Feverish baby, 75-minute sleep blocks for 48 hours = this post

People, what is so wrong with the word "vegetables?" Why have we apparently agreed, as a nation, in a massive secret vote that I was not registered for nor invited to, that we shall all now and forever after use the non-word "veggies" in place of each and every instance in which we mean to indicate the plant matter formerly known as "vegetables?"

What are we, toddlers? Are four syllables (or three, in my neck of the woods) simply too many for our lazy brains to pronounce? Did some douchebag marketing person decide vegetables need to be shorn of their old, staid image and enhippened by a snazzy new nickname, like Sunny D (which obviously all the Kids are into, now that it's no longer the fuddy-duddy Sunny Delight)? Have we sunk so far in our quest to avoid reality that we have to dress up all words as if they're frolicking gaily through a fucking Lucky Charms commercial?

Veggies. GOD. Makes me want to swear off all consumables except Marlboros, Kit-Kats and Boone's Farm wine product.

The root of all idiocy

So President Halfwit Von Numbnuts wants to give us all money! BIG MONEY! Three! Hundred! Dollars! To each goodthinkful citizen! Plus $300 for each child we've produced for the Reich! Sweeeeet.

Because that cool 3C's I got from him seven years ago really changed my life, I tell you what. And as I understand the current situation, our national treasury has fucktons of money just burning holes in the many cargo pockets of our national pair of shants (they ain't shorts, and they ain't pants).

Shat.Ner. On. Toast. Points.

Internets, it's like when the Joker in the 1989 Batman movie held a parade and threw money out at the crowd -- and then gassed everyone in the frenzied rush to put their mitts on the cash. Only this is less sinister and more TOTALLY FUCKING STUPID. What have they got to give us? Monopoly money? Chinese yuan? No, wait, that has value. Um ... handmade coupons for one super-duper backrub each?

Biff, Muffy -- come see! Isn't this simply marvelous?

OK, I was coming in here to say I'd very much like to deliver a couple or three quick slaps to the face with a used flyswatter to the author of this sentence: 

With Stichelton and Garrotxa now at our fingertips, it's hard to remember why we were all once so smitten with Brie.

But if you were the author of that sentence, would you not just want to slap yourself?  

Notes from within the Baby-Industrial Complex

I keep the mommy postings to a minimum here, but can I just share one thing with y'all? An unexpected horror of this job? It's the baby wipes -- when you open a new pack, the ones at the top are kinda dry, the ones in the middle are of the expected level of moistiture, but the ones at the bottom are just loathsomely wet. Sopping, saturated -- el disgusto. Bleah. If I weren't already guilting out over how big this baby's environmental footprint is, I'd toss the last 10% of every pack rather than reach in and pull out that nastiness (the diaper itself does not even compare, and I'm not kidding about that). Eeeegh.

Are we at the Sandbagger yet?

Shout out to all the junior class officers!

I mean, I don’t think anyone currently in high school is reading this right now – DK skews a little older than that, heh – but just in case: I feel your pain, young student governmentals. Having sold concessions at every geedee 9th, JV and Varsity football game all fall to raise the kizzash (at least that’s how it worked at my school), you are right now in the heat of heated discussions with your class sponsors and a fuckton of magazines (and, I suppose now, websites) like this one, in preparation for Your Most Awesomest Prom Ever, coming up this spring.

As I recall, my junior year, it was “City Lights,” and I’m pretty sure that was me more or less just bowling over everyone else on the committee. I mean, like it matters anyway, but that was the one I wanted, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be overruled in favor of something even dorkier like Starlight Paradise. We had our prom at Taco Jocko (a junior college on the edge of the Metroplex) -- site selected by Mrs. E, who would brook no nonsense on the subject -- and the after-party was at the Sandpiper Motel. (I’ll tell you more about that someday soon, kids – maybe during prom season. It’s a humdinger!)

Aaaanyhoo, I was very proud of my dress (a close-fitting black sequined sheath with an overlay of black fringe the same length as the dress – trust me, it was kewl), and since nobody went with a date unless you were in an established couple, I went with a fine group of broads who unsuccessfully tried to convince our limo driver to buy us booze. But the funny thing was, after all that aggro about backdrops and favors and napkins and shit, all I remember about the décor was that when we were setting up, my friend CK sliced her leg open with an X-acto knife trying to cut out the prefab “city skyline” piece. And it totally bled EVERYWHERE. And she had to wear a Band-Aid on it at the prom and you could totally see it through her pantyhose OH. MY. GAAAAAHD. 

Untimely exits

Weird about Heath Ledger dying, huh? My first thought was, oh, god, he has that little daughter … and my second was, he’s only 28 – it’s gotta be drugs, unless it’s some weird congenital heart condition or something. Ugh.

And but how strange is this – Jethro Mussolini cancels some talk about teen drug use because of it. Who in the what, now? Up to now, he’s never shown any awareness of the existence, life or death of any human being not himself (except Terri Schiavo, of course! They used to romp together!), and he cancels a talk allegedly because it looks like he might be playing on Heath Ledger’s death? Since when has he given a flying fuck about seeming to “play on” any misfortune or tragedy of any kind? “Opportunistic” is his middle goddamned name. I think he just didn’t want to give the speech, the lazy fucktard, and seized on this as an excuse to get out of it.

Kansas ending!

Cruising down the highway listening to Mr. Gleemonex’s iPod on the car stereo the other day, some song came on that was like six minutes long – I don’t even remember the song or the artist, but I immediately skipped to the next one. I was like, I ain’t got time for your six-minute baloney. Don’t be stealin extra minutes of my life with guitar noodling and masturbatory solos, you stupid git – brevity. Learn it, love it, live it.

Mr. Gleemonex, whose musical tastes range much further and wider than mine, sent up a protest, but I say to you what I said to him:

The five-plus-minute song is BULLSHIT. It’s an annoyance and an indulgence which not many artists deserve – what do you got to say in five minutes that you can’t say in three and a half?

Mr. Gleemonex was like, “OK, Miss Ramones/Pixies,” and you know – I own that, I do.

But it’s not an absolute rule – there are some cases in which I’ll allow a longer song. Some of those instances include:

--Bob Dylan. Man has a story to tell, let him fuckin tell it. Even if it does go nine minutes and rhyme “stir” with “MUR”[-der]. He doesn’t waste my time; if he’s rambling on, there’s a reason for it.

--“Don’t Fear the Reaper.” You all know why: Cowbell.

--“Carry On My Wayward Son,” “Dust in the Wind.” You just can’t get the Full Amazing Ridiculous with shorter versions. If you're gonna go apeshit with the Philosophy 101 and the key and tempo changes and the crazy endings, then just balls-to-the-wall DO IT. 

--Radiohead. Wherever those guys are taking me, I’m going.

--Tenacious D. This is where the rock epic goes to die and be reborn in FLAMES!!!

Anything I’ve forgotten?

Beers and Weirs

OMG OMG OMG! I met Martin Starr! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Yesterday was the Freaks and Geeks reunion panel and Q&A, brought to me by the good work of Mr. Gleemonex as an xmas present. You GUYS! It was so much fun. They had Mr. Kowchevsky, Mr. Rosso, Bill Haverchuck, Kim Kelly, Neal Schweiber and Sam and Lindsay Weir – aka Steve Bannos, Dave “Gruber” Allen, Martin Starr, Busy Philipps, Samm Levine, John Francis Daley and Linda Cardellini – and creator Paul Feig. They had a bunch of great stories to tell, and Patton Oswalt kept it rolling as the moderator; nobody in the audience asked any really stupid-ass questions, though there were a couple of boneheaded ones -- one dumbass asked what they were all doing now (when it got to Martin Starr, he goes, “What are YOU fuckin doin?” ha!), and another asked what the other actors were doing now (e.g. James Franco, Rogen, etc.). General rule for asking actors questions: Don’t ask what you can find out jolly goddamned well on IMDB. Also: Don’t ask what anyone else is up to, e.g. Seth Rogen … we all know what Mister Comedy Superstar is up to, mkay? Stick to the rich banquet before you, you grabby insensitive fuck. I even got to ask a question – I said the show was too good to be on NBC, it was doomed from the start because it was so awesome, but if they could magically transport to today, did they think they’d have a better shot, what with channels like FX and AMC (who by the way owed F&G a debt for blazing that trail)? And Paul Feig took it & ran with it – short answer, yes. Yay! Aaaaaanyhoo … the whole thing was like a good conversation among friends, and you could tell they were all really enjoying being there.

So! After! Paul Feig, who is a real sweetheart, was kneeling onstage signing things; I got him to sign my yearbook and also my copy of Superstud, and told him how much I loved him and the show. Nobody else was around, so we left, but Mr. Gleemonex drove me on one more lap around the block – and by the back access door, who should be standing outside smokin but Mr. Rosso and BILL HAVERCHUCK!!!! I bailed out of the car almost before it came to a stop, and ran over to them. First I go, “Martin Starr will you sign my yearbook?” and he laughed and said sure, signing his photo on the second page, while I blithered on about how much I loved him and how great Haverchuck was and blah blah blah I am a hopeless fool. He was SO NICE, and seemed pleased (if surprised) by my yammering, and thanked me for coming (and I was like, no, thank YOU!). It was awesome! And then the people Gruber was talking to left, and I go, “Mr. Rosso will you sign my yearbook?” and HE laughed and said sure, and signed Mr. Rosso’s page, doing a little drawring of himself and everything. I yammered at him, and said I’d been a fan since Tenacious D’s Jesus Ranch bit, which cracked him right up, and shook hands and then he went back down the alley and into the club.

Ohhhh, you guys. It was so perfect. Y’all all shoulda been there.

Justification for a beatdown

Oh, HELL no.

Breakin the law! Breakin the law!

Half a Dozen Things I Got In Trouble for as a Yute

--Fucking with the stupid announcement board thing once too often. When I was a junior in high school, one of my many leadership duties was inputting the next day's announcements into this sooper-awesome lite-brite ticker thing (you know, like the one outside the Today Show studios? only cheaper and smaller) that was in the main hallway, every afternoon after school. I was fond of kicking it off with stuff like "GABBA GABBA," or "I am the Lizard King," that kind of stuff. Real clever shit, which sometimes they made me remove, because The Man loves to bring the hammer down on Rebels. Well, they left "Welcome my son, welcome to the machine" alone, but they got really pissed off when I followed the congratulations to the Science Fair winners with "HAA HAAA!" Which I did because everybody hated the frickin Science Fair and NOBODY wanted to keep going with that pain in their ass, waste a Saturday in Fort Worth at the regional competish where they'd just get slaughtered by kids from rich schools whose dads were fucking rocket scientists and helped with their little jet-propulsion projects, etc., and all the kids knew it. But C.B., the teech in charge of corralling me and my juvenile horseshit, saw it, flew into a rage, and busted into the yearbook room on a righteous tear and said "You're off the message board! As of now! How dare you make fun of students who work hard and succeed!" yada yada yada. (This she says to the Original Overachieving Over-Doer, for Shatner's sake, jeez.) So hey, I got my afternoons back ...

--Shooting rubber bands, with a wooden rubber band gun that in the dusk probably looked like the real thing, into the open windows of passing cars. Note to future jokesters: Either don't do this from the front porch of your own house, or make sure you're not shooting your little stupid rubber bands into cop cars. Those guys have NO sense of humor.

--Getting my friend's truck stolen in the hairy left armpit of Dallas, Texass. OK, so this wasn't strictly my fault -- me and my friends D.R. and N.S. went to see Material Issue at the ... I dunno, the What's-It's-Nuts Bowl in Dallas (locals, help me out?). On the way there, we were paced for awhile in the next lane by a guy yankin' it in his car (much disgusted screeeaming ensued), but that's nothing to do with the story. Aanyhoo, we were all dressed up in a very alternative manner (or so we thought), the way teens do and people my age cannot be arsed with; we go to the show, it's fun, and we leave ... but uh-oh, where's the truck? Holy shit, seventeen and stranded in Big D! But hey -- we had friends there, and we managed to find some of them and get a ride home, and at some point there were calls to DR's parents and the police and whatnot, and it was kind of a kickass adventure -- but not to DR's parents. This was the WORST THING THAT HAD EVER HAPPENED, EVER. Even though none of us were hurt, and they GOT the fricking TRUCK back -- granted, it had to be pulled out from the wreckage of the liquor store it had been used to knock over, but it had barely a scratch on it! It was back in service within a week! But because DR's parents thought she'd never have gone to Dallas in the first place if I hadn't instigated it, I was actually in more trouble with them than she was. Her dad told my dad it was, quote, "A dark chapter in [our] lives," unquote, and forever after, though DR and I remained fast friends, I was (and am) permanently on her parents' Double-Dipped Shit List. So of course, whenever I'm back in town, every single time I drive by their house, I LEEEEEEAAAAN on the horn and holler their name ... because I'm a placatin' motherfucker like that, yo.

--Riding my bike in the middle of the road. Me and my friend CD were enroute from my house to hers, via a little-traveled back road, cruising along, shootin the shit; a car passes us on the right; we barely notice. Then my mom appears, like a fire-breathing Ninja, about 10 feet in front of us -- we have to brake hard to avoid running smack into her. Ahh, she'd been visiting my great-grandmother, whose house was about exactly halfway to CD's house, and saw the car thing ... She was (most uncharacteristically) yelling her head off about us riding in the middle of the road, said she's gonna ground me and take my bike, etc. But she let us continue to CD's, where her stepfather bitched us out for like TWO HOURS (thanks for calling ahead, Ma!) and threatened to spank us both. I escaped his corporally-punitive wrath, but indeed, I was bikeless for a week once I get home. Ma Gleemonex don't make no empty threats.

--Copying the answers out of the back of the book on a test in third grade math. Me and my friend H.S. thought we were total geniuses for finding that part of the book, and for putting one over on the teacher, Miss B. Well, Miss B. was not outwitted by a pair of 8-year-olds, so while everybody else was at recess with clean consciences, we got lectured about how disappointed she was in us until we were both just weepy shells of our formerly confident selves. But the whole incident behind us by that afternoon, we got to re-take the test, Miss B. didn't narc us out to our parents, and we got invited to her wedding a couple of years later -- win-win.

--Leaving a half-gallon plastic jug of Elmer's Glue-All on the top of my friend's parents' grill. My friend and I were doing some sort of messy art project, as was our wont, and had been sent out to the patio to do it. We didn't know, but her stepfather had turned on their grill and closed it; somehow, we ended up leaving the damn giant glue bottle on top of the grill hood, and promptly forgot about it and went to play somewhere else. Then there was this ... this BELLOWING ... from the patio. Grumpy-Ass Stepdad demanded we get our butts out there, pronto. And Internets, I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that was one of the funniest fucking things I've ever seen, that bottle all collapsed in weird places, saggy in others, and plastic and glue melted allllll the hell over the grill and the ground below it, with that orange Elmer's cap tilted (melty) right in the middle of the mess. I just about fell to the ground shrieking, tears coming out of my eyes, but my friend (knowing her Grumpy-Ass Stepdad better than I did) started apologizing, swearing we'd clean it up, etc., while he continued to yell at us. I was sent home, she was grounded for two weeks, and still -- twenty-five years later -- that remains one of the funniest fucking things I've ever seen.

There's no basement in the Alamo!

Have y'all seen the reports of a bunch of good ol' boys 'n girls seeing UFOs in Texass? The incidents are kinda near my hometown (well, relatively -- it's a big-ass state). Here's what I think is the money quote:

"People wonder what in the world it is because this is the Bible Belt, and everyone is afraid it's the end of times," said Steve Allen, a freight company owner and pilot who said the object he saw last week was a mile long and half a mile wide. "It was positively, absolutely nothing from these parts." 

Awe. Some. I love that people's first thought is: It's the end of days!!! You don't get that kind of conclusion quite so quickly or so often elsewhere in the country.

And this reminds me: Over the xmas holiday, when we Gleemonexes were visiting our Texass fam, I was told that not one, but two, members of different branches of my extended family had seen UFOs -- separate incidents, years apart, and neither of these people is in the least way woo-woo/hippie/Mulderly and neither would make up a lie if their lives depended on it. Talk to your older relatives, people -- there's a goddamned goldmine up in there. 

Haverchuck is King!

Hey, all -- just back from my belated birthday weekend with Mr. Gleemonex and Kid Gleemonex in the Russian River valley. It is so beautiful up there in the winter -- green and drizzly, foggy most of the time -- and our view of the river from our hot tub, way high on the mountain in Cazadero, was fantastic. 

In the spirit of that relaxed and happy vibe, let me continue to enthuse ... today's topic is: Freaks and Geeks, a show so fucking awesome that it was doomed from the first minute of the pilot. It was cancelled in 2000 after a season's worth of unbelievable dicking around by NBC execs (full story available if you dig around online a little), leaving behind fewer than two dozen episodes of unrelenting brilliance, one of those bright fine flashes of perfection you only get to see once or twice in a lifetime. It launched the careers of a dozen amazing young actors, made Paul Feig and Judd Apatow the names that they are, and set a standard for realism and truth the likes of which may never again be seen on television. 

Why am I talking about it now? Because as a birthday present for me, Mr. Gleemonex scored tickets for us to see a Freaks and Geeks Reunion Panel and Q&A with a ton of the original cast members and Paul Feig next Sunday! So we've been ignoring our Netflixes and the many groovy things on TiVo (new Monk, Psych, Amazing Race, Bourdain, Life on Mars, etc.) in favor of mainlining our special edition DVD set, trying to watch the whole series over again before the event -- and oh my Shatner, you guys, this thing just keeps gettin better. Every episode makes you cringe -- a full-body, agonizing cringe -- at least five times, but also laugh your ass off, and of course it breaks your goddamned heart more times than I can count. It is just. so. fucking. good. 

Note to the comic genius Martin Starr (aka Bill Haverchuck): I'll try not to maul you, I promise, but I might have to put you in my pocket and take you home with us. 

It rubs the lotion on its skin

OK, this week's strips reminded me: If I understand correctly, Liz has made her final capitulation, eh? Drunk on boxed wine and the opiates of familiarity and predictability, she's been shackled in Granthony's dungeon since Christmas Day (which, because it was at Prince Michael The Great Canadian Novelist's free house, was the Best Xmas EVAH, according to all Pattersons, including boo-hoo-it's-my-last-xmas Grampa). What. The fuck. Ever. Good riddance. 

But I want to point out that if Mr. Gleemonex ever said anything like what's in the first panel of this one, he'd be wearing his own intestines for a hat. The fact that Elly just gets kind of cheesed about it, and then shows that she totally accepts the concepts that A)It's ok for a man to let himself go, especially once him has woman, and B)It's ok for her own husband to call her a fucking fat lard while B1) she puts away dishes he presumably ate from, as he sips coffee and reads the paper at his sweet leisure -- well, this is the key to understanding her marriage, her current obsession with looking old, and her constant lifelong pressure on her daughter to snare a man, any man, even the Human Tub Of Small-Curd Cottage Cheese, before her looks go. Gaaaaah!

Hi, I'm Tina, and I love sunsets, long walks on the beach, cute puppies, and YOU, big boy!

So yesterday, Mr. Gleemonex received an enticement in the mail: a card informing him he'd been "selected" to enjoy PLAYBOY (their caps, their words) for just one dollar per issue! A photo of a young lass, whose areolae we can just almost see, accompanied the invitation. And if Mr. Gleemonex acts fast, says the reverse side, with another view of the young lass (this one just almost showing her biscuit), he will get a FREE DVD entitled "Nude Celebrities" (your definition of "celebrity" may vary; the cover model is a somewhat hostile-looking canteloupe-breasted person I've never seen before). Holy moly, that is one enticing offer, is it not? 

To fully grasp how hilare this is, you'd have to know Mr. Gleemonex -- a Maxim lad he is not, and we have no idea what secret demographic algorithm combining Rolling Stone and various esoteric music gear mags got him on the PLAYBOY mailing list. The closest either of us ever got to accepting a "selection" like that (don't you just love marketing?) is this one time, at a street festival in our poky little meth/surfer town, when we stopped into an antique store (drunk on street fair beer) and happened upon a big ol stash of 70s and early 80s PLAYBOYS. We pawed through those like a coupla frat boys flunked outta Chico, hooting at the centerfold questionnaires and marveling at the many ways in which low self-esteem can peek out from behind cheap lacy underthings. 

B-Monday

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday to meeeee, and I smell like one too! [/Colbertian birthday song] Well, yesterday, anyway. We were gonna go away to the Russian River valley, but seeing as how there was this wee storm that knocked down trees and power lines and dumped 8 inches of rain all over the place and made mudslides and took off roofs with hurricane-force winds, we rescheduled. Casa Gleemonex was without power for about 20 hours (from 3 a.m. Friday, which I know because I was up with Kid Gleemonex at the time) to 11 p.m. (Thus no blog post.) Then the next day, it went out for another 6-plus hours. We were freezing our collective goolies off, y'all. This Little House on the Prairie bullshit BLOWS. 

Aaaanyhoo ... Roger Clemens, eh? You know, I can't decide if I think he roided or not -- it's at least plausible that he of all people didn't, and that this fucker McNamee, facing JAIL, decided to toss the jackboots a couple of Rilly Big Names (if I were facing JAIL, I'd say anything and everything about anyone and everyone to get out of it, you bet your ass I would) -- but yay or nay, I gotta admire the Rocket's strategery: He's just gonna straight-up BALLS THROUGH IT. Put that massive shoulder down and barrel past everybody like a freight train gone completely off the rails at top speed. I didn't do it, nobody saw me do it, you can't prove it, fuck all y'all! He's gonna swear it before Congress, under oath, which is more than you can get Condoleezza Motherscratchin Rice to do these days, know what I'm sayin? 

Nobody -- NOBODY -- would've stopped me lunging for his throat

If I end up in actual, literal Hell after I, like Waring Hudsucker, have merged with the infinite, this will be the entertainment. 

A seven-hour Dane Cook show, every day, for eternity. 

We're gonna have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny Fucking Kaye!

Heeey, long time no blog, eh wot? Blame it on travel and holidays with little access to the Internets ... but I'm back, and I gather you are, too. Herewith, a rundown of what's been going on in the Gleemonex world. 

Number of cross-country flights taken with a sub-3-month-old baby: 2

Number of Shiner Bocks consumed between 12/13 and 12/30: approx. 15

Total bill, with tax, for dinner for two (including two top-shelf margaritas, two Shiners, an appetizer and two entrees) at my hometown's premier Mexican restaurant: $29.70

Hours rocked on the bass on New Year's Eve: 6.75

Number of Radiohead songs included in the above: 5

Number of teas given in honor of Kid Gleemonex by Ma Gleemonex's friends: 1

Number of people I ran into during one visit to the hometown Wal-Marts: 4

Number of times I was carded at local stores while buying alcohol: 3

My present age: 33 (34 in a few days)

Number of double tall nonfat peppermint mochas, no whip, purchased at Texas and Scotts Valley Starbuckses: 8

Number of times I order this beverage between Jan. 2 and Nov. 15: 0

Number of times I had to change the baby's diaper in a mall or restaurant bathroom: 7

Number of times Mr. Gleemonex had to do the same in an airplane lav: 1

Number of fits Kid Gleemonex threw in three weeks of being carted around the country all the livelong day: 2

Number that affected anyone but us: 0

Rank in the Lifetime Scale of Brownie Deliciousness of the Ghirardelli brownies we made at Diamond Mike & Blondie's house on NYE: 1

Number of political discussions narrowly avoided between me and the various young-Earthers and Republicans of my family and acquaintance: 6

Number of viewings of Karate Kid: 1

Of A Christmas Story: 4

Of House: 6 episodes (where has this fuckin guy been all my life?)

Number of times I asked my mom, "No, SERIOUSLY -- that's Lauren Holly? THAT'S Lauren Holly? Not Reba McEntire or ... no? Lauren Holly, really? Holy crap, what happened to her?" during the four minutes I caught of an episode of NCIS, a show I've never watched before nor ever will again: at least 15

Number of times my day was derailed in the most awesome way, by hanging out with my talkative wee bairn, who would suddenly decide to tell a long long story (complete with arm flailings and kicks) that made at least as much sense to her as the words comin out of my mouth: at least a couple dozen

Hope you all had a wonderful holiday season -- happy new year, and may Shatner bless us, every one!