modern parenting?

Momma and I were busy in the kitchen slapping a lasagna together. The boys were outside playing, though they were being a little on the quiet side and my peeks out the back door had not revealed them or what they were doing.

I finally had to check on them. I saw Big Brother approaching the garage, though he immediately turned around and tried to sneak away as he heard the screen door.

I wouldn't generally mind them being in the garage, but it's a typical garage full of garage type things in addition to the fact that it's become somewhat of a storage center for more crap than we really want. Because of this, the garage is mostly off limits to them apart from the area where their outdoor/riding toys are.

I turned the corner of the house to find The Boy holding a spray bottle that is not labeled properly. I'm not sure what's in it as it's a remainder from when Momma's grandparents lived here. The smell was similar to WD40, and from the gleam on his hands and the dark spots on his shirt, I new he was pretty well covered in whatever the chemical actually is.

I sent him inside and instructed Big Brother to pick up and put up all the toys they had out. The Boy was soon in a bath, and the toys were put away. Big Brother was brought into the house. I explained to them about the dangers of chemicals on top of the fact that I've told them numerous times about the garage ban.

So, how to make them understand my point? I did a Google image search for chemical burns and was quickly rewarded for my efforts. There were of course the gruesome images, but I wasn't trying to frighten them more than was needed. I found a nice picture of someone's arm, nice and red and puffy skin burned by some sort of acid. After showing them the picture I read to them from the same page about the different types of burns, concentrating mostly on chemical burns.

I hope they've learned a lesson. I love them and want their skin to stay just how it is. And these modern days provide us some great tools for this sort of thing. Go ahead and google the phrase yourself, gather the kids around, and show them a pretty picture of someone's skin dripping off. What better way to educate the young?

'cuz i'm bad

I can't really come up with anything to add. I tried writing something funny about how bad ass we are, but if you can't tell that from looking then my pithy little lines are going to open your eyes.

Honestly, I just feel happy to be a part of the picture. And the brass knuckles you can't really see, yeah, not real brass. I think they are actually part of a belt buckle, and I'm pretty sure the words "for amusement purposes only" were imprinted on the inside.

But don't let your amusement with the words lull you into a false sense of security. I don't need brass knuckles or even steel toes or titanium knees. The hot woman next to me doesn't either. We'll stomp a mudhole in your ass quick as look at you.

friday night

In my continuing efforts to catalog our weekend, I offer you our Friday. Friday was mostly spent rushing about wanting to leave followed by a few hours of driving. We reached the hotel, dropped off our luggage, peed, and set off for downtown.

Most of the league had arrived before we did by a couple of hours. They were already well into supper with a couple of the Naptown girls. We were hungry and knew that crashing that party wasn't doable, and it was nice to have some time to ourselves. Keep in mind that we were completely childless for the weekend, the longest we've ever been apart from the boys.

Downtown Indianapolis, or what we saw of it, probably isn't nearly as confusing as it seemed. We got through 21st Street becoming something else as it bounced off the train tracks. We finally even got downtown to find it lively and crawling with all sorts of people.

I'm not sure what their Friday nights usually look like as this wasn't likely the average. The town was hosting a firefighter convention that raised the population by about 35,000 people. I have no idea how that changed the usual Naptown Friday night, but given the amount of things to do downtown, I'd imagine it's a popular place.

We parked next to the fountain which is next to the World War memorial, a large ancient looking structure that seemed worth a visit had we had the time on this trip. Not sure which direction to walk, we chose to go toward the place from which so many people seemed to be walking.

We hoofed it a couple of blocks and found ourself in a circle area, a fair sized fountain, sitting up on a sort of pedestal made of steps. That's a shitty description for the beautiful area, and it gave me an impression of what I'd expect an old European city to look like, a public space, beautifully built where people were hanging out.

We slipped into Rock Bottom Brewery only to find not a single seat at the bar. We tend to prefer the bar when we're just a couple and didn't want the hassle and time of being dining room customers. We stepped outside to reconsider when Momma spotted the word brewery on another place.

We walked toward that light which turned out to be Alcatraz Brewing. The beer earned a very strong Meh, not good enough to go back, but made by a very well trained corporate brewer. I don't really like chain brew pubs any more than I like most chain restaurants. I'd have been much happier finding the local place with the local brewer.

Alcatraz is where we hung out with the firefighters from New York. I don't quite remember now what got us talking with them. We may have been agreeing about the very noisy gentleman who seemed to think his companions were hearing impaired. Or perhaps he had vision issues that makes one foot seem like twenty. Whatever his problem was, he was one loud and obnoxious son of a bitch, the kind of guy you're glad to see go.

We considered eating at Alcatraz, but our new firefighter friend mentioned another brewpub across the street and a couple doors down. We were willing to walk and check out another place, though we later learned we'd have been happier staying at Alcatraz. I don't even remember the name of the place, but since I'm only going to trash it, that may be for the best.

I don't like corporate sports bars any more than I like corporate brewpubs. I want some soul, some local flavor. I want the bar with employees that love the place they work. I also want my wings to come with the pointy, inedible part removed. I also want my reuben to be a reuben, not some crap laced with what I'm quite certain was horseradish, totally out of place. We couldn't even finish our food, even though we took it to go after eating half. The maid threw it away for us though as we left it sitting cold and ick in the hotel room when we left.

Momma and I were nice enough then to try and fight about where we'd left the car. As it turned out, neither of us was quite right, though once we found the circle again, we were able to retrace our steps back to the car immediately. We apologized to each other for having been buttholes and insisting on our individual rightness. Then we got in the car and did the same thing all over again.

We finally arived back at the hotel. Most of the skaters were asleep, though it was early enough that we suspected someone had to be awake. Someone was, so we went and had a couple of last beers before wandering back to our room.

As an aside, a little message to the people of Indianapolis, it would really help if the people who sold beer knew what the laws were concerning late night beer sales. There's some crazy shit headed law that allows cold beer retail sales only in liquor stores. I don't get it, but I don't live there, so it's no big deal. We did get our beer and a bag of ice, so the law didn't hamper our intent in any way, though the kind lady who sold it to us wasn't quite sure if it was even too late to be selling it.

And so went our day. You can see for yourself how exciting and full of grand fun we are. That's quite fine though as I don't need grand fun. I got two nights in a row to go out childless with Momma, and that's always better than grand fun. Of course we missed the boys, so don't think we were completely heartless, but they got to have grand fun with grand parents, so I'd call it even.

back from up north

I have had the worst time since last night trying to write the welcoming myself back post. The trip was a hell of a time, and I'm sure I should only safely tell you about half of what happened. There was plenty of debauchery, though most of it was the safe showing each other our asses kind. Many asses were shown as well as a pair of testicles and possibly a peach, if you know what I mean.

I'm pretty sure that as a group we drank our weight in beer. I'm certain I helped the average, but it was all in the name of doing my part for the league and the skaters.

The bout was exciting, though I'm sadly unable to post about it. The scoreboard indicated that we lost, but your momma told you not to believe everything you read, and she was right. I'm nearly voiceless from screaming and cheering, and as usual, I could not be prouder of the girls. I can't say enough how beautiful, how awesome, how strong, how amazing the Hard Knox Rollergirls are. Chances are we are coming to your town, and chances are if we do that someone is going to get knocked sillier.

I have this secret trick I use on road trips that I call driving fast as fuck. There's no sane reason a six hour drive really has to be six hours unless it was originally and eight hour trip, but that may just be me. As long as you're careful and watch the road, there's no reason you can't use the interstate as it should be. Wide open highways with limited access via distinct entrance/exit areas are meant for high speeds and getting the fuck out of my way. I may use this as post fodder because, as you might guess, I have some opinions on this as well as about the idiots that surround me on the road. But that's for later.

My chest hurts a little, though I really don't know why. Perhaps it was the shouting? Can you strain your chest muscles by having yelled too much and too loudly? I'm sure I can. I can't complain though because I know our skaters have plenty of aches that were earned in battle. One has to wonder why Momma has so many obvious finger marks on her arms, but again, that's another story for another day.

I scalded my tongue at Starbucks, probably some infernal punishment for having gone there in the first place. But we needed coffee, and I can no longer stomach the sort of ick that too often passes for coffee. And for all the complaints I've heard about Starbucks prices, for slightly more than three dollars Momma got a medium coffee, and I got a large, though that isn't how they'd describe it, stupid venti and grande and all that other pretentious fuck awful nonsense. Seriously, just cups of coffee, a little cream and sugar, not the fat content of a porterhouse and not seventeen dollars and not a frappamochadilletante.

Saw lots of dead animals along the roads though no possums. It doesn't seem to me that Ohio or Indiana really cares that their roads seem to contain about three dead animals for every mile travelled. Maybe they need to pass a road kill bill.

We may have been the coolest visitors, but we weren't the biggest group in Indianapolis over the weekend. Thirty five thousand fire fighters were also in town for a convention. I retain to this day my childhood love and admiration for fire fighters. I even smile a little as the big red truck rolls past in non emergency mode. That people are still willing to run in when the rest of us are running out almost gives me hope for humanity. And to the guys from Rochester New York, thanks for a good time. We met them at a bar in downtown Idiotapolis, and though we only hung out and chatted for a bit, they were one of the highlights of the trip.

I'm wrapping this up. Within this post are the roots of a few more posts that are playing nicely in my brain while I think about writing. I leave you with something to ponder, a little gravity in an otherwise light and fluff filled post. Why in 2007 do towns still have a "black part of town," and why is the black side of town always the crappiest least tended to by the local government?

sue their butts off

Thanks to Darryl for posting this so that I could steal it and make a new rant. I haven't ranted in nearly long enough, so it's nice to have a softball tossed out for me.

According to THIS story, a woman in Canada purchased a sofa. Upon getting it to her house she learned that the tag on the furniture described its dark brown color as "nigger brown." The Chinese manufacturer pointed to a translation software problem that the company was sure they had fixed. Apparently it had something to do with an old Chinese/English dictionary.

Part of me thinks it's a little bit funny and wonders if the also sells a couch in a honkey white or wetback tan. Of course, I assume the color is a fairly dark brown, but then that doesn't really do justice to the myriad hues of black people. Big Brother's soccer team includes two kids, cousins even, who are black, though admittedly black doesn't really describe either child's skin color. One of the boys is very light complected while the other is fairly dark. We have a homeschool friend who would be assumed to be white though his skin is actually darker than the light skinned soccer teammate.

How does all this relate to nigger brown? Good question, and it probably doesn't. The rant here is more about the fact that the purchaser of the sofa wants compensation and wants more than just an apology. So now we get to it, the lawsuit. She's wants to get paid over her daughter having supposedly learned the word nigger from a tag on a sofa. I don't know the average age of black children when they are first exposed to the word, and I don't know if the members of this particular family are fans of hip hop music. My own children have heard the word at their young ages due to the little bit of hip hop that Momma and I listen to. I doesn't seem to have stood out as neither child has ever used the word that I'm aware of nor have they asked Momma or I about it.

As a child growing up in the south, I used the word nigger on occasion, sadly even after I began to understand what it meant. I can't pretend to know the power of the word heard through black ears, and honestly, being a fairly typical white guy, I'm sure there are lots of words that I know of or have used that I just won't ever feel the kind of sting they provide for others. I also don't much care what folks may choose to call me (just don't call me late for dinner) and have been referred to in a number of unpleasant ways. I have even once been called a nigger, by a black guy no less.

But what sort of compensation does someone deserve because of an offensive word? Certainly it would be unpleasant to hear, and one has to wonder how many channels this sofa must have passed through bearing the term nigger, and one must wonder how no one else noticed this. Will a large cash payment make this family happy? Will cash change the fact that their daughter saw an offensive word? Will it make the possible sting go away? When the hell did a black family move to Canada?

I've long thought our own country was way too eager to set a lawsuit in motion over any number of imagined or supposed slights. I've read personally of too many ridiculous lawsuits, and I've read of too many idiots winning money they did not deserve. I'm afraid this may be another situation like that. Beyond an apology and maybe a refund of the purchase price of the sofa, the family doesn't really deserve shit.

busy weekend

This will be a bit of a busy weekend for us, or at least some of us. The boys will not be partaking in the fun, but they will get their own treat, we hope. They get to spend the weekend at Grandma's house.

It all starts tomorrow night, or tonight by the time some people read this, or maybe even some time in the past by the time some other people read it. If that's the case, then maybe I don't even have to write about all this.

Also, I probably won't be blogging much for a few days.

It all starts tomorrow, as early as I can drag my ass out of bed and down to the tire store to get the oil changed. I'll sit around there wishing I'd brought a book, or I'll sit there trying to read a book while also trying not to watch the television. We seriously have to get the oil changed, totally, for tomorrow. Actually, it's the day after tomorrow as of writing time, but we've covered that once, dead horse and all.

Tomorrow night Momma and I have reservations at a restaurant. That's right, we aren't waiting for the host to get to us or for enough people to finally leave. We have reservations which means we are eating at a restaurant that takes reservations. We've heard good things about the place and are looking forward to food we didn't cook, food that we don't have to pick the green things off the Batman plate. Shit, we won't even have to get up moments after we start eating to get someone a cup of milk or to clean up a spilled cup of milk.

We may have to keep our drinking to a minimum as Great Grandmother who is watching the boys has not yet even hinted at an overnight. We'd love for her too, but she's getting the boys back on Friday to hold till Grandma gets off work and picks them up. Great Grandmother may need that few hours break.

Friday afternoon sees us off on the long ass drive to kick some ass. I may have mentioned that a certain local Hard Knox Rollergirls are traveling northish to Indianapolis. I'm afraid some Naptown Rollergirls are in for yet another loss. I'm sure I'm going to hate it for them or something. It will be nice to be far away from responsibility and get to party with a bunch of hard ass derby girls. I don't expect much from the trip itself, lots of driving compared to the amount of time we'll spend in Indianapolis. Either way it's another shit ton of miles on the car, and that's got to be good for something.

We drive back home Sunday having spent all of an entire day for our twelve to fourteen hour round trip. I won't be sure it's worth it till at least a week later when we've forgotten how big a pain in the ass it all was and are getting excited for the next round of derby based ass whooping. It's all about the ass whooping here in derbyville USA.

And that's the weekend. Look for more info sometime next week. I might give you one last goodbye post before tomorrow night, and I may get some great ideas and have to blog any number of time between now and time to get. We'll see.

are thoughts of thinking real thoughts?

Tagged by the meme, I find that I must now go and tag. It's gratifying to know that someone actually feels I deserve the Thinking Blogger award. I don't really feel as if I put a lot of thought into most of what I write. I usually feel like the sieve in my head sometimes gets a little clogged, and I'm not doing anything more when I write than to shake the sieve a little bit so that everything can flow through finally.

Pissed Off Housewife thinks I deserve the Thinking Blogger award, and I can't help but feel a little spark of something. It's like a smile from a stranger seconds after some prick cut you off, the little smile that saw what happened and congratulates you for not murdering the prick. Maybe it's like when the fast food people are nice, and then you're nice back, and you both are happier even if for no more than a moment. Or maybe it's like realizing that maybe people really do read what I write, and I've somehow managed not to drive them away.

The deal is I now have to tag five people. Here is my list, not my top five so much, but five people who think, or so I think, and will hopefully continue the good feelings.

1. We start with Contemplator, a favorite in the halls of academe.

2. Doc is easily one of the best homeschool resource links in the country. She also could stand to stop breaking things.

3. Audrey may be the sexiest homeshooling marxist mommas ever, if we believe everything she says, and the library probably sucks ass without her there.

4. Kim, another unschooling mom, and another fine thinker.

5. Finally I offer you Darryl, my sole dude. He may also be the least likely to play along, but at least he's a thinking blogger, and if nothing else, he can feel included, even if he can get beat by a dead blog. That's not saying anything though as I get beaten by catholics.

It was not my intent to bring you mostly homeschool blogs, though they aren't really necessarily homeschool blogs. Darryl offers news and sometimes some counterpoint. Kim may talk about homeschooling more than the rest, though Audrey and Doc certainly discuss it somewhat. I believe Contemplator keeps herself busy enough for a couple of people. And that is my list.

Does anyone need instructions here? It's pretty simple, and I'm sure we've all been involved in something similar, so have at it. Let's see who else deserves this award.

rude little

Rude little bitch, standing on my porch, trying like hell to be cool, giving me high fives, telling me how cute the boys are, my kids that is. Her partner was also friendly, but he too stood on my porch, running through the scheme they wanted to include me in.

They're earning points to win a trip to London, and all they have to do is get me to pick a book or a magazine. Somehow, they are also learning how to speak to people, speak in public, in front of a crowd. Oh, and for every book or magazine I pick they earn points, and she's one of the top point earners.

"So, you want me to buy a magazine?" I ask as I peruse the list of magazines she's shown me.

Of course I know that's the deal. I knew it was the deal when I saw them on my porch, but I wasn't sure till she opened her mouth what the exact scheme was going to sound like. It's always something similar though it's usually a young black male selling magazines to earn money for college. The magazines don't have to be for me. I can pick a book for the children's hospital or a magazine for a soldier.

Look, I don't have any heartstrings to pluck. You need something to strum and try to get me to buy your magazine it's not the heart you need to look toward. Maybe suck my dick and I might be willing to order a magazine or two, but beyond not being willing to play along, they weren't offering any magazines I'm interested in. So they failed at my door.

And it was all nice enough, the young lady was attractive enough. He male counterpart could not claim the same, but in the end, he was the friendlier.

"I'm not interested," I finally tell her.

She tries to play the friendly smile a bit, offers the aforementioned soldier or children's hospital, but I'm adamant. Not only am I not in the market for magazines, but I'm certainly not helping whatever company has convinced these young people they can sell magazines and win a trip to London. I wonder if they realize they are part of some scheme.

She finally realized I was really not going to buy a magazine. She snatched back her magazine list, and, without so much as a goodbye, she hops off the porch and is off. I watch her turn and go, admire the curves she's been blessed with, a little pink panty peeking from her jeans.

Watching them both go, I turn to trot across the neighbor's yard. While the magazine kids had me stuck at the door, waiting to tell them NO, the dog has slipped out. She's ignored my whistling, my calls. She hasn't gotten far, and as I reach her and get her attention, I turn back to the house. A quick jog and she's right behind me, running along to the house and back inside.

The bitch was rude, interupted my lunch, made me have to chase the dog down, and provided a little post fodder. I suppose it wasn't entirely a loss. Plus she was kinda cute as I said.

trains

Not too far down the street from the house I grew up in was a railroad crossing. Thoughts of trains often are set at this crossing for me, the pastures of the prison farm across and to the right, the small trucking company across and to the left. These are the background as the trains speed past.

The train is coming from one direction or going away depending on the direction you're facing or perhaps on your general point of view. Staring ahead through the windshield gives the train a whole other power as it seems to pull you along, making you almost feel that you're moving.

These days I have other crossings that I sometimes find myself at, watching the trains go by to parts unknown. Before local road construction changed our usual route downtown, we often found ourselves racing alongside a train. It was only a short stretch of road, the train curving away and around the old factories and then back, the softball field in the distance, and then the train peels away to seek its own route downtown. We'll most likely cross over it, picking our way around old streets to the viaduct where we can almost see the train below as it leaves town around a curve and is gone.

This is the real power the trains have over me, the parts unknown. The contents of the train present no mystery I'm inclined to care about. It's all about the tracks leading off around the next bend and the next bend, across an unfamiliar river to wherever is next.

I'd like to say I have few regrets in life. There's a certain amount of wonder in thinking of how I could have decided things differently, but I believe to some extent the eddies around the butterfly's wings are often as likely to effect outcomes as what we do with our options. I end up not knowing what I should regret and what I should embrace.

I've always wanted to hop a train. I never have. I've sat in cars full of brothers counting the cars, getting dizzy from staring so hard, and wanting like hell to get out of the car. I've seen myself doing it, getting that running start as I see my target car coming up behind. Try like hell, I still can't quite match the train, but I run just fast enough. A quick look back, open door and an empty boxcar.

There's no way I could ever do that now, and I fully accept that. The only way I could ever hop a train now would either involve some sort of catastrophe or some sort of hollow, new age men's retreat where we got to rock out, hop trains, box kangaroos, bang drums and lament our lost boyhood.

But I still want to. It's not fixation, not something to concern folks. I sat today watching a train, amazed at all the boxcars I saw rolling past, doors wide open, the cars appearing empty, awaiting only that wandering soul, that vagabond willing to bend to the call of the road. I wanted to be that one who stepped up, leaving the car to take a running, flying leap into the unknown.

beware

The very first thing I have to say is that if this doesn't offend someone, then it's because wiser heads clicked away. I won't be providing the link to this, so you'll have to take my word that this line does in fact exist somewhere. It's from a blog that I may have visited but would never read (beyond a little post fodder I swear) and won't likely visit ever again.

The blog writer is a christian as is evidenced by the mounds of crap tacked up to every visible inch of their page. It's a little unseemly and very much an unpleasant place for me. No it's not just because I'm an atheist, and no my eyes don't burn when I read Bible verses. It just seems a bit much, a bit of Jesus and capitalism that I don't really recall as being part of the Bible, at least not the one I read.

Now to the funny, the line that sort of leapt off the page as I was wondering how exactly this blog was beating another in a particular skewed voting thing I won't link to as well. I have a feeling I'm courting trouble here, and I kind of like it, but I don't want anyone sending me death threats either.

Anyway, the writer who wrote the lines that are the subject of all this was discussing their desires concerning their relationship with their god. They explained it as, "the desire to press in and know Him more deeply."

HaHa, they want to press in and know god more deeply.

And that, friends and neighbors, is why I won't win. So thanks, and ya'll come back now.

aaawwwww

A sweeter story you might never find. Take a minute and go visit Scott and read his story. It made my stony cold heart perhaps no less stony but, even if for a moment, a little less cold. But that's just me. It really is a great little tale, like a commercial for aromatherapy candles but in real life and with no aromatherapy candles.

tunes post number 43-A

The boys have had breakfast and a prelunch granola bar. It's Friday and our homeschool co op day as well as Momma's payday. Lunch will most likely be leftover ramen noodles, and yes I said leftover. I cooked two packages of ramen noodles with some onions, celery, carrots, mushroom, cabbage and leftover beef and gave my kids a great meal of veggies and msg.

All of that is the preface, my excuse if you will, for the newest of my recurring series, youtube as post fodder. It started with looking for whatever Hank Williams might spring up. There isn't a lot, and sadly much of it is some chump putting together a good song with some mismatched film or video footage. At least I haven't yet seen the Naruto/Hank Sr. mashup which would literally send me into a murderous rage though I'm certain it's being worked on currently. Which is not to say I dislike Naruto, though I kind of do.

There of course was also the Hank Jr. stuff, but I largely ignore his ass. He was the talentless fuck in the middle of his father and son, the true stars of the Williams family. So that inevitably leads me to Hank III. What can you say about this guy? He's equally at home with country and rock, and the beauty of it is that both his country and his rock are really great music. I don't go in much for his heavier stuff myself these day tending more toward the country, but when he goes and does something like this . . .

uhhh, really?

It's new word time. This one I expect to be the surprise hit of the season. This word, like none before of which I am aware, takes the award for both giggle and raised eyebrow.

Today's word describes a type of thrush, a songbird according to the word of the day people from whom I steal these things.

The word is turdiform. No, this is not the set of molds inside your gut in which the poo is placed to set after it's mixed, though some days a machine molded poo seems like not the worst idea I've ever heard.

I won't take this any farther than I have already. I'll accept that it's generally accepted that I have very little to do with things as silly as standards, and there is not much in this world I won't gladly rip a funny and wordy hole in. But turdiforms and poo molds may take it just a bit too far.

to complain

That's all I'm going to do right now is complain. I shouldn't really, because I know the kind of real shit that's happening around the world, but what the hell. It's what I do.

I keep seeing the sun or proof that it is indeed shining, but there just too many clouds competing for the sky that we aren't really getting a lot of sun. It's as if the clouds admit those few rays of sun every so often just to fuck with us.

This is the nicest day in what seems like two weeks. We had our little cold snap and some rain, and more rain today wouldn't surpise me. It's also pretty windy today which wouldn't matter so much, but it's just going to blow more shingles off the roof, and I really don't like the idea of climbing from the ladder to the roof. It creeps me the fuck out and is very hard for me without someone behind me rushing me and alerting me to the pussy that I am.

Even ignoring the potential for rain that the sky admits, I can't stand to let the boys out to play. I still haven't mowed the grass, and it just sucks to even look at the yard. If I were to allow that it's nice enough to play outside I couldn't very well justify not doing the yard work. There's also a part that just doesn't want the boys to have to deal with all that grass, but I really don't relish the thought of getting out there only to have it rain halfway through the job.

The worst of the yard isn't the work, it's the neighbor. One in particular that spends a lot more time on his yard than I do mine. He actually goes out of his way as if he enjoys his yard. I watch him sometimes from our kitchen window that looks past our little bit of yard and past his driveway. I see him walking down his driveway sometimes, looking at our jungle and scowling his disapproval. I almost feel bad, then I get mad at him for making me feel bad. I play out scenes in my head where every bit of redneck comes gushing out one day in a burst of "what the fuck you looking at? You don't like it you can bring your fat ass over here and mow it your god damn self!"

followed moments later with, "motherfucker" and I stand there for a brief moment to see if he's going to get buck or back off.

And really, he's a nice enough guy as far as I know, and I wouldn't ever do that sort of thing to him providing he stops looking at my yard like that.

motherfucker

more vote requests

I've asked for my own votes at the homeschool blog awards, and I've voted for some folks that deserve to win. For the most part, I'm not one to worry too much about other people. They can ask for their own votes.

Today I've decided to do things differently. You must believe it's not just the twins that are currently winning driving me to do this because I don't really even know any of these people. I know I likely shouldn't say it, but I wasn't aware that a blog and a link farm were the same thing, but I digress. Oh sure, they do have all those Bible verses, but they didn't write that shit either, and I'd wager they didn't even type it out. They probably just copied and pasted from the eBible, the little savages. Damn I can't stop digressing. Sorry, sometimes things just get to you, like a little piece of wood under a fingernail.

Cocking a Snook Too actually deserves to win the category the twins are leading in, the best teen homeschooling blog. She writes and writes well. She doesn't seem to have to reduce herself to artful cursery like I do, even if she does seem to have olive oil issues. Which, if she reads this, go with extra virgin first cold press. Those are the only words you need to know.

The boys need lunch, and I need a smoke, and I'm ending the plea with whatever you call that last little bit of push, like the NPR folks sounding a little desperate as the hour ends. Click homeschool blog award, then vote for Cocking a Snook Too. Don't take my word for it though. Visit the blog and see for yourself.

hands, ass and flashlight

Perhaps some of you out there haven't heard the phrase, "he couldn't find his asshole with both hands and a flashlight." Well, that's the award I feel I've proven I've won. Thank you Chris for having answered my question the first time. Thank you Audrey for offering your help. Thanks to me for begging for the help that I shouldn't have needed if I'd but taken the time, used both the looking parts and the thinking parts at the same time. The ol' gray matter just aint what she used to be. I need a bath and a beer.

Of course part of me, the part that sat here clicking and copying and pasting and repasting and recopying and cutting and previewing and being astounded when simple things work even when you try to make them hard, yeah, that part nearly giggle at the damn thing working as if I'd solved some real problem. And through the little bit of a feeling of accomplishment I have to admit that it's really not my own fault.

So it's done. The Evolved Homeschooler logo links to the wiki. Click it and go, but don't bother going to my page. It just links back here for something that didn't make sense the first time around or wasn't ever funny anyway. Either way, it works and I need to get the hell away form the computer.

Thanks again Chris and Audrey, and I can see you sitting there shaking your heads at me. Dude, it's all hard for me, so at least keep the "laughing at" to yourselves while I pretend it's "laughing with" that I keep hearing.

help? somebody?

Will you look at that? I seem to be an evolved homeschooler, and I'm certain I couldn't be happier. Sadly this is as close a description of my beliefs as is possible to approach with a homemade logo. There wasn't one explaining how I honor the unholy power of Yog Sothoth and how I quake in fear at the thought that one day the blood of mankind will warm the throats of the old ones. It also doesn't say anything about the stock pile of armaments I'm amassing to be ready for Armageddon, you know, sort of my own death bed confessional but with less confession and more going to get mine.

None of that really matters at this moment. I have a real life emergency here. I'm talking about my inability to fix or even understand computery type things. Sure, when Blogger makes it stupid easy for folks like me, with a couple quick strokes of the mouse, to set up such a fancy blog with all the gewgaws stuffed in and hanging out the edges a little. I imagine I did in fact need another thing, so I got it.

I actually sent Chris a private message trying to figure out what I was doing since he's the one nice enough to set up the wiki that gives us all that much more room to play. I think maybe he wasn't able to read my mind and answer the question I meant to ask, so rather than bother him with it again, I'll toss it here and reward the first person to help me.

As is plain to all, I can easily right click and save as. I can even go into the guts of my blog and add a page element that includes that lovely little logo. What I can't seem to figure now is how to make it a link to the Evolved Homeschoolers wiki. Did you know about that? It's true, an honest to fuck wiki for homeschoolers that don't give all the credit to interstellar entities but allow for sciencey learning as well. I'm not saying there are no interstellar beings, just that you can only credit one with so much having done before the rest of them start to get jealous and wanting their own piece of the pie.

how cool are we?

Backing out of the driveway, heading to the stop sign and the right turn, on our way to soccer practice and looking for something to listen to. This conversation proves that I'm doing something right with my kids.

me-hmm, I think we were listening to The Pietasters on our way to practice last week, and that's sounding good to me

Big Brother-I wouldn't really like to listen to The Pietasters.

me-okay, there's plenty of music here. What sounds good? Phyllis Dillon? Motorhead?

Big Brother-I'd like to listen to Motorhead.

The Boy-MOTORHEAD

me-I can't argue with that.

That was then however and we are back home and we are now listening to Thomas the Tank Engine music which The Boy requested. He has been in the bath for several minutes at this point, and I still haven't stopped it. I also haven't stopped singing along.

award me

It's got to at least be good for shits and giggles, though I have to admit that I could write at least a little more about homeschooling. Perhaps the whole writing about part doesn't quite matter, just that I both homeschool and blog.

Either way, some kind soul was nice enough to nominate me for a Homeschool Blog award. I certainly appreciate that, but I must at the same time admit that I realize how unlikely it is I'll win. I just know homeschoolers too well I think.

I don't agree with the stereotype of homeschooler, though I do admit that the stereotype exists because there is some truth to it. I know it exists when I compare the number of members of my local group with the other local group, the one that does care how you approach matters of personal faith.

With all my expecting not to win, even through the absolute faith I have in me not winning, I still kind of want to win. There is certainly the majority of me that doesn't care, but that little sliver of hope rests quietly, almost unseen because I've buried it so deep under my facade of indifference.

This post all comes down to a plea for votes. If I'm elected, I will not raise taxes, nor will I repeal any blue laws. I won't promise to fund the schools or straighten up congress. What I will do if I win is sort of almost nearly exactly like what I've been doing.

So vote for me. If I win I will continue to write posts with the single minded purpose of making you the reader piss a little in your pants while laughing, a little uncomfortably I hope.

For all our differences we all homeschool and put our pants on one leg at a time. Some of us wear denim jumpers which is like jeans with one big leg for both your legs, and I don't know if you just step into a denim jumper or pull it down over your head. If it's over the head then both legs enter as one, unless you only have one leg, so that defeats the purpose of the "one leg at a time" homily.

Anyway, find me under the following categories, Most Powerful Erection, Most Colorful Use of Language Unsuitable For Human Ears, and Blogger Who Most Misguidedly Thinks Highly of Him/Herself. Vote early and vote often. Roll out your Tammany Hall style machine to push me all the way to the top.

UPDATE: I hopped quickly through the list of other nominated blogs that were nominated under "humorous" and I just have to say that if I don't beat everyone there by a margin of at least 100 to one then the word humorous doesn't mean at all what I thought it did. I'm not trying to be rude (I actually am) or anything, I'm just saying.

wowzers

Because I haven't done it in a while. If you know this song, then you probably need to hear it again anyway. If you don't know this song, then you are being underserved in your musical listening. The Flaming Lips a great band. You might remember them from a random hit they might have had, but that shouldn't be the only reason you remember these guys. They are more than that one song you almost remember.