In Which I Blow and Suck

Never learning to play an instrument with any proficiency is one of my greatest regrets in life. Now it is yours, too!

I’m ahead of myself. First, a little on my musical background beyond my well-known mad percussion skillz.

I sang in a band in high school for about six months.

Our repertoire consisted of a few ‘80s Who songs, a crappy number by prog-rock supergroup Asia, “Rock This Town” by the Stray Cats, the Van Halenized version of “Oh! Pretty Woman” and “Hungry Like the Wolf” by Duran Duran. (We briefly brought in a female classmate to stand next to me and do the moaning at the end of “Wolf.” Absolute closest I came in high school to losing my virginity.)

We went through guitarists like Spinal Tap went through drummers, just without the bizarre gardening accidents. Shortly after we finally found one who was really good (that would be him on the left in this video playing with ‘00s Top 40 alt-rock band Splender), they realized they needed a singer with a vocal range exceeding four and a half notes.

In college, I taught myself to play some basic blues harmonica riffs so I could jam with my roommate, a nine-and-a-half finger guitarist, while we drank too much Keystone on Thursday nights. You can image how that went.

I took piano for a few months in my 20s through an adult education class. I was at the top of the class. Sound impressive until you learn my competition was all grandmothers. With arthritis. And periodic gout.

I took bass guitar lessons for about nine months from one of Bob Dylan’s first electric sidemen. Result, I can play bass guitar like I’m wringing a neck. Not confirmed but I may have been the student who drove him to move to Israel.

So when Neil of Citizen of the Month asked me last year if I would contribute something to his next Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert, a joyous annual post of bloggers singing and playing their eggnogged noggins off, I immediately said yes. Never let it be said that I let my lack of talent stand in my way.

Below you will find my solo musical debut, but I encourage you to visit Neil’s site and enjoy the entire Sixth Annual Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert. It’s a blast:

My Love’s unvarnished reaction when I finally showed her this yesterday: “So is this why the ladder was in the living room last week?”

Get the whole "Always Home and Uncool" experience: visit the website, follow on Twitter and like on Facebook .

Naked Again

How desperate are people for me to get rid of this growth on my face?

The folks at Philips Norelco not only sent me, free of charge, their Vacuum Stubble and Beard Trimmer Pro but also their super high-end SensoTouch 3D Electric Razor.

Then they forked over $15,000 to the cause our band of Movember Dads has been growing these goofy things for.

All I had to do is use them … and let the world watch me as I did:

Ahhhh. Smoooooth.

Thing 2 has already said he’ll let me kiss him again since I’m not so “prickly.”

Thing 1 was too busy texting to comment. Once the cell phone battery dies, I’m sure she’ll look up and say something. Maybe even something nice.

My Love … well, she says she likes me better clean shaven but I think secretly she dug the ‘stache. Let her pretend she was snoring next some strange other man every night.

Well … strange, definitely.

# # #

If you want to be smooth like me, I can hook you up with a special holiday rebate on the SensoTouch. Just click that link in the previous sentence.

The FTC Full Monty: Philips Norelco and its PR firm, Zocalo Group, sent me the razor and trimmer for free. No charge whatsoever. I used them, filmed it and wrote about it solely for the money ­- a $15,000 donation to our team raising money to fight prostate cancer. For that, my fellow "bros in mos" and I are incredibly grateful. Nonetheless, the opinions and typos contained in this post remain mine and mine alone.

Technorati Tags: Movember

What’s Worse than Snakes, Indy?

To quote from Raiders of the Lost Ark:

“Marion, don't look at it! Shut your eyes, Marion! Don't look at it, no matter what happens!”

The mustache has only hours to live. Don’t let it die in vain.

Please donate to help the Movember fight against prostate cancer. Our team has raised more than $17,000 this month thanks to generous (and hysterically laughing) people like yourself.

Leaf Me Alone

Drivers are white knuckling around my fair 'burb these autumnal days, employing the most important skill the Department of Motor Vehicles never tested them on: defensive leaf pile dodging.

Sure as the days are grower shorter, our local streets are becoming narrower than a stripper’s butt floss. Every trip for groceries requires channeling one's inner Lindsey Vonn to navigate an asphalt slalom between the driveway and the Stop & Shop. Meanwhile, rush hour resembles a live-action version of Mario Kart except the flying turtle shells are replaced by acorn-addicted squirrels leaping frantically at our vehicles from the roadside crack dens we have heaped along the curbside for them.

However, the bobbing and the weaving and the periodic near-death experience with oncoming vehicles doesn't bother me quite as much as ... oh, how do I phrase this delicately ...

You ignorant foliage-heaping narcissists who keep blocking my way!

You people are like inverse hoarders. Instead of stuffing every square inch of your property with others' castoffs, you blow, rake and dump your junk right smack in the middle of the public thoroughfare. Someone needs to get a TLC reality-show crew out here before Jim Bob Duggar knocks up his wife yet again an- ... what?

He did? She is? Man -- another shot at undeserved stardom blown.

I think "ignorant" is the key word I spit out back there. My city spends roughly $200,000 a year on leaf collection but precious little on educating its residents  that safely navigable roads might be more important than naked lawns. For example, the leaf pickup instructions on my city's website state only that leaves must be “brought to the curb." Given the overwhelmingly liberal political tendencies of our residents, this is interpreted as "anywhere between opposing gutters is fair game."

One of our neighboring towns, with its wealthy citizenry of strict constructionists, lays down the law far more explicitly. Its public notice clearly states leaf piles should be "at the shoulder, off the pavement of the road." Unfortunately, no one there reads these notices to the under-the-table help toiling around his or her McMansion.

It wasn’t always this way. Municipal leaf pickup arose in these parts from the environmental movement of 1960s, culminating in the Clean Air Act of 1970. Before then, many people would gather the fallen foliage and set it aflame. They'd stand there, smiling proudly, sucking in the smoky autumn aroma with a cigarette in one hand and freshly mixed Manhattan in the other. That's Big Government for you. Always infringing on our right to poison ourselves.

Before striking the match, though, a dutiful citizen back then would first check the leaf pile for small children. That's not so much of a concern today, and not just because of the burning ban. Kids don't play in leaf piles much anymore, and that's a good thing. First, no one wants Junior to host a dinner party for Lyme disease-infested deer ticks. Second, most kids these days know better than to play in traffic.

###

Look closely at the photo and you’ll see the Movember State of the ‘Stache Day 27. Don’t forget to donate to support the fight against prostate cancer and other issues affecting men’s health at my Mo Space -- http://mobro.co/uncool. I’m up to $525.

Come on Over, It's Thanksgiving Day

You’re always welcome here, friends. Except spammers. No one wants spam on Thanksgiving.

Cheers … and pass the gravy.

Are you going on Thanksgiving Day
To those family celebrations?
Passing on knowledge down through the years
At the gathering of generations

Every year it's the same routine
All over, all over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

Papa looks over at the small gathering
Remembering days gone by
Smiles at the children as he watches them play

And wishes his wife was still by his side
She would always cook dinner on Thanksgiving Day
It's all over, it's all over
It's all over the American way

But sometimes the children are so far away
And in a dark apartment on the wrong side of town
A lonely spinster prays
For a handsome lover and a passionate embrace
And kisses all over, all over
All over her American face

It's all over, it's all over, it's all over

'Cause today she feels so far away
From the friends in her hometown
So she runs for the Greyhound
She'll spend hours on the bus but she'll reach town
For Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

At a truck stop a man sits alone at the bar
Estranged in isolation
It's been a while now and he seems so far
From those distant celebrations

He thinks back to all the mistakes that he made
To a time when he was so young and green
Innocent days when they both looked forward to that
Great American dream

Now it's all over, it's all over, all over
And all over America people are going home
On Thanksgiving Day

Now Papa looks out of the window
The sight brings a smile to his face
He sees all his children coming back home
Together on this special day

Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

-- Ray Davies

No Thanksgiving for You …

… if you don’t donate to the Movember fight against man cancer! My little friend here needs your help!

His face not blurry. It’s distorted by steam rising from the pot. Turkey chili. With free bread.

Mmm, mmm -- NO SOUP FOR YOU ‘TIL YOU DONATE!

Maybe you get him over the $1,000 mark, he sing Freddie Mercury song for you. He does good “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”

You want “Bohemian Rhapsody”?

TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!

Technorati Tags: Movember,health,grooming,Thanksgiving

Upcoming Tweets from @mrskutcher

This all confirms that CBS hired one “half man” to replace another.

Just took some nude photos of myself … with my new Canon PowerShot.

Valuable life lesson: What happens with a blonde tramp in the hot tub, doesn’t stay in either.

Yo @justinbieber! My invitation stands.

@aplusk The million $$ Redford gave me is not part of the pre-nup. It was a movie, moron.

Counseling with rabbi at Kabbalah Centre. Hope I properly used the words “schtup” and “schmuck.”

About last night … the tub shower is warm, wet and waiting for you once again, @RobLowe.

Finally! I can stop explaining how I survived growing up without social media.

# # #

Technorati Tags: demi moore,ashton kutcher,divorce,Twitter,social media,celebrities

Rage On, Regis Philbin, Rage On

The world is filled with love sweet love today for Regis Philbin, who will be retiring after long ago establishing himself as the pit bull of morning talk show hosts.

Not pit bull as in “vicious” or “mean.” As is in foaming at the mouth.

Drooling, really.

The man is like 147 years old.

He once interviewed Roosevelt.

Teddy Roosevelt.

Oh, everyone loves Reege. Even though he’s a terribly inept interviewer, I like the guy, too. Even after the time that he allegedly wanted to kick my ass.


At least that’s what Frank Gifford insinuated.

Frank Gifford. Hall of Fame football player. Sportscaster. Philandering husband of Kathie Lee Gifford, Reege’s former co-host.

Many lifetimes ago I was the reporter at a newspaper in a small-but-insanely-wealthy town. One day I proposed writing an article about the many celebrities who owned property there.

I combed through the property records in the town assessor’s office. Talked to some locals in the know. Stood on the main street and watched them pop into Starbucks and nosh at the local eateries.

Oooh, there’s Mel Gibson. And Diana Ross. And Ron Howard. And Frank and Kathie Lee. And, yep, Regis.

The article ran and, as with most things I wrote then and write now, I never heard a thing about it from anyone.

Until the next night.

As soon as I walked in, one of the guys in the sports department stopped me.

“Oh, man. Did I take a bullet for you today,” he said. “I got chewed out by Frank Gifford because of that article you wrote.”

He had called Frank, then in his post-football glory/pre-cheatin’ on Kathie Lee days, for comment on some local sports matter. Instead, he got an earful about how he couldn’t believe the newspaper would publish an article like mine.

People like him moved there to get away from the spotlight! (No, they want to be near New York City and other celebrities and live in posh mansions. Otherwise, North Dakota would be teeming with Kardashians and Baldwins. Besides, your wife talks about the town you live in every day. On NATIONAL TV!)

How dare we print what street he lived on! (Then don’t buy the land in your own name. It’s in the land records. Besides, I didn’t give the house number, the street is two miles long and it has dozens of other “estates” on it.)

Now the kicker.

“And he said it wasn’t just him who was upset,” the sports guy told me. “Regis was very upset, too.”

Regis.

Very upset.

With me?!

Reege, on this special day when the whole world is bowing at your feet and the media is falling over itself with weepy praise for you, can we just put this behind us? Can we? Because, man, …

Well?

What do you say?

Aww. Thanks, man.

Now get some rest.

And get me a shot at the seat next to Kelly Ripa. Rrrrrrowl.

Technorati Tags: Regis Philbin,television,entertainment

This One Has Teeth

I'm at the point in this mustache growing gig where I'm hesitant to leave the house for fear of having to make visual contact with others while having this THING on my face.

I’m even embarrassed to look you in the eyes.

However, venture forth I must. Today it was the dentist’s office for my semi-annual cleaning.

Whereas strangers I encounter who see this caterpillar orgy going on around my lips have no clue I don’t normally look like I’m auditioning for the part of Otto in a remake of A Fish Called Wanda …

… it’s a different story with my dental hygienist.

I see her only once every six months for maybe 20 minutes at a shot, but it’s possibly the most intimate relationship in my life outside of my marriage.

Think about: Would your partner ever floss you? Would you trust him or her to poke around your soft tissue  with a sharp metal object? No. Besides, it’s hard not to feel a certain bond with someone when you have little choice but to stare up into her pale blue eyes while she stares down at the tarter build-up on your No. 17 occlusal surface.

So no sooner does she sees me standing in the waiting room yesterday and it’s all “so what’s, uh, going on, uh with that” and lots of index finger circles around her mouth.

I lay out my tale and she’s at least amused if not confused. Trying to explain the connection between growing a mustache on one’s face and the health of one’s prostate (well, you know where that is) has that effect.

Then it’s sexy time. Scrap, floss and polish. The ol’ rinse and spit. Mmm, give me that good oral hygiene, one mo’ time.

When we finish, she calls in my dentist of nearly 20 years for a final review of my choppers. And my facial growth.

“Everything looks perfect, as usual,” she says. “Except for that mustache he brought in with him.”

I ran through the whole Movember scenario with him and well, let me sum it this way:

I left the dentist’s office today with three sample tubes of Sensodyne toothpaste for a finicky filling and $100 to support men’s health issues.

I also left with the knowledge that if I ever need to hire my own PR person, she’s going to wear powder blue scrubs, latex gloves and scent of Cool Mint Listerine very well.

* * *

Now it’s your turn. Donate now to help my mustache in this Movember fight against prostate cancer and other issues threatening men’s health.

Get the whole "Always Home and Uncool" experience: visit the website, follow on Twitter and like on Facebook .

Mid-week Mustache Update

It’s Day 9 and I’m wondering … does this mustache make me look fat?

Please donate to help fight prostate cancer and other health issues affecting men.

In fact donate now. I can’t suck in my gut like this for much longer.

Burning for the ‘Burn Notice’ Babe

To mark tonight’s season 6 premiere of Burn Notice on the USA Network, I’m giving away a 4-DVD set of Season 4 (which includes what I’m sure is the hysterical extra “Sam Axe’s Guide to Ladies and Libations”). Just leave a comment, any comment, at the end of this post and I’ll randomly select one winner next week around this time. I’ll give you two extra entries if you make a donation to my Movember Foundation page.

This photo raises so many questions.

Why is actress Gabrielle Anwar, who plays former IRA bomber Fiona on the spy show Burn Notice, standing next to My Love?

Better yet, where am I?

Drooling behind the camera?

On the floor, passed out and blind from seeing all this hotness in one place?

Standing dumbstruck after Gabrielle posed this question to me, “Is that a brick of C4 explosive in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

Sigh.

Alas, I was back here at home, tending to the dog and Things as I normally do. My Love was in Miami on business and Burn Notice happened to be filming in the hotel where she was staying.

Because she knows how I love that show (and lust after Ms. Anwar), she finagled a quick snap with her. Their brief conversation went something like this.

MY LOVE: My husband thinks you’re so hot.

MS. ANWAR: Oh, sweetie. Short, tight dresses and high heels have that effect.

MY LOVE: Damn you, Anwar.

MS. ANWAR: Smile for the camera!

So rather than an intimate brush with celebrity, I got this autographed photo of the cast that I can pose with for today’s Movember update.

Movember: Save a guy’s life with cash for my ‘stache

I'm in a bit of a hairy situation these days, you see.

No, really, do you see?

Look! It's right under your nose. I mean, MY nose. I'm growing what you would charitably call a mustache.

Or, to be exact, a mustache for charity.

Yes, friends, it is time again for those of us who are facial-hair inclined to change the month of November into "Movember," 30 days of growing lip sweaters to raise awareness of men's health issues.

Men’s health issues? Like what? Terminal beer gut? Remote control finger?

Turns out 1 in 2 men are likely to be diagnosed with some form of cancer in their life compared with 1 in 3 women.

While enormous amounts of pink are spilled annually publicizing breast cancer awareness for women, did you realize a man is 35% more likely to be diagnosed with prostate cancer than a woman is to be diagnosed with breast cancer?

I didn’t until last year when I first grew a soup strainer for Movember. That’s when you and others helped me contribute $1,300 to the fight against prostate and testicular cancers through the nonprofit Movember Foundation, which in 2010 raised more than $80 million.

This year, I’m at it again with a team of 50+, including again my partners in crime against fatherhood at DadCentric.com. I shaved late last night and now I again intend to put them to shame with my overt facial fuzziness.

Here’s what you can do help this worthy cause:

DONATE: Give a few bucks to support the growth between my nose and upper lip. Funds raised benefit the Prostate Cancer Foundation and LIVESTRONG - the Lance Armstrong Foundation.

JOIN IN: Whether you are facial hair proficient or not, you can join our team to raise funds and awareness.

(By the way, why “Movember”? According to legend, the movement started several years ago when a group of men gathered in an Australian pub decided to grow whiskers for a good cause. "Mo" is allegedly short for the "moustache." I've never actually heard that nickname used before, but I have seen enough Foster's Lager commercials to know those Australians have a different way of saying almost everything.)

Notable Number 47s in our House

Jesse Orosco, closer for 1986 World Series champion New York Mets.  

 Black 47, Celtic rock band.

And, don’t know how, but … me.

I only have one bone to pick – one of omission by the Babble Top 50 Dad Blog list folks.

When I was interviewed for this many months ago, the writer asked me, “Does your blog have any special recurring features?”

“Typos,” I replied.

(One other omission -- Homemaker Man’s Musings from the Big Pink not making the list. Friend, you wuz robbed!)

Thanks all of you for sticking with me and my typos, especially:

Those who take the time to comment or email, just once or on every post. I appreciate it, sincerely. Unless you are a spammer or incompetent PR intern. You know who you are.

The handful of local bloggers (and sadly, ex-bloggers) I’ve known from almost the get-go who I still consider my friends even when they abandon me in bars with drunken bisexuals.

The many bloggers I’ve meet and befriended, especially all the DadCentric guys – past and present, in these nearly four years. You all seem oddly normal and pleasant in real life. Or you fake it really well. Meh – I’ll take it either way.

The Things, who have provided so much material. And heartburn. Dad loves you for both.

Murphy, who forces me to get up from my computer to scratch his belly or open the back door for him. Mostly open the door. Every 6 minutes. You’re the uncool’s best friend, even if you become the only hairless Labrador retriever in the world.

And, most importantly, My Love for supporting my “work” and even when you can’t understand why I do it. And for supporting me financially. First rule of blogging: Don’t expect it to pay the bills. Second rule: Marry up.

Fiddle deee diddle deee deidely dee, indeed.

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes (and Beets and Radishes and …)

Autumn has descended upon our drenched New England-ish suburb with a cascade of sewage-colored leaves, ending a plentiful summer harvest that overflowed under temporary tents and makeshift stands filling roadsides and parking lots across our SUV-infested region.

Halle-effin-lujah!

I say that having marinated our garbage disposal, again, in lemon juice and baking soda to rid our kitchen of the stench of "fresh" beets and radishes.

At least beets and radishes are what I think those fuzzy little beasts were I found nuzzling the baby carrots. Thank science for cellophane. In another day or two, we might have unleashed a mutant root vegetable upon the world or, worse, another Republican candidate for president.

Don't misunderstand me. I love the idea of farmers' markets dotting our landscape. If you have the time, money and determination to browse them regularly in effort to eat only locally grown foods, I applaud you, but discretely and only when you out of earshot. Get some people talking about their all-natural, carbon-footprint-reducing ways and you soon understand why the word "locavore" is just two letters and a space removed from "loco bore."

Instead, my greatest concern with this green grocer revolution is keeping My Love far, far away from it.

In our barely dual-income family, she's the breadwinner and I'm the bread buyer. Circumstances reversed somewhat this summer, leaving my normally better-paid half with the need to occasionally help with my prior household duties, including the quest for food. So imagine my surprise when the woman I married, the one always quick to declare how she loathes shopping of all kinds, kept filling our home with crates of tomatoes and bushels of peppers, and buckets of ... well, I really don't know what those buckets of puce-colored things were.

"Oh, I stopped by the farmers' market," she'd say, looking proud of the bounty spread before her. "Everything looked so beautiful and fresh."

I'd agree. The acre of farmland produce and fruit spilling off our kitchen counter would look pretty and scrumptious. For about three days. That would be when I'd open a crisper drawer and pray that exposure to this organic and rapidly disintegrating goo I discovered inside didn't somehow trigger my lifelong allergy to penicillin.

I'm not averse to eating healthy. I do my best to avoid the salty, sugary and tasty evils of processed food when I can. Breakfast tends to consist of egg-white omelets or artery-unclogging oatmeal so long as a doughnut doesn't try to leap to its death down my gullet.

While My Love is normally a big proponent of moderation and portion control. However, when she  passes a farm-fresh stand of berries or squash she suddenly comes under the delusion that our home doubles as a way station for ravenous armies of vegan extremists.

"Oh, I'll just freeze it for later," is her standard reply to my dismay at the sight of our cupboards jammed with fresh reds, greens and yellows that I know inevitably become a fuzzy lot of spoiled grays, whites and blacks. Therefore, she freezes.

And freezes.

And freezes.

That's why when Tropical Storm Irene knocked out our power for three days, I rejoiced. Our light company’s failures were my success at blamelessly clearing the lower depths of the Frigidaire of another forgotten icy crop.

But what am I to do with all this room now that a chill is in the air?

If you are a dairy farmer interested in opening an all-natural ice cream market, please -- give me a holler.

Beer is a Many Splendored Thing

Today’s is National Beer Drinking Day.

I swear.

I heard it on the news this morning. They would never report on something this important if it wasn’t true.

Weapons of mass destruction in the Middle East, definitely, but never this.

There are many a day I enjoy a Tanqueray and tonic, too.

Sometimes, an icy Bombay Sapphire martini (up with a twist, please) does the trick, but only one – thank you.

In the summer, I dig lazing about with a mojito. Or perhaps, three. What can I say. I like mint.

But beer. Nectar of the gods, in all your hoppy, malty, flavorful incarnations. Thank you for the days. And nights. Not so much the belly, but I forgive you. Love takes work, and if loving you requires working out -- so be it.

So to you, I raise a glass. And you, too, friends – whether we’ve ever clinked glasses and tipped one back together or not.

Cheers!

The Sky is Still Falling

Latest word is that the satellite will crash sometime today.

Maybe tomorrow.

Somewhere between the Arctic and Antarctic circles.

Gee -- thanks, NASA!

Thanks to my loyal reader, Cheryl of Deckside Thoughts, for this classic Saturday Night Live sketch about Skylab that sorta reinforces the point of my last post.

Unfortunately, just not the point about sexy multi-boobed space aliens.

Have a safe weekend, friends.

The Sky is Falling

If you are reading this, plummeting space junk has not pulverized you. Yeah, you!

Earlier this week, NASA officials reported that a 6-ton atmospheric research satellite is tumbling to Earth at a roughly, oh, a gazillion miles per hour and could strike at any minute. I'm not surprised that this is news to you. The mass media have been oddly restrained considering the 12,000-pound mass of fiery death hurdling toward us. And these are people who whip up mass hysteria about far more improbable doomsday scenarios involving Mayan prophesies or a Michele Bachmann presidency.

Instead, the biggest topic on most news shows this past week was about was how Two and a Half Men killed off Charlie Sheen's character. If only the writers had him die under a school-bus sized hunk of molten titanium that dropped from the sky instead of being splattered by a plain ol' Parisian commuter train …

You think at least one broadcast would have dug up a "disaster expert" for us. There's only a few hundred of them out there, unshaven and panhandling, since Irene-ageddon. Think of the economic stimulus if we were all told to again have our "to go" bags ready, this time not just with a 7-day supply of Power Bars but Kevlar helmets and asbestos undies. Instead, the little the media did report consisted of statistics about how unlikely it is falling space-age metals will permanently dent your noodle. (For the record, the odds are 1 in 31 trillion, which is exactly the same chance of survival TV critics, gave Two and a Half Men … eight seasons ago.)

Contrast this to 1979. That's when word came that the space station Skylab would come crashing down. Church attendance rose. Media outlets offered rewards for recovered debris. One of my elementary school buddies and I, armed with binoculars and wearing plastic replica Major League Baseball batting helmets for protection, sat on the steps in my front yard, peering through the July leaf canopy looking for flaming streaks in the sky. This week, when my kids learned about the falling satellite, they couldn't even muster excitement over the possibility of a wayward chunk causing an early school dismissal.

This is all further proof of how bored Americans have become with outer space. After centuries of fantasizing about advanced civilizations with sexy multi-boobed aliens and living on Mars, we boldly went where no man has gone before and turned up … rocks and gases. As a result, this summer NASA put the Space Shuttle out of its misery and Hollywood hasn't considered putting a new "Star Trek" series on the tube in years.

Today, Gene Roddenberry turns in his grave; the rest of America just turns over and hit the snooze button.

Technorati Tags: satellite,NASA,crash,space

Seasonal Breakup

Dear Summer,

I'm so over you.

Maybe not physically. No -- definitely not, physically. I still yearn for your warmth. That's what happens when you thin your blood for three months with daily infusions that are three parts India pale ale and two parts avobenzone.

That will pass, though. I'll just continue to compensate by donning socks every waking moment, just as I have done this first post-Labor Day week. It's the first time I've had to do that since June. JUNE! Even though those leather sandals I bought this spring still have a good couple weeks of tread left, I'm willing to send them on a premature permanent vacation.

Speaking of near-death experiences ...

The minivan is in an annual state of seasonal disaster that's even worse than usual, thanks to you. Your enormous tropical disturbances and steamy jet stream waters last month sent us packing two days and an entire case of beer early from the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Two adrenaline-stoked adults, two exhausted children and one confused Labrador retriever speeding off a barrier island at the ungodly August hour of 5 a.m. Then, 10 hours later, we arrive back at our Connecticut home only to discover, via an iPhone app, that the little dotted line projecting Hurricane Irene's eye shows her passing all of two miles from our house.

That was the last straw. For every pleasant yin you brought a much darker yang, my former friend.

Those picturesque afternoons and evenings on the back deck, sharing a cocktail or bite with family and neighbors? It was a sneak attack on my arteries and belly. You and your savory grilled meats, aromatic cheeses and sweet, sweet mojitos. I'm feeling my bad cholesterol level rising at the thought of that misbehavior you encouraged. My wife and son aren't happy about the golf-ball size welts your little winged terrorists left on their legs and arms, either.

The free tickets fate handed us to experience the many rides at that amusement park? They came with intolerable summer road repair standstills on I-84 and almost equally long waits inside. As for your other promised entertainments, those overpriced, underwritten 3-D family movies you pumped out every weekend ... promises not kept, ex-pal o’ mine.

The weeks of relaxation at home while our tween did sleepaway camp upstate? Ended early in an infected big toe and a nasty infestation of head lice. Sure, my thinning locks escaped the little critters, but just who do you think had to delouse the rest of the clan for an hour or so every day? For two weeks straight!

Summer, I'm going to hold a grudge against for you for some time.

At least until it stops raining.

And I get around to finally shoveling out the minivan. That's when I'm sure I'll start finding all those unintentional souvenirs you left behind.

The crumpled parking passes to the minor league baseball games.

The seemingly infinite grains of sand from along Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean.

The X-ed out sheets from the many rounds of travel bingo (how is it we never found a "bird on a wire"?).

The receipts from Gopher Ice Cream and Rita's Ice.

The collection of tiny pencils from golf courses both big and miniature.

Ghostly zinc oxide fingerprints from children and their pals.

All right, Summer, you had your moments.

Same time, next year … right?

Your friend,

Un

Run Awaaaaaaaay

Playing the waiting game on Banks o’ Carolina as Irene blows down in the Caribbean. Meanwhile, I’ve written a little back-to-school diddy for all of you moms and dads over on DadCentric today. While I contemplate evacuation route options, read how the piece starts and then maybe click to read a little more:

Meet the New Math

Remember when you climbed on the bus for the first day of a new school year then you'd turn your head to see your parents fighting back the tears?

Now, as a parent yourself, you know that feeling.

Joy.

Pure, unfiltered, fully leaded joy.

As soon as that bus escapes view … (read more at DadCentric)

I’m Still With the Band

I would have loved to been at BlogHer in San Diego today but, you know, I had a gig in the city last night.



Why, since this is my second time being plucked out of the audience to perform with the legendary Fountains of Wayne, do I look so determined and serious?

1. I had about 5 fewer Sierra Nevada Pale Ales under my belt this time.
2. I was trying hard to resist singing along since I know My Love was close enough to capture my vocal stylings or lack there of.
3. I’m trying very hard not to pay attention to what the woman in the skimpy outfit on my right has going on. Trying. Very. VERY. HARD.

I must have looked terrified coming off stage. The guy working security offered me and no one else a bottle of Poland Springs from the band’s private stash.

Which I took and finished.

I plan to convert it into my own FoW shaker for next time …

UPDATED: I stumbled upon this online recently. Famed rock critic Robert Christgau was at this show and I have the distinction of having my performance reviewed by him:

"Unbeknownst to their doubters, Fountains of Wayne write real love songs, too. On one of the perkiest, "Hey Julie," Schlesinger rounded up four audience members to play percussion, three of them women - the boy-girl ratio in FOW's audience is better than most. Rhythmically, let's say the four held their own. But what was more impressive is that without mikes they sang along as loud as they could. They sang along about the creep with the bad toupee who orders the narrator around all day. And they sang along about how Julie helps him make it through. No satire whatsoever, I swear.
-- MSN Music, August 13, 2011"


When I play with them on Letterman, naturally.

Goin’ Postal

Call it emailer's remorse, but I feel partially responsible for the U.S. Postal Service's billions of dollars in annual losses, especially since it may now result in the closing of a post office in my hometown.

Yet I will carry on, like any real American, and blame the messenger.

A few Aprils ago, I stood in line with dozens of others to send our long forms and short hairs to the Internal Revenue Service. Behind the counter, a clerk became increasingly frustrated with explaining the difference between certified mail, registered mail and delivery confirmation to every single person who came up to her.

"When was the last time a letter you sent got lost?" she finally let loose to one patron. "It's going to get there. It gets there every other day of the year. Why do you think it's not going to get there today?"

The only such incident I recalled in my life was about 10 years earlier when a friend of mine never received a Christmas package I sent. I had addressed it to her house, so it was possible the mail carrier left it on her doorstep and a gang of seasonal thieves snatched it before she got home from work. All I need to prove that theory is to find a medium-build female crook wearing a powder blue "What the Duck?" novelty T-shirt while using a Signals' catalog star scope to locate the constellation Corona Borealis (literally, "boring Mexican beer").

Once I tried to frame the mail service. I told a college girlfriend I was trying to break up with over the summer that her letter to me never arrived. Turns out she knew something about postal operations and had the delivery traced to my mailbox.

We dated for another five months.

Meanwhile, back at the counter, here was an obviously loyal Postal Service worker -- one who believed in the competency and efficiency of her employer -- actually trying to talk people out of giving her employer money it desperately needed.

You had to admire her honesty if not her total lack of business savvy.

When my turn came, naturally she was my clerk.

"You've convinced me," I said. "Mail these tax forms and my check first-class, period. I trust you."

"That's what I'm talking about, baby," she said.

Then she asked if I wanted to purchase the latest commemorative stamp sheet of dead people.

I regretfully declined her offer, but today it has me thinking.

What else can the Postal Service do in its hour of need besides try to convince people to pay for services they usually don't need?

That's right: Capitalize on financially lucrative children's fads.

I don't know a single person who collects stamps, but the Things are always hounding me for the latest trendy "collectible" that they'll discard in six months.

WebKinz stuffed animals, then the WebKinz archrival, the NeoPets.

Pokemon cards and Bakugan tops.

Briefly, it was Silly Bandz, which are colorful rubber bracelets in the shape of animals or objects -- one of which, naturally, is a dollar sign. We have a few thousand of these regularly clogging up vacuum cleaners and plumbing (usually the dog’s).

Whatever the next Pet Rock is, the U.S. Postmaster General immediately needs to put its likeness onto postage stamps. Cha-CHING! Instant revenue in the USPS's coffers as parents and grandparents must fork it over or face ear-splitting tantrums.

Also, just think of the economic ripple effect it will have on our country's ailing tweezers and magnifying glass industries.

BlogHer for Hims, Too

If the men who attend BlogHer are a pathetic lot,
you should see the ones who attend internet porn conventions.
- James Griffioen, Sweet Juniper

* * *

The social media world is buzzing -- or in hipper circles, Google +ing -- about BlogHer ‘11 scheduled to take place in San Diego August 4 to 6.

(NOTE #1: I say '”scheduled” because I learned to always hedge your words against  postponement due to plane crash, tsunami or outbreak of cold sores.)

“Are you going?”

“What parties are you attending?”

“Did you buy any cute new shoes?”

“Can you believe they picked her as a Voice of the Year and not moi?”

Gossipsnipesqueeeeeeeelbitchsqueeeeeel!!

And that’s just the men who are going.

Men?!

MEN!!??

(Interlude: DramaDramaDramaDrama)

First, thanks for recognizing vaginally challenged BlogHer attendees as “men.” Tiny gestures like that matter.

(NOTE #2: Don’t refer to that particular defining feature as “his tiny gesture.” Least not within ear shot.)

For you newbies and don’t-really-cares, every year a handful of the penile-impaired brave the unpredictable sea of estrogen known as the BlogHer blogging conference. On occasion, these men cause a stir either purposefully or by others overtly fawning over their dangling bits.

Having been at BlogHer ‘10 in NYC last year, and being what some loosely call a “man,” though the record shows I’m clearly more just “a guy,” I have reached the following conclusion on this controversy:

Ladies and dudes, get over yourselves.

It’s a blogging conference.

Not Middle East peace negotiations.

Not the G7 Summit.

Definitely not Charlie Sheen’s mansion despite the abundance of goddesses from the writing and professional world all about.

What BlogHer boils down to, for all its “let’s chant ‘female empowerment rah rah rah’ until it is totally meaningless” foundations, is a social and networking event.

Just a big-assed one.

(NOTE #3: The phrase “big assed” shouldn’t be used anywhere near BlogHer or its attendees. I seriously don’t have to explain why.)

That’s how I viewed BlogHer ‘10 when I attended as one of the few and proud Members with a Member Brigade.

I went to meet new people, connect with others I already knew online, listen to what attendees and speakers had to say and have a good time. I also had a mission to spread the word about a good cause that needed people’s help, but that’s my burden in life.

Yeah, yeah -- the target audience is women and I’m not one.

However, I don’t kid myself. My blog subject matter and reader demographics (as well as my friendships and this sexy at-home lifestyle I lead) tends to overlap with this crowd. 

Besides, I always stay up to date on my Cootie shots.

Anyway, I came (no, My Love, no! I “went” – I definitely only “went”!), I saw, I mingled and BlogHer well met my expectations.

With the exception of the “women and humor writing” panel, which turned into a Comedy Central Roast of oppressive honky dinosaurs (and that Polite Fictions guy who risked his balding melon to ask a respectful question), nearly every panel I attended and discussion I had with attendees about blogging, writing and life applied as easily to men, dads and humanistic space aliens as well as women.

That’s not pathetic. That’s good bang for the buck.

(NOTE #4: Banging in exchange for bucks, extra Mr. Potato Head doll swag or other forms of currency, even Canadian, did not take place at BlogHer ‘10 to the best of my knowledge. I’m also sure the conference organizers neither encourage nor endorse such things.)

I won’t be at BlogHer this year. Opposite side of the country, cash flow issues, Thing 1 has a JM doc appointment, etc. However, if you are going, let me offer one piece of advice:

Have fun, but act like a grown-up not an asshat.

That applies regardless of your Klout score, page views or your gender.

Technorati Tags: blogher,blogher '11,blogging

Brief Observations on Summer Camp 2011

One Thing is having fun.

The other, not so much.

Take Me to the Bridge

Thanks for putting up with me this week. It’s gotten better, including two new freelance writing assignments to fill the time and bank account while My Love pounds the pavement looking for a new job.

Just a quickie before the weekend and some real posts next week:

• Congrats to our two giveaway winners: Julianna from Surviving Boys won the free tickets to Lake Compounce amusement park while the irrepressible Cheryl from Deckside Thoughts gets to lust after Matt Bomer on DVD with the White Collar: The Complete Second Season collection.
• One more DVD giveaway for fans of another popular USA Network TV series coming next week – this one comes with a real-life celeb sighting and shoulder rubbing by My Love. Trust me, I was very jealous. And turned on.
• I have a video post from Conan O’Brien’s crew today as a “Friday Fun” post at DadCentric: Team Coco presents ‘American Dadiators.’ I also explain what the proper term is for ‘love handles’ when they are on a woman.
• Thanks to Neil at Citizen of the Month who was the first to recommend the Uncools do the Capilano Suspension Bridge in Vancouver when we were up there two weeks back. The fam is all smiles on the return trip across it in the above photo, but they were soiling themselves on the way over. More on that later.

Let’s take it in the weekend optimistically, then. Hit it, Old 97’s:

No ‘White Collar’ Crime to Give You Free DVDs

Good news today – no disasters, thefts or near poisonings. Murphy even got a paws up from the doggie dermatologist.

Let’s celebrate, doggie style, with another giveaway of one of Murphy’s favorite TV shows.

The fine folks of Fox Home Video found out I have a thing for many of the original series on the USA Network, so they asked me to give one of you a 4-DVD set of White Collar: The Complete Second Season, a show about a former con man helping the FBI in New York City.

White Collar has a little bit of everything.

Good guy crime fighter Peter Burke (Tim DeKay) with a sense of humor and, for one glorious episode, a bad-ass mustache.

Suave ex-art forger Neal Caffrey (Matt Bomer) with a penchant for retro clothing and a quest. He must balance the moral dilemma of wanting justice to avenge the death of his ex-girlfriend while also contemplating making one last big score. I can neither confirm nor deny that he is loosely modeled on another Neil from New York.

Goofy and lovable sidekick Mozzie (Willie Garson) who practices Zen and the art of the con. Definitely based on a lawyer I know.

Exotic lesbian federal agent Diana (Marsha Thomason) who occasionally has to go undercover as a hetero hooker and/or model. (Really, what mom blogger out hasn’t done all that at one time or another, right? Once? In college?)

Token dude Clinton Jones (Sharif Atkins) who really should have a bigger role in the show but instead spends most of it in the surveillance van. In the above photo, I think he has The Rev. Al Sharpton on the phone.

And Tiffani Thiessen.

Sigh.

Oh, she plays Elizabeth, the FBI’s guy wife, but that’s not important because I’ve had a thing for her since …

… she played goody-two-shoes Kelly Kapowski on all those dreadful Saved by the Bell series. (I was in college with a lot of time between classes, people.)

Then again when she played bad bad girl on Beverly Hills 90210.

Or later as the object of desire of The Ladies Man (a highly underrated SNL movie spinoff, mind you).

The lady is versatile.

And totally smokin’. Almost as much as My Love. I sense a Baby Burke on the way next season.

Oh, why is White Collar Murphy’s favorite show?

Because the Burkes have one lovable bear of a yellow Lab named Satchmo.

Who gets to follow around Tiffani Thiessen like so.

Sigh.

All righty, nearly the same rules as yesterday’s Lake Compounce amusement park ticket giveaway:

• Leave a comment by 8 a.m., Friday, July 15. Any comment will do, but if you have a White Collar crush, confess!
• Include a working email address when you fill out the comment form so I can contact you if you win.
• Be a citizen of Earth. I’m in a better mood today, so even if you are Glenn Beck, you qualify.

One winner to be picked at random. Others will be humped by the dog.

Let Me Amuse You With My Misery

I don’t delude myself. I know most of you come here for a grin and giggle, not to be impressed by:

• my profound insights (you’re smiling already, yes?),
• my clever turn of phrase (look, if you must roll on the floor in laughter, please do so over the muddy paw prints by the door), or
• my dazzling use of metaphor, allusion and other terms you have most likely not thought about since you wrote your last English literature term paper (this was only a few weeks ago for this reader and this one, so they are excused for reading my blog as a way to purge their brains of all intellectual thought before summer break).

However, I’m not feeling all fun and games these days. Oh, let me count the ways:

1. Within 10 minutes of stepping foot in Seattle for our recent Cure JM conference/vacation, Thing 2 left not only his iPod Touch but also his beloved Nintendo DS and some 20 games for it on the airport shuttle train. Even he could do the math on that. In short, a grainy security camera stlll of yours truly might now be pinned to a corkboard hanging in the Seattle-Tacoma International’s TSA office with a note to “Approach with Caution. And Mace.”
2. Returned from said “vacation” to find our house had been broken into. Luckily, the biggest thing stolen was a huge jar of loose change. Unluckily, the only other thing stolen was Thing 1’s piggy bank. Which contained $100. Which she received from relatives as an elementary school graduation gift.
3. In the mail pile that collected during said “vacation,” I received a jury duty notice. All I’ll say is that on August 17, someone in the criminal justice system may be very sorry our state didn’t do away with capital punishment.
4. Speaking of death, our dog Murphy is apparently suicidal. Last month, he ate a bowl of grapes. Yesterday, because our Lab abhors subtly, he chowed down a block of rat poison. I happened along shortly after both incidents and did what I do best – made him puke his ever-loving guts out. It’s a talent.

The list goes on but I’m depressing myself. Maybe I’ll detail it more online (I will most definitely give you the scoop in person if you buy me a beer because I’m just a loose-lipped harlot for the hops as you know), but as of right now I need a little happy in my life and if it can’t be me, why not one of you. Hence:

LET ME GIVE YOU STUFF!

A brilliant PR company (i.e., one that actually read my blog and put a few things together) has offered to let me give one lucky reader

4 FREE PASSES to
Lake Compounce amusement park
in Bristol, Connecticut

Lake Compounce is the oldest continuously operating amusement park in North America, having started in 1846. (I know you folks are used to my typos, but I did really type one-eight-four-six.)

It is home to Boulder Dash, which has been voted the world’s No. 1 wooden roller coaster and is liked even by the stodgy New York Times. Lake Compounce even has Connecticut’s largest water park (no, not Long Island Sound -- we have to share that with, you know, Lawn Guylanders).

The park is a gem from what I hear from friends and I’ve read online.

That’s right. I’ve never been.

Not that I didn’t want to go and give you a firsthand review.

I tried to go last week with the Things and My Love and the four free tickets the PR folks gave me to use, but 30 minutes sitting in a traffic accident on I-84 made me turn back.

And yes, you may add that to the list.

Anyway, here’s da rules:

• Leave a comment by 8 a.m., Friday, July 15. Any comment will do. I’m easy. Duh. (If you want to comment, but don’t live any where near Bristol or don’t want tickets, just say so.)
• Include a working email address when you fill out the comment form so I can contact you if you win.
• Be a citizen of Earth. So unless you are Michele Bachmann or Rick Santorum, you qualify.

I’ll pretend to give an extra entry if you like the “Always Home and Uncool” Facebook page, which occasionally includes bonus photos, links, bon mots and extra moanin’ and a-bitchin’ from me.

One winner will be picked at random. As will my nose.

My Son, The Dancing Machine

Our city’s afterschool program holds a year-end event to celebrate the children, raise funds and give thanks for another 9 months without one of its supervisors being carted off in a straight jacket. This is good.

Unfortunately, there is also a “show.”

The kids in each elementary school’s program put on a skit. Some years the skits relate to a theme like cultural diversity, saving the environment or the Sarbanes–Oxley Act of 2002 (we have lots of corporate financiers in these here parts). The subject doesn’t really matter because the show usually takes place in an auditorium as cavernous as Sarah Palin’s brain cavity. In addition, the auditorium features minimal on-stage sound amplification and an audience consisting of a horde of baby brothers and sisters screaming for Sippy Cups while their parents whisper loudly to one another, "What are they saying up there?”

This year’s show was just as inscrutable, especially the section featuring the Things. We believe it had something to do with fire prevention and MC Hammer.

The highlight of this incoherentness was our son, Thing 2, shaking his booty like his 9-year-old life depended on it. Let’s go to the videotape:

Apparently, the boy is born to boogie. While emptying his backpack one night, My Love and I found a “birthday book” his classmates had put together for him. These are just four of the comments:

 

NOTE: These are all from girls. Uncool’s son has got it goin’ on!

Then there was the report card conference I had with his teacher. The boy is an excellent student, good classmate and “quite the dancer,” she said. “And he’s so serious about it.”

When asked about his passion for the disco floor, Thing 2 declined comment for this post. Instead, he thought he’d just show you:

(Sorry. YouTube won’t let me embed the video because it uses a licensed song, so go to http://youtu.be/HBpVmdtCjxA to view it.)