Of Minivans and Men

NOTE: The legendary Minivan of Manliness -- as of this past December -- 'tis no more. Fifteen years and nearly 170,000 miles -- all in good service. Well, mostly good. Things got a little hairy those last few years. Various battery/electrical issues, wonky doors and a strange penchant for developing flat tires on long journeys: college trip to Baltimore, the night we moved -- seriously, drove three hours in the pouring rain and next day, flat as my singing voice; and, lastly, on the interstate the day I was driving to the dealer to test drive a new car. It's nice one of us knew when our time was up.

Here's a piece I wrote about the ol' girl back in 2008 for DadCentric.

Of Minivans and Men

Whrrrrrr -- CHUNK. Whrr -- CHUNK-CHUNK.

Hmmmm, I mused. The garage door track could have shaken loose from the ceiling again. Let's punch in that remote code two, neigh, three more times to be sure.

Whrrrrrr -- CHUNK. Whrr -- CHUNK-CHUNK.

Frickity-frick on a frickin' stick.

I had left the minivan tailgate open while it was inside the closed garage. Now the arm extending from the roller chain to the door was welded into the gate. 

Life Hands You Quarantine, Make Quaran-tini

Tomorrow, I find a restaurant with a huge outdoor patio and indulge in a fresh, hot burger and fries. And, definitely, a cold draft beer. At minimum, I’ll go get a haircut.

That’s how I plan to celebrate the end of my state imposed, 14-day self-quarantine for the high crime of vacationing in a COVID-19 hotspot even though while there I didn’t go out for a burger or a beer or anything vaguely vacationy beyond sitting on the spacious beach beyond our rental’s back deck for hours and hours. I won’t name the location to protect the many conspiracy theorists who permanently live there, but I’ll offer hints. It’s a state where:

• face masks only became required in public settings in late June,
• indoor dining is allowed at 50 percent capacity, and
• the riskiest behavior I undertook was showing my Blue State issued driver’s license to the Good Ol’ Boy behind the register at the ABC store.

And Piles to Go Before I Sleep

Write what you know, they say, which is what I’m doing as I wedge this post in between today’s fourth and 45th load of laundry.

Life may be short but laundry is eternal when you have two teens involved in things such as high school sports and taking a bazillion Snapchat photos of themselves, the latter of which requires changing outfits like spastic cable remotes change channels. Which reminds me of an old joke:

Chain-Reaction Letters I Never Sent

Dear Connecticut Light & Power Company,
Thank you for sending the crew to trim trees in my neighborhood. As you know by the repeated angry phone calls, our block has a tendency to lose electricity whenever someone in the vicinity sneezes too violently. However, the twigs your crew snipped off could barely take out a chipmunk let alone a power line.

Dear People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA),
I do not endorse the bludgeoning of chipmunks but to put your furry-minded minds at ease before I snap, I suggest you come immediately and liberate every little Alvin, Simon and Theodore residing in the Swiss cheese they have made of my lawn. If I were you (but I'm not because I consider cheeseburgers an essential food group), for added critter safety I would also put all the Chip and Dales from the surrounding properties into WITSEC.

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.

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

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:

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.

The Uncool Sell Out

After much consideration and consternation, I have decided to sell the massive assets of “Always Home and Uncool.”

This site will now be run by KRP Communications Inc., a Hoboken, N.J.-based public relations firm that in the last several months has won me over with their endless email pitches for life-changing products aimed at you, my 42 semi-loyal readers.

From now on, KRP Communications will pimp their clients’ wares and host giveaways on this site for such amazing items as:

ENVYSPERM - A groundbreaking new nonprescription formula growth and conditioning serum for fuller, longer and stronger little swimmers. Endorsed by Jim Bob Duggar!

MY BEAUTIFUL MOMMIES – The groundbreaking new children’s book on plastic surgery among lesbian parents. “Plastic surgery among married lesbians, especially the lipstick variety, is very popular and becoming a common reality. Cosmetic surgery can be a difficult topic to understand for people who get all their news from Fox, and even more so for children who can’t understand why mom’s fun bags are now the size of basketballs,” said author Dr. Mickey Schlock. “I wanted to provide my female lesbian type patients with a tool, to coin a phrase, that speaks to kids in a kid-friendly way. I kid you not.” 

THE GETTHEE2ABAR METHOD PREGNANCY DVD – Developed and perfected by drunken singles all over the world, the GetThee2ABar Method is the proven way to get knocked up without really trying! Britney Spears and her little sis, Jamie Lynn, swear by it!

Why did I sell my blog? Let me share with you the cunning insight that  KRP CEO, Kathleen R. Plotzwit, recently passed on to me:

“Hi Mr.,

We love your blog! Especially that post about your kids! They say/do the darned things, don’t they? I wouldn’t know – I’m barren.

Would you be interested in running this photo of Cocoon: The Return star Steve Guttenberg standing next to an unidentified dog that is standing next to our client’s product? Let me know if you want me to send you hi-res images and/or Steve Guttenberg in a shiny, short wet suit.”

How can I continue to fight that kind of tenacity, drive and determination to give you what you didn’t even know you needed? I mean, Steve Freakin’ Guttenberg!

Have a nice life, friends! Come visit me on the Riviera!

Technorati Tags: April Fools,blogging,adversiting,media,PR,Steve Guttenberg

Get the whole "Always Home and Uncool" experience: visit the website! Dare to share! Tweet, Facebook this post now.

I’m Your Daddy Blog: Some Shameless Self Promotion

I’ve been nominated to be in the Circle of Moms website’s list of Top 25 Daddy Blogs. All I need is for you to vote for this li’l ol’ blog once day from now until April 5.

All it takes is a click. No registering, no giving your bank account number to a Nigerian prince’s exiled daughter, nothing. Just go to my Circle of Moms Top 25 Daddy Blogs page and click the “Votes” logo once a day.

Oh, sure, I could throw a fit about being called a “daddy blog” (How pejorative! How condescending to my gender! How I need a life!), but what the hey – no other big-time “parenting” websites ever look to promote me and my fellow weenie wielders (I’m eye-balling you, Babble.com) despite our devotion to our kids, such as teaching the next generation the Zen of armpit flatulence sounds.

So it’s an honor just to be nominated. However, I’d much rather win.

Therefore, vote for me!

Read my lips! No new taxes! Except on telemarketers and bad PR pitches to bloggers!

Pot in every chicken; a band in every garage!

Tippecanoe was Uncool, too!

Etc. Etc. So on and so forth.

You’ve come a long way, blogosphere. Now give us daddies some love … and votes.

Technorati Tags: circle of moms,top 25 daddy blogs,blogging,parenting,fathers,dads,blogs

I’ll Give You a Free Press

Want revenge on the local Chinese restaurant that’s always stuffing menus under your windshield wiper?

Then you need some flyers to plaster on its storefront window that say “Dim Sum Of This, Bozo!”

Tired of all those negative ads politicians have been mailing you every day this election season?

Well, you should send them back some tactfully designed postcards featuring mooning garden gnomes.

These and many more practical and less sophomoric things can be accomplished with the help of one of my generous advertisers, NextDayFlyers.com. They also do cool business cards and charming greeting cards but that doesn’t make for entertaining reading for you, now does it?

IT’S A GIVEAWAY, CONTEST, A FREEBIE!

As proof of their blind faith in me as a means to their ends, they are letting me give one of you fair Uncoolniks a $25 printing credit good for anything they sell online. Here’s the rules, you need to:

• Be at least 18 years of age.
• Leave a comment, any comment, on this post.
• Be hungry like the wolf. Or at least a bit peckish.

That’s it. Winner will be announced in one week’s time.

Disclosure: Duh, these folks bought ad space on my blog. This giveaway was part of our agreement. They offered me a printing credit, too, but I’m passing solely because they were nice enough to buy ad space. Makes me feel like less of a status symbol and more of a man.

* * *

Please don’t forget to vote today and every day through the end of the month to help Cure JM win a $250,000 Pepsi Refresh grant. We need to hold on to the  No. 2 until Sept. 1 to win the money. If you can, also vote for these other great kids’ causes we are supporting.

Back to my self-imposed Blogger Rehab. Watch for more special guests Friday and Monday.

Certifiable

“From this point on, My Love, you shall refer to me as your husband, the Award-Winning Sports Columnist.”

“Hmm?” she grunted over her coffee.

“I want to now be introduced to people as your husband, the Award-Winning Sports Columnist. And please note -- the inflection of my voice indicates that last phrase should be capitalized.”

“But you don’t write a sports column?”

“I wrote one. The one about buying beer at a minor league baseball game at 10:30 in the morning. That was good enough for the Connecticut Society of Professional Journalists.”

“That counts?”

“Yes, it ‘counts.’ And please note – the inflection of my voice indicates that last word is in quotes.”

“Aren’t the people who really write about sports every day going to be mad at you?”

“Their sportswriters. Think Oscar Madison! Ray Romano! At worst, I could toss a few hot dogs one way to distract them then run.”

“If you don’t pull a hamstring. And yes,” she said, “I noted the inflection of your voice indicated italicizing the word ‘sportswriters.’”

“Har har har! Can’t you let me revel? For once my work received actual recognition. In fact, smarty, two of my other columns also won honorable mentions.”

“Honorable mentions?” she said. “Those are real awards?”

* * *

A few days later, I walked into the part of the house known only to the IRS as my office to see the gift of guilt left to me by a certain wife:

I called My Love over, put my arm around her and we soaked in the soothing glow of compact fluorescent lights on imitation vellum.

“So,” I asked, “how’s it feel to be married to a real trophy husband?”

“They’re only paper certificates.”

“Bite me, sweetie.”

* * *

Congratulations to my fellow-dads-in-crimes-against-literature, otherwise known as the usual gang of idiots over at DadCentric.

Whit, Warren, TwoBusy, The Holmes, Jason, Greg, Croutonboy and I were recently cited by Parents magazine for stringing together one of its “favorite daddy blogs.”

That crack the writer made about “the mundane”? Pretty sure it’s directed at my contributions.

Bite me, sweetie.

Best Father’s Day Gifts Ever (if you really hate a dad)

The Always Home and Uncool inbox has been overflowing of late with marketing and PR e-mails purporting to contain great gift ideas for dads this upcoming Father’s Day. However, these products are not so great as to cause the manufacturer’s advertising department to wire even the tiniest amount of money into my PayPal account in exchange for the publicity. Hence, they will now get what they pay for:

Male performance ‘shapewear’

Nothing says, “Dad, I love you,” like the gift of Spanx for men. Now, I know what the undershirt and underwear are trying to lift and separate, but what’s with the $45 socks? Are they bionic? Do they take out the recycling or walk the dog?

Lounge chairs for your bed

Though this looks far more useful than the 83 throw pillows we currently have on our bed, a few points need to be raised:

1. If you are trying to sell this as a gift for dads (at just $220!), what’s with the photo of the woman using it? Is she included or just an optional feature?

2. And why the hell is she wearing my $45 performance socks?

A ‘Mommy Makeover’

OK, this PR pitch I received about pimping a South Carolina plastic surgeon who wants to help moms get back their pre-baby bodies via boob jobs, tummy tucks and general Heidi Montag-ization wasn’t explicitly labeled as a Father’s Day gift idea. But how else can you explain it being sent to me – a dad blogger with one perfect honey of a wife – during early June? Oh, right – stupidity.

‘Intelligent’ toothbrushes

What message does this send a guy? You embarrass me with your unsightly plaque? You’re too dumb to master up and down, not side to side?

And now a gift that a dad might really like – no kidding:

If you have a dad in your life who likes a good book, let me recommend one to you: Sugar Milk: What One Dad Drinks When He Can’t Afford Vodka by Ron Mattocks, who some of you may know in the blogosphere as the guy with a Coldplay fixation who also writes Clark Kent’s Lunchbox.

Even though I have met Ron and his vastly superior wife, Ashley, and he has vaguely helped raise some cash for and awareness of Cure JM for me, the man has never asked me to plug his book. The bastard wouldn’t even send me a freebie copy to review. If I sent him the copy I bought -- at full retail price, mind you -- I’m sure he’d expect me to cover the return postage.

With that disclosure out of the way, let me say Ron wrote a very amusing book about his struggles with unemployment, divorce, computer dating and being a stepdad to two clever little girls who need to be properly compensated with heaps of homemade pancakes (made with fresh milk, you cheap so-and-so) for providing him with so much funny material. I laughed, I giggled, I shot good beer out of my nose.

Ron – you make us dad bloggers proud.

Tune in Friday to learn what I’m giving My Love and The Things for Father’s Day.

Technorati Tags: Father's Day,fathers,dads,gifts,books

Finally Home and, Uh, You Know the Rest

Our odyssey has ended.

The power is back on. No longer will my woman be cold and my beer warm. Well, I can guarantee you the beer.

Spent Tuesday night burying those who did not survive The Big Thaw. Pity the poor salmon that first gave their lives to be made into frozen Costco burger patties for me, only to go soggy and squishy in a poorly iced Coleman cooler. To never know the joy of being grilled then slathered in homemade tartar sauce. You should try it sometime.

Wednesday spent with chainsaw in hand and 911 on speed dial. As you can tell by my typing, I still have 10 thumbs masquerading as fingers.

Yesterday was scrubbing and brushing and rubbing. Then after I got out of the shower ...

I'm wiped out and not in the usual hazy, post-St. Patrick's Day way a man of my vague Irish heritage tends to be. My liver is grateful, though. My joints, not so much.

I'll be back at full speed next week, assuming they finally reopen school and I can pry the Things hands from off each others' necks. Ah, sibling bonding.

Meanwhile, enjoy the wicked organ work in this fitting musical Odyssey.

Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na


Video: Mike Doughty, "Put It Down"

Still Powerless (and Gamey)

The lights remain off at Uncool Estates, however, we have found refuge in several places with an abundance of outlets and a tolerance for smelly patrons: namely, the public library, the mall and a few generous friends. Given this, a few observations from me:

• The TP at the library is far kinder and gentler than the see-through, one-ply stuff at the local Barnes & Noble "superstore." Super, my sore ass.
• This finding explains why our library is always in debt. Previously, I had thought its problem with excessive spending on paper products was about buying too many copies of the latest Jackie Collins novels.
• The library is definitely not spending its money on computer monitors. This one I'm working one looks like it fell off the back of a truck. 
• A truck delivering IBM PC Jrs.
• If dropped naked in the middle of the desert, the Things would die not of dehydration, starvation or sun exposure. Within 3 hours, they would keel over from lack of electricity, their thumbs flicking reflexively for their missing Nintendo DS Lites.

That's all for me now. If you want something fun to read in the meantime, please head over to Polite Fictions, a collaborative fiction blog I write for with some really talented folks.

This go round, we are doing "The Alphabet of Regret." We each take a letter then choose a subject accordingly: autism, breakdown, cowboys, etc. When my turn came up last week, I -- being the Ringo Starr of this band of bloggers -- went all Octopus's Garden/Yellow Submarine on them and wrote:

F is for Femme Fatale, a cautionary tale about mixing religion, revenge and, um, bondage.

Fiction, people, it's fiction.

Can I Get an AAAAAAAAAAH, Man?

Remember how hard I was working this year to yell less at my kids?

I blew it all last night.

It felt good and I won’t apologize about it.

The day started so promising. Ran two miles. Had two good cups of coffee from two different stores. Pleasant experience dealing with the bank over an ATM issue. Collection of appreciative birds eating at the feeder outside my office window.  Me and Murphy met the Things at school and we walked home in the unusually warm early March sunlight. Thing 2 and I had our first game of catch for the year out in the front yard. I helped Thing 1 spend her birthday money (and then some) online on a decent first camera that – yes, sweetie -- is in the pink color you wanted.

Then around dinnertime all hell broke loose.

Someone’s touching someone else. Someone’s bothering me when I’m trying to do something. I can’t do this with that one here. I won’t leave because that one wants to do something here. She drooled on my special blanket! He pushed me in the stomach! But you said. But mom said. But blah blah blah.

I tried reasoning.

I tried sending them to their rooms.

Motherflucker, I tried enough.

Laws were laid down and consequences spelled out at Who-concert volume.

Lips curled. Tears fell.

Yet no one has said, “I’m sorry.”

Especially not me.

Not this time.

But, at last, all is calm again.

Parenting: Not for the faint of heart or the meek of voice.

…

…

(I’m still here. Just waiting for the guilt to kick in.)

+ + +

On a lighter note, I discuss the evil that is overpriced and overly complex highchairs on DadCentric.com this week. You’ll think better of me after you read that one.

Confession of the Uncool

As you can imagine based on Monday’s post, it’s been a whirlwind week of projects here at Uncool Estates. Most should be done by Thursday but they would have been done by today if not for my blowing most of Tuesday attending a taping of The Jerry Springer Show.

Just as an audience member.

I swear.

STOP JUDGING ME!

There’ll be more on that adventure next week, I promise. But for now, let me summarize it thus:

Brawls and boobs.

God bless America, every demented nook and cranny of it.

Between all that, shoveling snow and selling some ju— … um, gently used estate pieces on Craigslist, it’s been hectic. However, I do have something to share with you today.

Matt of DC Urban Dad was so desperate for copy the other week that he did his Friday feature “Five Questions with” … on me. Go drop in on Matt to learn about my ultimate iPod playlist, my favorite time of the day (if you guessed “happy hour,” you were wrong) and other sordid details.

One question I answer is about what is the most uncool thing I did that day. Today, it might have been cranking up the Minivan of Manliness’s sound system and singing along to Taylor Swift’s “Hey Stephen” while at a stoplight.

The UPS driver on my right and the three high school girls on my left were not impressed. Convulsed in laughter, yes, but not impressed.

With 200 other channels on satellite radio, I really need to switch off Radio Disney once I jettison the Things off at school.

Video: Steve Earle, “Satellite Radio”

What was the most uncool thing you did lately?

Shows NBC is Developing to Replace Leno in Prime Time

• Law & Order: Parking Violations Bureau
• The Biggest Loser: Talk-Show Host Edition
• The Weakest Link
• Knight Rider III: Kit Goes Hybrid
• Law & Order: Lost and Found Box
• Er …
• (Insert day of week) Night Lights
• WWE Late Night SmackDown
• Law & Order: Traffic Enforcement Division
• Saved By the Bell: Mid-Life Crisis
• Suicide: Life on the NBC Schedule
• Deal or What the F--- You Mean I’m Moving to 12:05 A.M.
• Law & Order: Janitorial Services
• Grizzlier Adams
• Sing Along with Mitch McConnell
• Carson Daly, Where Are You?
• Law & Order: Entertainment Litigation

BONUS LIST:

Past NBC Flops that Could Have Done Better than “The Jay Leno Show”

Manimal (1983) – Man turns into an animal with help of B-roll shot at zoo and cheesy makeup to fight lame crime of the week. It’s no The Incredible Hulk.

Mr. Smith (1983) - TV.com sums it up nicely: “Mr. Smith was the name of a talking orangutan who worked as a political advisor in Washington, D.C. The show was one of NBC's lowest-rated shows ever, lasting 13 episodes.” It also was NBC’s lead-in for Manimal. Awesome programming block, Peacock!

Pink Lady and Jeff (1980) – Jeff Altman! Hugh Hefner! Greg Evigan and The Bear! (Too bad Cheap Trick didn’t appear in this clip.) And two Japanese ladies in bikinis who butchered disco songs in English every week! I believe I saw this variety show back in first run, but I have an excuse – I was in the throes of puberty.

My Mother the Car (1965-66): I always see this listed as one of the worst of all-time. After I watched an episode on Hulu, it’s kinda hard to disagree.

These lists are brought to by the letters ABDPBT.

Technorati Tags: television,TV,Jay Leno,Conan O'Brien,NBC

Deep Dish on Food, Science and Chicago

Thing 1 and I have returned from Chicago where we saw her Juvenile Myositis specialist without drama. We’ll reserve that for when the blood tests come back next week and we learn whether she can finally get out of this holding pattern on the tapering of her medications.

However, that did not mean the weekend was not without its moments:

• Finally made it to the original Pizzeria Uno – the birth place of Chicago deep dish and, I must say, the pepperoni almost made me switch allegiance from New York thin crust.
• Then I took a bite of a leftover slice right out of our hotel room’s mini-fridge the next morning. When it’s not suitable for a cold breakfast, then it’s second rate.
• We learned Thing 1 and I will be appearing in a medical publication. At least her eyelids and my photos of those eyelids will. Her doc has a study theorizing that the spots that many JM kids get on them might be a key to understanding the disease’s activity.
• Then I got hit up to give some of my own blood and let them take photos of the capillaries in my fingernail beds for a different study involving JM, genetics and possible links the disease has with lupus. My only request was that at some point I get to slam a cane on a table and yell at a doctor, “It’s never lupus!”

• The American Girl Place lost a little more of its must-visit status for Thing 1 once she discovered that Water Tower Place also has a Justice clothing store. Either way, I lost financially.
• The observation deck of the John Hancock Center offers awesome views and a goofy, guided MP3 audio tour by ex-Friend, David Schwimmer. I guess if you are dweebie enough to take the audio tour, then you deserve Ross Gellar.
• David Schwimmer also does promos on one of the hotel’s in-house tourism channels. Talk about whining and dining.
• My learning-adverse daughter actually seemed to enjoy the audio tour, though all she could recall from it was that Chicago claims to be the birthplace of the Twinkie and the ice cream sundae.
• On that note, Thing 1 becomes very chatty once you load her up with sugar and carbs. In these tween days of grunts and one-word answers, that’s a good thing.
• For the first time ever, I did not have to hold the urine specimen cup for my daughter, which is good because at her age that task gets pretty creepy for a dad.
• Not a single issue with airport security or elderly passengers on either end of the trip. However, just as boarding started on our return flight from O’Hare, Thing 1 realized she left her jacket on the back of her chair. In the food court. Half a terminal away. I’m still catching my breathe.

Technorati Tags: Chicago,pizza,autoimmune disease