Archive for August, 2010

PART TWO OF A MEANDERING ACCOUNT DETAILING A PLEASANTLY UNDYNAMIC WEEKEND.

Posted in Mundane Events on August 22, 2010 by butthorn

Okay, so we stick him in the car seat cause it’s time to go.  The night before he puked on one of the seat straps but I’ve wiped it with one of his wipes and examined and smelled it and it seems fine.  Fred does well in his car seat and he sleeps much better in it than he does in either his bassinet or crib.  At home if he’s not on one of us, he’s probably in his car seat sleeping.  I’m always scared I’m somehow going to click his penis off when buckling him into the seat.  Most likely impossible but bad odds never calm me down as much as they should.

This is his car seat:

Lugging him out to the car is a viable bicep workout.  He is getting heavy.  I open the door to our new Hyundai, a car we like very much due to the fact that the engine starts when you stick a key in the ignition and turn it.   I lower his seat into the base until I hear and feel it lock into place, then take a seat beside him.  I’ve become accustomed to sitting in the back seat with him.  It’s both comfortable and comforting.  I was never in any hurry to call “shotgun” in high school and college because the backseat is roomier and you can relax with your thoughts.  I like being crammed back there with him.  Realistically he probably doesn’t require a great deal of supervision in the car at this point.  He’s either going to fall asleep or look out the back window with an expression of intense concentration on his face.  Or he might look at a crinkly frog toy attached to the handle of his car seat that he seems to have mixed feelings about.  I don’t need to be back there but it’s become part of the routine.  I fear many things, but tight, enclosed spaces are not among them.

The drive to Lincolnville is a pleasant one, through towns like Searsport and Belfast that have a lot of colorful buildings full of overpriced non-essentials.

A lot of antique places and flea markets, establishments I have a weakness for, but with a baby the phenomenon known as the side trip becomes a thing of the past, or at any rate gets put on hold indefinitely.  This does cut down on my shopping/browsing satisfaction but it also aids immeasurably in preserving our household budget, so in my case having a baby is probably saving us money, preventing me from purchasing more things like this:

That was five measly dollars at Target.  I’m not made of stone.  I haven’t watched any of them yet, though I did see “Black Belt Jones” in high school at some point but I don’t remember a frame of it.  “Black Samson” looks to be about a cool black man who owns a lion, “Three the Hard Way” is Jim Brown, Fred Williamson, and Jim Kelly kicking and shooting anyone unwise enough to approach them, and as for “Hot Potato”, well, God only knows, but the mind positively reels with wonder and excitement.  The following short collection of clips of Jim Kelly rapidly pretending to harm people is culled from “Hot Potato”.

So Joel and Kate and their family rent a camp in Lincolnville every year, and we go hang out with them at it every summer, a fledgling annual tradition that we look forward to and one that previously did not include offspring of ours.  This being a Maine camp, to reach it you have to drive directly into the woods on a narrow, single-lane dirt road on which head-on collisions seems all but unavoidable, yet somehow never occur.  The camp is nice without being too nice.  It still feels like a camp.  There’s a very agreeable beach and the lake is somehow always the perfect temperature to swim or wade around in.  I can’t really swim at all, but I love wading.  Walking around in shallow water picking up weird rocks and sticks and trying to find gross plants to threaten to touch people with is a favored and all-too-rare summertime activity of mine.

Dammit, I did it again!  And I wasn’t even talking about Erin Gray!  I’m still not done and nowhere near the  heart-pounding, edge-of-your seat conclusion!  I need to attend a blogging seminar.  Well, more to come!

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I REGISTERED MY DOMAIN! THINGS ARE GOING TO START HAPPENING TO ME NOW!

Posted in It's Alive!, Mundane Events on August 22, 2010 by butthorn

Man, that feels great!  My very own piece of the Internet!  No blogging site name tagged onto the end of the address making me look all bush league!  No third-rate imposters or spam sites co-opting my blog name!  I still can’t think of a fucking thing to write about!  YEAH!

Boy, this is horrible!  I feel like I really have to come through now that typing “vaguelyunpleasant” with a .com after it brings up something I type into for everybody to potentially see and evaluate.  Brad Pitt could be looking at this right now.  How embarrassing is that?!  He’d be like, “What’s this garbage?” and then go back to monitoring his stocks or maybe working on his Farmville.  God, that would kill me!  My big chance to get in good with Brad Pitt, and I blow it by forgetting how to be interesting thanks to one little spontaneous late-night domain registration.

All right, well, let me tell you about my day.  Our friends Joel and Kate have four children, and all six of these people had yet to meet our child, so we all figured that was something that should change.  I got up at 5:15 because Freddy had urinated in his undergarment and was bleating monosyllabically about it.  It usually takes a minute or so upon awakening in this fashion for me to remember that A) I have a child and B) He doesn’t know how to use the toilet or make breakfast.  Given that I’ve only recently “mastered” these procedures myself, it can often prove something of a challenge to perform them in a satisfactory matter for another human being, particularly one as loud and uncooperative as my son.  But I get up and I do the things I gotta do, though not before resting my nose atop his groin (a handy olfactory test that probably won’t fly once he’s in school; I suppose I’ll just have to take him at his word at that point) and inhaling deeply to verify the presence of urine and/or feces.  Cause if it doesn’t smell like anything, it’s snooze button city.  But it always smells like something.  My child has a smelly groin, Mr. Pitt; what can I tell you?

I hoist Freddy out of bed, and he responds per usual by throwing his head back and jutting his bottom out in a small and weird but mighty and effective-seeming stretch.  He usually stops crying when you pick him up, which is nice because his crying is ear-splitting and mood-dampening, complexly so.  It surprises you (well, I guess “startles” would really be a more accurate term…), then angers you, then makes you feel bad for getting angry, then makes you sad because you remember he can’t do anything and really needs your help, and you’re a dick, what the hell is the matter with you anyway, he’s just a baby, though I suppose in a way you’re not much more than a baby yourself, other than being able to take care of basic needs you’re every bit as helpless as he is, and why are you still sitting here giving yourself a complete psychiatric evaluation when your child needs food, what kind of selfish asshole puts their own mental wellness ahead of their baby’s hunger, you must really have a problem, maybe you should actually go to a doctor, oh yay my wife is taking care of the baby, back to Xbox!  So in summation, yes, picking up the baby will stop the crying most of the time.

I take my soiled, ravenous son into “his” room, which is basically the room where we keep his changing table, my collection of RCA Selectavision videodiscs, and the printer/scanner that I don’t remember how to hook back up to the computer.  I plop him down on the changing table, where he begins to make cute, spitty/grunty noises while kicking my arms and the wipes container.  My son has enjoyed kicking me and things for as long as I can remember, which is to say last Thursday.  He does not, however, enjoy having his clothing changed, although in the past couple weeks he’s gotten better about it, or maybe I’m just being more conscientious about not wrenching his head and limbs into the surprisingly unforgiving onesie holes.  He doesn’t cry every time we change him now, and that’s good, because lately he’s been throwing up on himself with alarming frequency, so we’re spending more than our fair share of time at the changing table these days.  But we’ve tried to make it comfy for him with blankets and a welcoming array of small stuffed animals, of which a frog is his clear favorite.  Unfortunately said frog also makes a tinny “boy-oy-oy-yoing” noise that is no more pleasing to the ear than crying, but you have to punch it pretty hard in the ass to activate this sound effect, so it’s not really a prob.

The changing of the diaper is not a very difficult affair.  Once the load in question has been sufficiently grimaced at and commented upon, you can typically wipe everything up as slick as you please and then go about your merry, newly shitless way.  Certainly when you’re dealing with a male infant you’re constantly aware of the very real possibility of taking a searing shot of stinging, stinking liquid waste directly in the eye or mouth, but this heightened awareness mainly serves to speed the entire process up, so you’re done before you know it.  Baby is clean and happy, and you look like a good daddy even though you’re an incompetent idiot who shouldn’t be entrusted with the well-being of a hamster.  As it happens, I find that Frederick and myself enjoy each other’s company more during the diaper/clothing changing process than at most any other part of the day.  He’s fresh and frisky, and I have a captive and reasonably receptive audience for my amateur beatboxing side-career.  It’s symbiosis, and it’s all right in my book.

Then I grab a bottle, which my wife has been kind enough to prepare and place on the kitchen table before face-planting back into bed, and manage to make my way to the couch without dropping anything or anyone.  I then negotiate a Boppy around my ever-increasing girth, nestle Freddy into the cushion, and present him with the nipple of his bottle, which he wastes no time in muckling onto.  Suckling ensues.  I try to remain awake during the feeding, but unfortunately a baby sucking a bottle is both uninteresting and lulling, not ideal qualities for events that take place before six AM.  I fall asleep and he finishes his bottle, letting it drop into my lap or onto the floor before falling back asleep himself, where we remain until his mother wakes us up by crossly taking me to task for falling asleep mid-feed, an action I defend valiantly by immediately falling asleep again.

Mama showers.  This would ordinarily be my cue to fire up the Netflix instant viewing on the aforementioned Xbox and queue up an episode of “Buck Rogers”, but due to a problem involving wires and God hating me the modem and the Xbox are not communicating.  Prior to bathing, Mama has saved us by sticking a Futurama DVD into the player at my groggy behest, so we have something colorful and fun to keep us awake while I await my turn to have my morning toilet.  Though like so many things it suffers from a lack of Erin Gray, “Futurama” is an excellent substitute for “Buck Rogers” as it essentially shares the same plot, the difference being that one laughs with “Futurama” and at “Buck Rogers”.  But I don’t come here to malign Buck and his crew.  Theirs is a very comforting hour of entertainment and I will be very sad when I have finished watching the few episodes that exist, even the ones with the retarded bird guy.

All right, here’s another picture of Erin Gray without Mr. Bird.  Let’s cleanse our palettes.

Jeez, that picture is huge.  I am going to have to wrap up this post for tonight, and I never even got past 6 AM in describing our day today!  In the space taken up by that massive picture of Erin Gray, I could have easily fit three detailed paragraphs dedicated to Freddy’s car seat.  Man, I gotta learn how to get to the point.  This is just sad.

I promise to do a better job tomorrow!  To be continued!

EXPRESSING OPINIONS ON THE INTERNET: WHO COULD HAVE BELIEVED IT POSSIBLE?

Posted in Mr. Bitch Goes to Bitchtown on August 4, 2010 by butthorn

Let’s talk about some things I don’t care about:

FOOTBALL: I don’t understand it and it looks like it hurts.

ANDY SAMBERG: He reminds of the kid on the bus that everyone laughs at but talks about how annoying he is whenever he stays home sick from school.  Except Andy Samberg never stays home sick.  He is infuriatingly healthy.

GPS: Look, I can’t read an atlas either, but come on.  Drive your car.

SUPERHERO MOVIES: They’re all the same.  Guy puts on a fruity suit and flies around enjoying himself, then a bad guy comes and makes things bad, then Fruit Suit beats the bad guy and everything’s okay again, with occasional interludes for chemistry-free scenes with women who wouldn’t give the film’s core audience the time of day.  Boring and depressing, but at least they’re not…

REMAKES OF 80’S MOVIES AND (ESPECIALLY) MOVIES BASED ON OLD 80’S SHOWS: Complaining about these is like complaining about hardship, or illness.  Everyone knows they’re bad.  Sure, people’ll go see “The A-Team” movie.  Theaters are air-conditioned, and their seats are usually fairly comfortable.  The perfect environment for texting, or for loudly expressing your negative opinion of the film currently playing for the benefit of all in attendance.  Just because ticket sales are healthy doesn’t mean anybody’s actually enjoying the film.  They just don’t like being outside.  But I guess if all we’re doing is using movie theaters as roomy areas in which to fondly examine our neat little phoney-woneys, we deserve such films as “The Karate Kid Again Except Sucky This Time” and “Clash of the Things People Made on Computers” and “Transformers 3: Farty Fart Poop Crap Piss”.  I know that, historically, pop culture is largely based upon whatever decade the people currently in their thirties grew up in, but for the love of Mackenzie Astin, give the 1980’s some time to recover from our endless mining of its natural resources.  Because where does it end?  “Sister Kate: The Movie”?  “She’s the Sheriff: 3D Imax”?  “I Now Pronounce You Benson and Alf”?

AMERICAN IDOL: Hey, let’s make cruel sport of people who don’t sound like everything else on the radio has sounded for the past decade and a half for a couple of weeks, then pick twelve of the least offensive wannabes and watch them sing selections from the station they make you listen to at work for weeks on end, subjecting them to the random critical whims of three megalomaniacs before finally leaving the decision up to middle schoolers who will base their vote on who has the best hair.  This is one of those cases where “If you don’t like it, don’t watch it” simply doesn’t apply, because everybody’s co-workers and everybody’s parents will fill you in on every last detail, even if you tell them you hate the show and don’t care in the slightest what’s happening on it, while tearing your face skin in frustration and aiming a gun at them and urinating on a photograph of Randy Jackson.  Some have postulated that the show will end once Simon takes off, but I’m pretty sure they’ll just replace him with that chef who yells at everybody.  The worst part about “American Idol” is that it’s no longer timely to make fun of it, so I can’t even derive any joy out of this paragraph.

SKYPE: I use the Internet to avoid having to talk to people.  Even though we’ve had the ability to video chat for several years now, it’s still a bit more futuristic than I’m capable of dealing with.  I like the idea of flying cars as much as the next guy, but if someone pulled up in one tomorrow and offered me the keys, I’d be way too scared to drive it.  Rather than a normal conversation, video chatting just feels like my laptop is taking on the form of my friend and is emulating their thought and speech patterns.  I don’t want to chat with the evil terminator from “Terminator 2”.  I want to refresh my Amazon recommendations in blissful solitude.

GLEE – I haven’t seen a single, solitary second of it and I hate it with a passion I usually reserve for activities such as “getting out of bed” and “helping”.  Why does everyone have to like things so hard?  And then talk at length about why they like them, with enthusiasm?  Don’t they know how hard that makes my life?

In the end, I really only enjoy money and creme-filled pastries.  And romantic comedies starring Matthew Perry.

I know this is thin on content and quality but I have to allow myself smaller posts from time to time, else I will abandon this thing altogether, and where will that leave us?  I guess I’d better slap a picture of some sort on here too…here ya go!