring, somebody picked up on the first ring. I hadn't spoken with my uncle Roland in over 15 years yet I knew his voice instantly. He was thrilled to talk with me. He said that I had made his Christmas and that my Dad had been trying to get in touch for almost 4 years! He gave me a number and urged me call straight away. I called.

A man answered. I didn't recognize the voice. I asked if I could speak with Michael Wheatley. He answered with a very nonchalant, "Dean, this is Dad". Then there was a pause. My heart sank. In an instant all my worst fears of rejection choked the voice out of my throat. Then he continued, "I've missed you, mate" he said. And I missed him. We chatted for over an hour. It went well. No arguments - just water under the bridge.

Best friends reunited? I hope so, but I'm not really sure how I feel about all of this. "A lot" is about all I can muster right now.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2008-11-30T22:18:00.000-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving! I know it’s a little late an’ all. It just takes me time to process, analyze and digest. I’m not sure what “Happy Thanksgiving” really means. The most I can make out is that some people arrived here (USA) on a boat called the Mayflower. These people were called pilgrims (distant relatives of John Wayne). They established a colony and celebrated with a big dinner. And I do know that I don’t need to be offended by this one since, unlike the 4th, it’s not about sticking it to the British.

Thanksgiving was a difficult day for me. Despite appearances to the contrary, I have a hard time with new people. With like-minded people I can be outgoing and fun.However, if I can’t talk about fast cars and tell the strip club story I’m, um, a little boring I guess. Suz thinks that without her I’d be a bit of a hermit. She’s probably right.

Suz had arranged for us to have lunch with the neighbors and their 3 kids. I tried to conjure up an excuse not to go. I didn’t have a headache and I didn’t have to work. Bollocks! Plus, I promised Suz that I’d make an effort. So I did. We arrived, as invited, at 12. Lunch was at 4. The time in the middle was spent kid wrangling, waiting and worrying. By 2 my head was pounding and I could have eaten a small dog – like the family Pug, for example.

Doug and Jenny are very nice people. They were accommodating and welcoming. They gave me good beer and crackers and cheese. Jenny even attempted a Yorkshire pudding. It was such a nice thought that I felt obliged to eat four or five thick pudding poofs with gravy. No matter how nice they tasted, manners comes first. I fear that it will take weeks for them to pass. In the meantime, I’ll have to continue to walk with a wobble.

In truth, I didn’t really enjoy myself at all. I just wanted to eat and go home. I found five kids too much. The thought of my kids trashing their immaculate house gave me a headache. Conversation was limited at best. My gracious hosts were either examining the food with sigh and exasperation or kid wrangling with me. The highlight of my afternoon was holding their baby while staring menacingly at Jake trashing their kid’s room with a stick and an evil grin. He knew I couldn’t shout at him with the baby sleeping in my arms… He’s such a lil stinker that it make me smile.

Dinner was over pretty quickly. It was the usual assortment of odd American foods like candied yams, potato sludge and such. I helped clean up as best I could, bundled the kids up and headed home. I was satiated with 1000mg of Tylenol and a cup of Italian dark roast. Thanksgiving is about offering thanks and I was thankful to be home.

Calling a call center

2008-11-21T19:26:00.000-06:00

I know for sure that blind rage is not what most people experience when they call customer service. I do. I have taken great care in lumping all of my unsatisfactory call center experiences into two broad categories; lazy and the unhelpful.

Lazy, arrogant ass wipes can usually be found in call centers here in the US of A. They are the ones that ask me to speak slowly and calm down. They are also the ones that put me hold for 30 minutes and hang-up. They are the ones where I can spend the better half of a day “putting things right” with the call center supervisor. These people often play a song in my head (a fav of mine by Kevin Wilson). It goes like this,

“I said… Stick that fuckin fone, up yor fuckin arse
You're supposed to fuckin help, not make it fuckin hard
I only want to make a call and you keep acting smart
So you can stick that fuckin fone up yor fuckin arse”

My other unsatisfactory call center experiences come from offshore call centers. These people are usually very polite and genuinely try not to be as helpful as a fart in an elevator. I especially hate a lady named Helen Smith from Mumbai that asked me to speak “rational English” or she “would be forced to disconnect from this conversation”. Rational English? WTF? And why pick a fake name like Helen Smith when you could have Jenna Jameson? See? No sense of service AND no sense of humor.

My modem didn’t work that day I met Helen. She suggested that I turn it off and on again. I pretended that I did since I knew that the problem was with some obscure public key encryption setting. I continued to show her how little she knew by lecturing her on the finer points of transport protocols, bandwidth and DHCP. She continued to expound the obvious. I continued to ignore her.

After I accidentally hung up by repeatedly hitting my forehead with the phone, I decided to power down the surge protector. It was then that I noticed that the modem was actually unplugged. OK, OK, I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong because, well, um, Helen is a stupid name anyway…

Pooping at the museum

2008-11-16T19:58:00.001-06:00

Yesterday the kids and I spent the day at Jasmine Moran Children’s museum in Seminole. It’s a trek, but it’s worth it. Mommy was grouchy as hell and pretty hung-over from a night on the town. The drive there was uneventful until we passed the National Shrine for Infant Jesus of Prague, which I thought was hilarious. I couldn’t get Talladega Nights “baby Jesus in his golden diaper” out of my head. I must have giggled for 20 miles straight just thinking about it! Anyway, we arrived in one piece and continued to all have a great day. There was the bed of nails (yes, really!), crazy mirrors, kid-TV, dinosaur excavation, skeleton cycle, marble roller coaster, bubbles factory, fun, fun, fun, and then there was the maze.

It was a little chilly yesterday so we had to cover up to venture outside; past the train, over the footbridge and through kid town to get there. Castle maze is a plastic maze with a plastic castle façade and a big plastic slide in the middle that you can use to shortcut from the start to half way through. We were having a great time. Wookie and Jake lead me through the most indirect route possible to the center of the maze. And that’s when things started getting frantic. We started off walking, then jogging and finally sprinting… The transition started with one “I gotta poop” to all three “I gotta poop… now”!

Parenthood is covered with poop. Sometimes metaphorically and other times quite literally. From my very first experience with the dreaded “black tar poop” diaper, I knew my poop-perception would never be the same. I’ve cleaned up so much poop in 5 years that I could list poop cleaner on my resume as a second occupation. I’ve cleaned poop off stinky butts, underpants, carpets and even walls! I’ve even lived to tell the tale of brown torpedoes… twice! This is undoubtedly the most horrific of all experiences. Just imagine for a second that you’re in the tub with your little angel. You’re both wearing bubble hats and playing with Diego Super Boat Rescue Pack. It’s all giggles and smiles until you spot the dark destroyer staring up at you from the depths of the tub. First comes the question, “what toy is that?”. Then there’s the realization that the brown torpedo from the rescue pack isn’t actually part of the rescue pack. It’s blind panic. A frantic cry for help, “Suz, helpPPP!!!…” followed by capture and disposal of the floater…. It doesn’t get much scarier than that. I’m sure if I looked it up, I could find parents suffering from PTSD from exposure to that situation alone. It really is that bad… But that was all a long time ago. Now the kids are older. I thought my poop-scapades we well and truly over. Boy was I wrong!

So back in the maze we found ourselves sprinting. We crawled under walls to get to the other side often only to arrive at yet another dead end. Poop was coming whether we liked it or not. I was avoiding sharp movements for fear of sharting. The worst case was a very smelly hour and a half ride home. The best case was to make it back to the museum before the turtles left their shells. It was manic! We all had to go. We all had to go right then and there.

Perhaps it’s because we’d been blessed by baby Jesus’s golden diaper on the way, but we made it back to the museum just in time. I didn’t know what state we were in, poopy vs clean, but we made it!

Now public restrooms with a kid can be tricky. It’s stressful, but you can get through it with a healthy supply of tissue, lots of patience and a double stall. It gets harder when you add more kids and/or poop. Yesterday’s turmoil came from the following equation,

Panic = 3 y/old poop+ 5 y/old poop + own poop + single stall

There were two stalls free. Jake took the first. Wookie and I took the second. I practically ripped Wookies pants and undies off and threw him on the toilet. I clenched my cheeks and waited as Wookie, sharted, farted and squirted more poop than one would have thought his little body could contain. Next door I heard Jake shouting “daddy, I dropped a big ‘un… wanna see? Do I get candy for the MASSIVE POOP?”… I took relative comfort in the fact that I could, if the looks came upon me after this, ask in a puzzled way “who’s kid is this?” then walk away. He'd find me later, I'm sure.

No sooner had Wookie finished pooping than I pushed him off the pot and shat my brains out. Jake was now crawling under the door. Wookie was wiping his little bum with his little hand and not the huge wad of paper that he had in his other hand. I heard the guy in the other stall leave the bathroom. Flush, rustle, open door, close door, no washing of hands, gone: all in less than 10 seconds! I was shouting at the kids to do that, don’t do that, stay there, move, wipe here, not there, etc. But none of that mattered. The threat of bacteria, germ infested, and disease-ridden children was nothing compared to the feeling that I had just left my sphincter in the pot. And that was nothing compared to the overwhelming feeling of relief that we’d made it. Sure, there’d be lots of cleaning up – but we made it!

One of the lessons that I learned from team building this week at work is that some of the most satisfying experiences are often on the back of adversity. Yesterday at the Children’s museum we beat poop to the pot! We wiped butts, washed hands and even did a coordinated high-5 to congratulate ourselves! We had made it! We got through it! Daddy, Wookie, Jake – Team Wheatley! What a team!

How to wear a pink tutu

2008-10-25T10:54:00.000-05:00

The only dance I can pull off is the "Funky Chicken". It's my trademark dance that features a unique combination of awkwardness coupled with a supreme lack of coordination. I turn into John Travolta with a few beers, but sober I'm about as skilled at dancing as... well nothing really... nothing, nobody, nowhere is truly as bad as me. But men, real men have chest hair, they sport a scowl and frighten small children with the size of their muscles. Real men don't dig that stuff! Real men don't dance, right? So what am I worrying about? And, more to the point, why would I let Suz drag me, kicking and screaming to a "So you think can dance" show?

I spent last Tuesday night with Suz and a few other thousand people watching the live version of the popular TV show. It features all the usual suspects.

I like nothing better than to proclaim that reality TV, dancing and all that sparkly bullshit just isn't my thing. I'd like to say that I'm too manly - too testosterone fueled to be sucked in by all this gay bullshit. I'd also like to say that I'm not secretly in love with Kherington - shh, don't tell the wifey! But the truth of the matter is that I like watching people dance. I like the long legged Kherington just standing there sure, but not as much as I enjoy watching her dance.

My secret is out. Suz didn't drag my there kicking and screaming. It was my idea! Ah, that feels so much better. I'm out of the closet at last. I don't have chest hair, I don't look mean, I don't have bulging muscles and my chest is as smooth as a baby's behind. I can't even whistle! I don't even have enough facial hair to grow a 5 'o clock shadow after 2 weeks! I mean, I like dance and performing arts. I'm a big fan of art galleries, smoked salmon and truffles. I hate big belt buckles, country music, cowboy hats and bravado.

So I'm not a stereotypical man then I guess. Maybe I'm a man-boy as Jake once told me I was. Maybe even worse... Maybe I'm a... I'm a... metro- *gasp*-sexual? Whoa! That's enough! This is getting a little too close to home! Plus, I know it's not true since the guy sitting two rows in front of me at the show was huge. He had mUsCLEs - he was huge! He was mean and macho. He even had a tatoo! And there were two of them sitting next to one another. It was a big relief. So there! I should feel much better now, right? But I didn't because these two guys were holding hands!

So my manhood has been crushed. First it was spicy coleslaw - now this! But Butch and Benjamin didn't ruin the show for me. Quite to the contrary. It made me smile. It illustrated, beautifully I might add, just how much gender stereotypes are bullshit. So I'm fluffing up my pink tutu today and admitting that I've always wanted to be a Ballerina. I'm gonna wear that pink sweater vest with pride... Like hell I will! HA! Had you there for a minute, right?

"Ker-clunk"

2008-10-21T20:39:00.000-05:00

I’m in a funny mood tonight. The kids are asleep and I’m kind of drained from too much Tequila last night.

I don’t like medical shows - especially ones with kids. As I killed channels tonight, I caught a glimpse of something that brought some unpleasant memories back. It’s funny how words always fall short of defining the moment. Nevertheless, we still try don't we?

Awake

“Ker-clunk, ker-clunk, ker-clunk”

I could be traveling the interstate tonight
Lights flashing past my head
It’s like I’m traveling 100Mph!

But I’m not going anywhere but here;
I’m stuck in a moment in time
Strapped to a bed built for a child.

“Ker-clunk, ker-clunk, ker-clunk”

It’s not the sound of little wheels
Propelling this bed into motion that keeps me awake
Nor is it the ghastly scent of sick children
Wheezing and crying,
Resting like spent bullet casings.

“Ker-clunk, ker-clunk, ker-clunk”

Why are their beds a full twenty four inches closer to heaven?
I look for answers that I know I will not find
Beyond the repetition of the sound that keeps me awake.

“Ker-clunk, ker-clunk, ker-clunk”

A pair of testicles and a bottle of hot sauce

2008-10-19T13:01:00.001-05:00

A few short months ago, I was sitting in the conference room at work having lunch with my team when the coleslaw incident happened. VGT buys it's employees lunch every day. I don't remember what it was, just that it came with coleslaw. And that it was spicy. I took two mouthfuls and quickly had to guzzle down some water, "damn, spicy coleslaw!", I proclaimed. At which point, David "Ninja" looked up and replied with a nonchalant, "you know you're a man when coleslaw kicks your ass!". The whole conference room burst out laughing. It was funny. He's a funny guy. Ever since that day I've been like Rocky Balboa in training for his fight with Ivan Drago. I'm in spicy training. I've got a pair of testicles and a bottle of hot sauce... and I'm gonna use em!

The perfect opportunity to show off my new found spicy fortitude came at this month's Buffalo Wild Wings lunch. It's a monthly lunch where we all go out for wings. It's customary now to order a shot of Blazing wings, succumb to the peer pressure and pretend that, despite appearances to the contrary, you are not going to assume the fetal position and cry like a little girl. Now let me explain what a blazing wing is. Imagine a chicken possessed by Ra the sun god. So hot that just the smell of the thing can bring a grown man to his knees. That is the blazing wing.

So out comes the blazing wings. Always one to "get it over with", I jump straight in with gusto. There is a silent anticipation as the rest of table looks on in amazement. "Eye of the Tiger" blaring in my head; not only did I eat the wing, but I did it with nary a raised eyebrow nor bead of sweat. I threw the bones aside and prepared to beat my chest with my testosterone pumped fists. Then it hit me. Hard. So hard that the waitress could hardly hear my whispered dying wish to "some more water, please?" Then I started sweating like a pig. My lips felt like they were somebody elses. And my stomach was tumbling so much that I'd have put a Chinese acrobat to shame. In short, I failed, yet again, to gain the respect of my coworkers.

The humiliation doesn't end there. A couple of nights ago I sat down with my training chips "blazin' wings" Pringles when I noticed that most of the box had gone. WTF! I cast an angry glance at Suz. She said, "Wookie!" What? My 3 year old had eaten almost a whole box of Blazin' Pringles. Would the humiliation never end? Not even close, coz Wookie, ever able to outdo his old man just downed three boneless hot wings and asked for more. And my mouth was on fire with two!

So that's it for me. I'm trowing away the hot sauce, getting my pink sweater vest out of storage and admitting defeat. I mean, let's face it, what kind of man gets his ass kicked by coleslaw?

Genocide and other family favorites

2008-10-19T10:31:00.000-05:00

Story time for my kids tonight came from one of my fav books. The Brick Testament is bible stories told with Lego. Think Lego Star Wars but with God n stuff and you're pretty much there. I like it because I find it hilarious. And my kids? Hmm, they are mighty confused and a little scared right now...

It started out with Genesis. There were a few "Ohh, that's gross" bits - especially the bit where God harvests Adams rib to create Eve... and it just went downhill from there. As I read the story of Cain and Abel, Jake politely asked what "sacrifice" meant. I explained it in terms that I understand - of an offering. He didn't get it. Worse still, he wanted to know why God wanted the "females of the flock". I didn't have an answer. Next, of course, comes the cold-blooded killing of Abel by his brother Cain... all the way to genocide. At which point, I closed the book- "the end". What I thought was hilarious was just plain scary to them.

So I'm writing a new holy book tonight and it begins like this,"In the beginning God created Chimmay..." And tonight is Chimmay night. Suz is out on the town and I'm gonna ritualistically poison myself in the best possible way - with a Belgian Trappist beer (it is literally holy - google it)! Thank the lord!

Not many people know this, but I'm allergic to the natural world. For years I'd suffered from intolerable headaches, every single day since I was 15 or 16. I recently discovered that wheat and barley, amongst most everything else that grows, will kill me. Well maybe not kill me, but fuck me up enough to get a real nasty headache. And you all know what product features lots of wheat and/or barley, right? If you didn't guess beer then you need to stop reading this, shut down your computer and hit yourself... So the real question tonight is why am I drinking beer again? Did I just run out of Tequila? Nope, I have a fresh 1800 sitting in the freezer...

You see good beer for me is the comfiest chair you've ever sat in your entire life. It just feels right. I love the taste and the warm blankets of snuggle-iciousness. And I mean love, L-O-V-E; LOVE! I'm loving the way that I'm poisoning myself tonight, because, frankly, I deserve it. I deserve it for making a mockery of Christianity and for subjecting my kids to it's nonsense. I've had another hard week at work; full of all the usual political BS. And those are my excuses to get sloshed.

I tip this glass to nonsense tonight. Cheers!

-Saturday, October 18, 2008 at 8:25pm

Stochastic is a "special" person?

2008-10-19T10:30:00.000-05:00

So what would you do if everything you ever knew about money and investing turned out to be nonsense? How would you hide the bruises where you'd been kicking yourself for being such a plonker? What do you do first? I've spent a week trying to answer these questions. I've discovered, much to my surprise that concerns about retirement and college for my kids are slowly taking up the space in my head that was previously reserved for boobies and sports cars. I think I'm in shock!

For me terms like compound interest, bullish and bearish were little more than fancy words that boffins used on CNN to make themselves look smart. Ain't nuffin but bullshit, I'd say before switching the channel to Top Gear.

Last weekend was my crash course on investing. I spent two days from 8 to 5 getting cozy with about 100 other people who, just like me, thought that stochastic was just a word to describe "special" people. It isn't. It's actually a term used to describe something that indicates something or other. OK, I can't really remember, but it's really important - I think. Anyway, the details aren't important. What is important is that I've pissed away so much opportunity. I tell you, if I was in my 60's like the guy sitting next to me in class, I'd have just off'd myself already. 67 years old and no money for retirement. Suddenly the greeter position in Walmart starts to look attractive.

I've got my eye on a new Jaguar XK and that would make me feel so much better about my future than 70k in stocks; driving a beat up Honda Civic to catch the latest 2-for-1 deal at Walmart. And that's what sucks so much about investing in the future - the current has the suffer. But spending my retirement reusing tea bags, buying canned meats, cutting coupons and counting pennies is a truly frightening concept for me.

So this is me making a commitment to change the way that I think about money. Change the way I think about my family's future. Change the way I live my life. But before all of that, I simply must catch up on Top Gear! They're gonna review the XK in the next episode on my TIVO HD... See how hard this is gonna be for me?

-Saturday, October 11, 2008 at 11:25am

I did an oopsie

2008-10-19T10:28:00.000-05:00

I just got sucked into one of those compare-a-thon things on facebook. It has pictures of all your friends, two at a time, it makes you pick one for each of the questions. The questions vary. They start with harmless stuff like "who is most likely to stab you in the back?" to "who would you rather hug?" to "which one would you sleep with?". All of this wouldn't be a problem if it wasn't for a little fucking checkbox that I noticed on the 48th question. It says, "yes, notify friends"... So now, I guess you all know my hidden secret that I'd rather sleep with Charlotte than Terence. Sorry Terance, but you're just not my type! I hope that this doesn't hurt our other, special relationship :)

What really, truly pisses me off is that you go through all 60 questions then it says "Monkey says that there isn't enough information to build a profile"! Can you believe this shit? ...That's the last time I stray from my wall.

- Monday, September 29, 2008 at 9:18pm

Living an infomercial

2008-10-19T10:27:00.000-05:00

Suz and I were working on the laundry earlier in the week when Jake came by to supervise."What a mess!" he proclaimed at the sight of a foot high stack of clean laundry on the bed. "We need a high capacity, space saver bag", he continued... "Vacuum sealed for your protection... Now only 19.99. That's a $60 value, dad..."Speechless, Suz and I sat on the edge of the bed - flabbergasted. Our 5 year old had turned into a walking infomercial!

It doesn't stop there. For months, we've noticed the odd "mmm, mmm, good" when we pass a McDonalds or "Subway, eat fresh!". "You'll say WOW when you use a ShamWow!"... We thought it was cute until he tried to push a useless product! I mean, nobody actually buys any of that useless shit like the ShamWow do they? In all seriousness, it made me question how much time the kids watch TV. How was it that these messages had gotten so embedded in his little head? Moreover, how is it that I can't remember my own telephone number, but I can rattle off at least 10 catchy slogans for a product as useful as a bucket with a hole? All these questions relate directly to my experience of the "Get Motivated" seminar. You see, between the speeches by Rick Belluzzo, Robert Shuller, Colin Powell, Zig Ziglar (who I missed b'coz of imprisonment in Irish pub) and Ruby "9/11" Giuliani were expertly placed infomercials.

These guys were introduced with all the vigor of Powell. Often complete with fireworks and confetti. You didn't know that it was an infomercial. It was brilliant! I enjoyed the infomercials as much, if not more, than the real speeches. I remember one of these guys being so good that nobody knew that was an infomercial until the last minute. Genius! This dude, we'll call him Bob, managed to suck in at least a thousand people into buying a get rich quick "system". Bob didn't explain what this "system" was nor how it was going to make you rich. Nevertheless, as soon as he said that you could buy it today for $49.99, at least 500 people people stood up, wallets in hand, sporting the "I believe!" look of stupidity. If the messiah returns you'll likely find him taking notes at an event like this. Really. Now I believe in bullshit like everyone else, but I wasn't that stupid... or was I?

On the back of a brilliant speech on leadership by Powell came my time to be sucked in. In my defense, I didn't immediately throw my money at the nearest Bob. I listened intensely to day trader Phil as I scribbled notes like "short sale on oil future- BUY", "follow fund manager - sell 80% commodities", "diversify tax liens!", "80% capital, 15% stock, 30% real estate, 12% securities in covered calls"... What the fuck was I smoking? Those numbers don't even add up! Looking at my notes now, I was obviously demonically possessed by the god of bullshit. My notes make about as much sense as a war on terrorism.

At the end of Phil's spiel I sat there knowing full well that I had been sucked in. I watched 100's of people leap out of their seats like they'd had curry for lunch and needed to make an emergency deposit. I didn't. I gritted my teeth, clutched my wallet like my life depended on it and attempted to wait it out. I told myself that the feeling would pass. But it didn't. It got stronger. So strong in fact that I'd have jumped on the heads of baby seals to get to the registration table.

And there you have it. That's how I forked over 99 bucks for a 2 day class on stock trading. It'll be just my luck to discover that it's all just an elaborate scheme to get investors for the next ShamWow! I can hardly wait!

-Sunday, September 28, 2008 at 12:56pm

Hell is a place on Earth?

2008-10-19T10:24:00.000-05:00

Hell is a place on Earth. You can find it at the crossroads of Memorial and 71st in Tulsa, Oklahoma. How do I know this? Because I spent a total of 4 hours there yesterday.

The Christians have it all wrong. You don't have to die to get there - you just drive there. And park. And pay for the pleasure of experiencing the dark future of the human race. I traveled there in my Pontiac GTO, but any noble steed will do. There's no need to worry about ol' Lucifer. I don't know the light bringer very well, but trust me when I say that his dark arts have nothing on the power and majesty of the hell spawn in regular attendance at Memorial and 71st. He has nothing on the power of the great one.

Thinking about it, the Buddhists may be the closest to understanding hell. The hell realms in the cycle of rebirth contain hungry ghosts. These self-indulgent shadows of their former selves, are cursed with the appetite of a God and the capacity of a mouse to consume. Their tiny little mouths can never satisfy there huge bellies. At the intersection of Memorial and 71st, hungry ghosts assume the form of children.

I know, I know - I was as shocked as you! Who'd have thought it? The deity of this dark domain is one called the great Chucky Cheese. He's a mouse of gigantic proportions. Ears as big as kids heads. And teeth that could easily chomp their way through a thousand wilted salad bars and the worst pizza on the planet. Chucky's power comes not from a guilt-trip nor lightning bolts - it comes from a hundred or so video games. Yes, video games! So why did I spend 4 hours there? Well that's 'coz I'm an idiot and got the wrong time for a kids party. It was at 6 - I was at 3!

The helpless little children arrive as angels of light and hope. Yet all, bar none, are sucked into the black hole of the manic depressive. Highs like crystal-meth and lows so low that you may actually consider eating some of the pizza just for the distraction of something that isn't screaming like a banshee, running a million miles an hour and spending money like it's your bosses.

OK, OK, let's back up for a second. I may have it all wrong here. We all know how too much of a good thing can be bad. Well the same can be said for the bad. And it doesn't get much worse than Chucky Cheese's - except when experienced in insanely large doses.

You see, much to my surprise, after a while you just succumb to it. You have no choice really. In this way, it's not unlike an all night alcohol binge. At some point you reach the point that if you don't give in to it and get another beer or 20 tokens that you'll just keel over and die. And then - Magic. For it's only in the darkest depths of the dark can you truly understand and appreciate the light. And there is nothing so good as an honest smile. Nothing so pure, so intoxicatingly holy as a kid's laugh. So there you have it. Fuck the church. Fuck Jahweh, Buddha, Ganesh and Mohamed. Open your heart and worship the great Chucky Cheese at the crossroads of Memorial and 71st!

- Sunday, September 28, 2008 at 10:28am

Sterile

2008-10-19T10:22:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting here getting slowly sterile from the heat of this bloody laptop. Under normal circumstances I might have switched to the desktop by now. But I won't. Not today. Susan is in baby mode. And it's the "I want" not "let's make one" kind of mood. She's been inundating me recently with old baby photo's of the kids. The baby questions have been slowly hitting my head like, um, a woodpecker on crack maybe?

"See how cute they are?" It's true. We make some good looking kids. Which made me wonder, as I often do, why other peoples babies are so ugly. I mean, I'm a logical, critical thinking kind of guy. How can that be? Did my kids beat the odds? 1 in a million? The unfunky-looking symetrical, un-cross-eyed poo-bombs? I just looked back through the photo's. Turns out that both Jake and Wookie were cross-eyed, bumpy, floppy-headed examples of poop-bomb baby perfection! Adorable! Who knew? I always did. LOL!

Jake just about killed me as a baby. He was the whinyist lil dump truck of a baby (10lb) I've ever seen. I swear he didn't stop crying until he was over a year old. I would never have thought, not in a million years that I'd call a complete stranger, in tears and ask "why, whhhyyy, WHY won't he stop crying?" But I did. He brought me to the point where I wanted to jump out the window just so I wouldn't have to hear it anymore. Which may have worked if we didn't live in a ranch at the time.

And Wookie? He was a little angel. But now? He's so hard-headed. Each night, at bedtime, it turns into a Gladitorial event. There's anticipation, rapid maneuvers, diversion, tears and passion. It's a production worthy of Hollywood. Every night. Him or me. One of us is going to sleep! Thankfully he hasn't resorted to utilizing the hammer toy! Real bright idea that one, a hammer toy! Nothing good can come of a toy hammer. If the inventor of that toy was standing in front of me right now... Well, I'd, I'd kick him in the bollocks and hammer him for every parent who's ever been minding their own business, watching the TV, and WHAM!

But do I really want anymore kids? I dunno. Do I really want anymore kids? How would we make it work? How would Jake and Luke handle it? Will I succumb to the pressure? Will Wookie utilize the hammer? Only time will tell.

- Tuesday, September 23, 2008 at 8:41pm

Jake 'n dadda day

2008-10-19T10:18:00.000-05:00

Had a fun "Jake 'n Dadda" day. I thought we should do something wholesome, converge with nature and shoot someone. Real bonding stuff, ya know?

Took him to see the new Igor movie. It was kinda scary for a 5 year old. Think Tim Burton meets Disney and you get the idea. I resisted temptation and managed not to scare any teenagers this time around - but what is it about teenagers and their insistence to be as annoying as possible? They should just round up all the spotty, annoying little turds and ship em off to Iceland or something... Bjork'd sort their asses out for sure!

From Igor we went to shoot some people with lasers! I was sure I could bag a few teenagers at Laser Quest. And I did. We both did. As soon as Jake and I encountered an opponent, I just said (loud 'nuff for them to here) "I know the gun's heavy, bud", then pushed him around the corner. No self-respecting laser quester is gonna tag a 5 year old! He looks so cute with big guns a sensor pack hanging down to his kneees... And that's when I'd spring round the corner and bust a laser in their asses - HA!

After annihilating the opposition at Laser Quest (we came 1st and 2nd), we went to take in some nature. Mini golf places here are unlike anything you'll ever find in England. They are monuments to fakeism (is that a word?). Bright green fake grass, eeary aqua-marine water and holes that aren't really holes. Those ones are my favs by far. The ones that take your ball, suck it into a black hole and shoot it somewhere. Jake, of course, loved it! I didn't have to go ball-fishing this time around, so I loved it also.

Now I'm pooped. Gonna sip some Tequila, watch some TV and sleep. Big day tomorrow. I'm going to a "Get Motivated" seminar with Colin Powell and the dodgy mayor dude from NY.

Should be interesting.G'night, wherever you are.

- Sunday, September 21, 2008 at 8:01pm