It wasn't an easy decision to have a child while I've been pretty sure life as we know it is going to end this year. Ever since those Jackals eating the City on the Mount dreams that started in college, it has been a race against the clock. That said we brought little miss V into the world and it's my job to get her ready for the revolution. On our list of skills that we have checked off so far include throwing and kicking. She has super sweet attack moves like the "monkey paw" (she grabs you by the face, pulls you close and twists as hard as she can, all the while laughing. It is god damned frightening.) and she has mastered the "death weasel" (Repeated jumps on the victims' diaphragm) then theres some sort of terrible pinch punch to your collarbone. She can march in time and can skip on one leg. She covers herself in homemade tattoos of Elmo's family which can be super intimidating. And now she hangs out with a rapping Koala that speaks Chinese...Maybe it isn't perfect, but it is a work in progress. We're totally like Jet Li and kid in Legend of the Red Dragon, fighting undead robot circular saw throwing metal crab ninjas and shit...
The Idaho Vandals are the Mostawesomeistever
An Empty Urgency
When I lost my job I was terrified. As much as I had longed to separate myself from the company of my coworkers, I had no leads on future employment. It was the most unreal, nebulous week of my life, though not just because I learned on Monday that Friday would be my last. I reacted much better to the news of my impending unemployment than I did to the other, rather more significant proclamation that I would soon be a father, but that's another story. I mention it only to illustrate how fucking scared I was come 5:00 PM that Friday. My final conversation with my supervisor didn't go as well as I'd have liked, and I went home unsure what Monday would bring. At the time, even unemployment seemed like a long shot.
It felt a bit like trekking through the forest at night. You hear rumblings, but you lack the experience to identify them. You're imagination burns like a fire in the night, illuminating the unknown but showing you only the things you fear most. Every windblown branch is the crouching of a tiger ready to strike. Every grating rockfall is the lumbering of a bear stalking lazily after you. You don't know what the dark hides. Not really. So you fear it. Maybe the danger is remote, the distance of a problem that belongs to someone else, or perhaps the eyes of a hungry predator could be contemplating you right now, the danger very, very real. You don't know. That's what it felt like, leaving the shop that day, not knowing what dangers hid in the dark future.
But it worked out. That first check was like a taste of ambrosia. It was a reprieve, a second chance at a life that had been slipping away like sand between my fingers, each grain an opportunity lost, a dream forgotten in the brutal moment of wakening. But there was more to it than that.
The sensation of not having to live according the schedule of someone else, someone who doesn't give a squirt of piss about you, and who you in turn likely despise for the control the exercise over you, is akin to feeling a warm breeze under feathered wings you never knew you had. It's the kind of freedom that children feel the first morning of summer vacation, but is forgotten under the burden of responsibility and age. The freedom of a blank calendar. The freedom to spend your most precious resource in whatever way you wish.
This is where I told myself all the things I'd do with the time I'd been given. Sure, I'd look for work, but no problem if I didn't find something for awhile, right? There were things I'd neglected, important parts of me that had been left to atrophy and needed some exercising. I would write. So many ideas, but my work had been physically demanding and left me exhausted. Now I had all the time in the world... I would read. It had been months since I picked up a book. I'd lose weight. Nothing to stop me from working out every day now. I'd start a business, I'd learn to play the piano, I'd ride my motorcycle, I'd learn something new every day, I'd... I'd...
Suffer paralysis of choice. Do none of those things. Waste weeks of absolute freedom. My days would be devoid of thought and empty of action. My skin would lose its tan, my wit its edge, my passion its heat, my desire its force. And for every day lost, the next would seem so much more important. But the building urgency to capitalize on this rapidly diminishing window of opportunity is directly opposed by the weight of an empty calender. And the dark falls, and the fear returns.
You're probably wondering what the fuck I'm going on about, and hoping I'll clip the flowery rhetoric soon. Maybe you know exactly how I feel, and you understand exactly why I'm writing this. Maybe.
March Madness is Madness in March
I have to admit I know very little about basketball, especially college basketball. Luckily for you that means I know about a thousand times more than you on the subject. I mean I don't remember you beating me on NCAA Final Four Basketball. Not to sound like a jerk.., no I can be a jerk if I want to, I have a general comprehension of sports that most mere mortals could, well, never comprehend. It's not entirely your fault. Some of us were created in a little more of his image than others. Over time I have developed a very specific skill set that makes me far superior in the realm of sports commentary and analysis. It has meant much sacrifice in both my personal and professional life. I rarely look up from the stacks and stacks of spreadsheets and various screens that litter my every waking being. I think I may have had a cat at one point, but who has time for feeding time? Not I! Have you looked at how Virginia Tech is 11-23 against the spread after a non conference game? That's negative 13.5 units for gods sake! When I inhale I am filled with the aromas of dirty jocks and half empty cans of slurm but when I exhale I spread the sweet ambrosia of Bracketology to all those willing to receive the word. Wichita State is +175? That is one I'll take! Have you looked at my baby? She is beautiful in her own way... I mean all children disappoint... We can only hope that they straighten up in the end... SAINT JOHNS WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU!!! I HATE YOU SO MUCH! I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU! ........It's okay. I know you didn't mean to hurt me. You couldn't have, actually.., meant.., to... Who needs friends when I have all this beautiful beautiful basketball?! Most certainly not me. Kittens you look different today. Have you always spoken the riddles of Manucious? Hold me close Digger. Tonight we dine in hell!
Happy Pie Day, Anger Paraders
Man, I fucking love Pie. I love it so much that I spell it with a Capital P to highlight the divinity of Pie. Or something haughty and philosophical like that.
My favorite type of Pie, you ask? That's a really big question, but I'm relatively tradition (relative to what, I have no idea) in my love of Pie. A nice Dutch Apple crafted with fruit handpicked from my great grandmother Pauline's (Pie rest her soul) small orchard sits alone atop my Pie-power-tower, GodKing over all other baked goods. This is a sensation that lives on only in memory, however.
Lucky, there are many more tangible flavors more readily available. Rubarb Pie is a family favorite, and Huckleberry is a local delicacy that I miss. However, I've discovered a love of Pecan here in TX. Pumpkin Pie is, naturally, a fall favorite, and one rarely goes wrong with a sugar encrusted Peach Pie. Oh, and I almost forgot: The Olivia Munn Pie. Mmm mmmmmmm.
Now, lets talk a little bit about this whole cake vs. Pie thing: Don't you think...
Wait. Wait just a gods damned minute. I've just been informed that I'm a little off-base with this. Apparently - and I can't even believe I'm typing these fucking words - Apparently it isn't Pie Day. According to CNN, my go to source for light reading and current events, it's Pi Day. Instead of a day of celebration for the taste sensation that is a sugary filling baked into a crumbly, buttery crust, we're honoring a number. And it's not even a very exciting number! And really, it's a day for a symbol that represents a number, not even the digits themselves. How fucking esoteric and irrelevant is that?
Whatever. I'm going to go eat some fucking Pie. I leave you with this:
There can be only one: Charlie Sheen
It pains me to jump on any sort of bandwagon and beating dead horses just makes me sad, so I really intended to stay away from this particular wagon being drawn by a team of well flogged long dead equine, but then Mike and I spent two hours drinking and overindulging in the Charlie Sheen media blitz, after which I came home to find this over at Virtual Shackles and, well, here we are...
New Anger Parade Contest! Name Wade's Son!
As every expecting father knows, naming your baby can be one of the most challenging things you will face. I'm sure it ranks right up there with accepting you are always wrong, always smelly, always the cause of generally anything and everything bothering your pregnant spouse at any given time. It is your fault that this demon, heart burn inducing, devil spawn is in her. So man up and name your kid something awesome!
When I drink gasoline we all win!
If while out for a bit of grocery shopping don't hit a pedestrian with your two thousand pound Pontiac Bonneville. Especially not a blind one. At the very least, don't just drive off leaving before mentioned blind person bleeding in the road. That is a dick move, bra.
