A few years ago, I stumbled onto a book written by one of my musical idols. The concept was something that I knew I would relate; being a punk-philosophied individual now adjusting to the new role of fatherhood. The book was “Punk Rock Dad” by Jim Lindberg the former lead singer of Pennywise. For the punk-uneducated, Pennywise is a working class band from Hermosa Beach, California and have been around for over 20 years. And as most bands of this vintage, they have struggled with the rigorous touring, a lack of finances, substances, authority figures, failures, and now…old age.

Lindberg’s book really resonated with me coming from the skate community. We were misunderstood and hated and trying to determine our identity. Now we’re growing up and have children we need to teach respect and compassion to. I couldn’t put the book down. It outlined the challenges of being an individual within a broken system that you despised, having children in a world that was flawed, and now becoming part of that system you once fought to change. Jim’s intimate description of his emotional awakenings weren’t at all that different from what I’ve felt having Son #1.

About eight months ago, I heard the book’s concept was going to be expanded into a documentary call "The Other F Word." Jim would be the main source of executive production but it would touch some of my adolescent idols who are now middle aged adults with families and lives. It was their story of going from the one ‘F’ word to the new ‘F’ word; Fatherhood. I’ve been waiting months for the Seattle screening. And on November 18th, I was able to have my excitement and anticipation fulfilled.

I wanted to make sure I moderated my expectations of the film. After all, films based on books are typically nowhere near as satisfying. Moreover, this wasn’t necessarily a re-creation of the book; it adopted the concept of punk growing up. The film opens up pretty fluffy mostly documenting the chronicles of the subject fathers in their early years performing and why they got into punk music. Most had somewhat self destructive tendencies and absent parents. The punk community presented them a family that understood them. After all, at the very core of our existence, we all want to be accepted. I wanted to hear more about the inner most feelings of how the metamorphosis has been challenging but empowering and painful. It took seemingly too long to get into it.

But gradually, the film drops into the candid and revealing feelings of these musicians/fathers. Be warned, sometimes it’s inarticulate and profane. But in other moments it’s incredibly revealing and tearful. The interestingly poignant observations from this film weren’t necessarily the revealing moments on screen between father and child but were the raw emotions being described by the dad despite the lack of articulation. At one point of the film, you wonder about the sanity of Duane Peters of US Bombs fame. Driving in his beat up old van he looks lost, degenerate, and is barely understandable.

Later in the film, he breaks away from the saturated drug induced euphoria in a strangely focused moment. Talking about his son Chess, he re-creates in vivid detail the day his son was killed in a car accident. Through the slurs and transgressions, you can envision how difficult it was to see his son’s car tore in two with no body left to identify. The harsh reality of his lost son drives him to a suicide mission. He awkwardly revisits the fumbling for his gun and one drug induced fit later he has the firearm in his mouth. In his description of the moment you can feel life slip away through his tears. And before he pulls the trigger, his other two boys find him and save him from himself. Rebounding, he has found peace in what’s left. Life.

In an equally moving moment, Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers provides a contradiction of the popular perception of a punk musician. Coming from a family that wasn’t there for him, he’s solely focused on being there for his daughter no matter where in the world he is. And in what may be one of the most revealing comments of the film, he remarks how he didn’t give his children life. Between the joyful tears of appreciating, he murmurs it was his children who gave him life and focus.

At the center of the film is Lindberg, who finds himself torn between the pressures of the band, making a living and being a father to his three daughters. As his priorities are turning, we see him abruptly leave a worldwide tour in progress without informing his bandmates. He flies back to Hermosa Beach to attend the father-daughter dance with his middle daughter who has never had her father to herself. He recognizes that this daughter really needs his undivided focus. During filming, he quits Pennywise so he’ll no longer miss those milestones; birthdays, first days of school, and dances are more important than the next show in Denmark or Japan.

The film was what I had hoped; an intimate portrait of the misunderstood youth now grown and maturing into fathers. It asks what happens when a generation's ultimate anti-authoritarians -- punk rockers -- become society's ultimate authorities – dads. We're all growing and trying to find our identity and our way. I didn't come from a broken home. I wasn't abused. I was a suburban white kid like so many others. And because it was so homogeneous, I struggled with finding my identity and needed to escape to something different. I found skateboarding and punk rock. I felt accepted and part of something that shared my natural interest in questioning and fighting the status quo.



Now where did you go when you grow up? I feel like this film spoke to the misunderstood creative subset of my generation. And while we all had dissimilar upbringing, we share in a belief of changing the world. I think about it a lot now. I’m still idealistically driven but I'm learning how to be a better father every day. It’s not perfect and has flaws but I focus on what my children need to be emotionally successful in their lives. It’s the examples of hard work, being idealistic and being educated to fight for what you believe in. I don't want them to settle but do want them to push themselves, their beliefs, and ways of thinking.

These are punk rock values and are what inspired this blog. These are the lessons of strength and how it’s OK to feel pain and cry then feel joy and laugh.


A lot of people you cross paths with will always ask what you do for a living and gauge how successful are you. Folks will talk about how their job is their calling and may even rub their success, or lack thereof, in your face. They're missing the point; they're missing what it is to be alive. I was at the emotional bottom when Son #1 was born almost seven years ago. And while we may have brought him into this world, he kept me IN this world. He kept me living with a simple thing called hope and that old punk rock concept of changing the world.

I remember being young and wanting to set the world on fire with my ideals. I wanted to change the world. And now what I’m starting to realize is that I can change the world, I can make an influential difference on a system. The way I can change it is by raising better children.

There’s awkwardness and uncertainty that comes with growing up. You feel clumsy, uncoordinated, anxiety ridden and sometimes ugly (depending on your style preferences). And in a strange dichotomy of existence, this happens while we are children, and it reappears once we grow into adulthood. I guess there’s really no beginning or end to the tumultuous path of growth. It’s just buried at times while we’re preoccupied with other aspects of life.

And while it would be easy to blame other factors on this struggle to grow, we’re at the helm of the ship navigating through these stormy times. Even as a child, we’re on the journey. It just isn’t as cerebral as it is now. Take Son #2 for example. Here’s a kid that can be purely angelic depending on how the wind blows through his hair. And on other days, being in the same room as him while he melts down like Chernobyl can be one of the most disturbing moments of your life with no terminal ending in sight.

And while painful to be a part of, especially when other witnesses in the room think your child must have some sort of flaming rod up his ass, imagine for a moment that you’re short of three years old. You can’t effectively communicate these new volatile feelings because you know a limited set of vocabulary and are now becoming aware of your existence and the inadequacy of your speech.

Of course you would be pissed the hell off too. But that doesn’t make it any more palatable as a parent.

Son #2 and I don’t spend even close to the same amount of time together as Son #1 and I did at this age. Could be the context of life, could be the fact that I’m jaded by the horror stories I’ve heard about his behavior and attitude from wife. She’s had the unique and enjoyable ‘opportunity’ to be at ground zero with Son #2 in some of his most colorful of dispositions. So the horrors of Son #2 melt downs have become somewhat legendary. And with legend comes self fulfilling prophecy. I hear the stories, feel the pain and embarrassment, and know I won’t be tolerant of it so I choose to not put myself in those positions.

So, I’m afraid to take him places and this feeds the cycle of spending limited time together. In August, I took both boys to the Museum of Flight. I almost didn’t take Son #2 because it was near lunch time. And because he’s on a hunger strike against lunch and having low blood sugar turns him into an angry honey badger, I kind of felt that this was the recipe for a catastrophic failure on the order of a star imploding in outer space. The funny thing is that the reputation far exceeds the reality. Results in public with Son #2 are generally quite pleasing as long as he gets to sit in the shopping cart, get a pretzel and a slurpee, carry toys that won’t be purchased and not wear a jacket in the rain. The heightened awareness is the awkwardness we get to experience as a parent just waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop with our high maintenance kids.


You’d think I’d get it; and I do. I’m pretty high maintenance. I get a little worked up over things. Now, I’m not so stubborn that I need to ride in a shopping cart and have pretzel fed to me. I suppose I just hate the fact that I get it. We’re pretty similar. I’m learning to be more tolerant with the outbursts and finding out that it’s only a phase and the payoff in getting is super rewarding.

Playing together is becoming more imaginative and I actually get to be involved. Before, I would sit and watch, not participate, and wait for guidance which would never come. Some of that was due to me being apprehensive and not knowing how to manage his ordered style of play. And some of it was him telling me not to touch his toys. But now, there’s the guidance like, “Dad, you use Tow Mater and I use Ightning.” (That’s Lightning for people who can’t speak Son #2’s incomprehensible dialect) But more importantly, there’s the joy of cooperative play and imagination where we both enjoy creating our story.


Conversations are becoming more fun too. While some things are indiscernible, other stories and diatribes are quite colorfully driven with irrelevance and poor grammar. Some of his latest blurbs of incoherence include the following. And truly comprehend the lunacy of the talk, I have added context around how things were said:

While wearing toy-protective goggles so innocently called ‘swim goggles,’ Son #2 ran laps around the living room of our home making splashing noises. After one not-so-unique lap, he places a cup to his ear and utters, “I hear the ocean!” then continues to run/swim.

On a short drive to his grandparents’ house, we quickly passed by a rather small murky pond. Son #2 announces his observation in an authoritative matter, “Alligators in the pond!” Eager to learn more and understand how this conclusion was reach we ask how he knows. And without pause or moment of introspection he retorts, “I heard them splash.” But it doesn’t end there. He continues to explain, “Dolphins too. I heard them splash.” I think we may need to discuss hunting and escaping with our youngest.

Son #2 also likes to weigh with his opinion on food products. On another trip to his grandparents’ house, a small field which once had several large turkeys is now noticeably empty. Spoken like a true Pilgrim, he tells us, “The turkeys are gone. They’re now in turkey sandwiches!” He must have an penchant for fowl. Unlike his older brother, he’s firmly cognizant of the correlation between chickens which cluck and those that have been deep fried. In what can only be described as a Neanderthal-like commentary, Son #2 advised his mother on his poultry philosophy by saying, “I eat those chickens up like this, chomp chomp chomp.”


So life is awkward for both of us. But the comedy along the way makes up for the anxiety that is prematurely cast on life. He’s learning to be a passionate little boy and express himself. I’m learning to be his uncomfortably awkward and involved father.

My writing has been victimized over the last few months due to having an inordinate amount of time spent on other shit. Being so busy has been a concern and is festering like a boil on the ass of my creativity. As I reviewed past entries for inspiration I realized I was coming up on my 100th entry. I thought to myself, “Self, this has to be a big one.” And then after deliberation with myself which could in fact be considered a moderate level of insanity, I concluded that the rule sets of the modern world ‘define’ milestones like this to be big and in need of a parade and a marching band. So in an effort to go against the grain, I won’t make this a ‘big’ entry.

To be honest, I really don’t know what I intended on discussing in this entry. But as I began to write, I started thinking about creativity. This blog has become my medium for letting go. So maybe, writing has taken place of drawing and dissecting music has taken place of writing it. Not that I’m a great novelist, or even a mediocre music connoisseur, but I do find emotional value in creating and communicating, whether that be in visual, verbal, or aural form. So my outward thinking here is that in my ‘chapter,’ I’m less of a visual artist and more philosophically possessed.

In this instance, music is the topic and my yard stick of growth. That’s not saying, ‘Well I used to listen to gangsta rap in suburbia trying to be a thug and now I listen to Celine Dion and have a dozen kids so I am TOTALLY grown up.’ You’re not grown up if you listen to Celine Dion, you’re just misguided. With adulthood, your ears literally and metaphorically grow and are more open to new sounds. That’s the easy definition. While you may be listening to a more open cross section, I believe that there’s still a subset of music that played a central role in your growth, maturation, and development. You always gravitate back it. That’s the more nebulous definition. Taylor Swift or some other pitiful pop star may be what you tap your toe to while you commute to work; you’re still listening to the substance of your life on your MP3 player later in the day.

If I had to compartmentalize the chapters in my life for measurement, I’d have six buckets: 1. The Youthful-Exuberant years. 2. The Adolescent-Angst years. 3. The Confused-Young-Adult-College-Student years. 4. The New-in-the-Workplace years. 5. The City-of-Angels years. 6. The Adult-Sized-Kid-Now-a-Father years. Unfortunately, I would eliminate buckets 1, 3, and 4. While important, their weighting on the emotional scale is less than buckets 2, 5, and 6. These three remaining buckets, I grew and learned the most about who I was. And hypothetically consistent, I was largely creative in these stages. What I really think back on is how I felt in those stages. The confusion, fear, and helplessness stand out in boxes 2 and 5.

And now in box 6, I find a musical gravitational pull back to boxes 2 and 5. Not so much to relive those years but to reassuringly remind me of the climbing process. I never want to forget how fragile I was and that’s the fabric of my existence. So the ‘chapter’ I exist within now is most obviously box 6. And while I’m ‘happy’ or whatever it’s called, I sometimes wish for a connection back to those years to capture that inspiration out of desperation. Enter the music that lends to the gravitational pull. Maybe I’m not as visually creative as I used to be, but I hope that my introspection in written form paints the picture of growth and travel up a long flight of stairs. With any luck, I can impart the process and its value on Son #1 and #2. I hope I convey to them how important it is to ‘feel’ and not be ashamed to communicate it. There’s peace to you can find in music.

Once again a day late and a dollar short on the music reviews. Every month it’s the same thing, work getting in the way of play. The last few months I’ve been on a clip of working in between 20-25% overtime to just keep my head above water. I wouldn’t say I’m not moving forward, it’s more along the lines of a pot hole or being stuck in a temporary rut. In honor of this temporary impediment to my creative outbursts, I’ll be reviewing a band and an album which harkens back to this very dilemma mentioned above.

Given my sorry state of affairs, it doesn’t seem any more appropriate to review the latest album from the band Middle Class Rut. Yup, pretty descriptive account of my current mental state. Interestingly enough, the band’s music is consistent in emotion and feel for what you would expect from a group of this name. They’re on brand.

“No Name No Color” was released in October of 2010 so it’s not exactly a new album. But it is one that has been slowly growing on me over the last few months. Middle Class Rut is a two-piece alternative rock band from Sacramento, California. Two-piece bands are a strange breed as they need to rely heavily on programmed tracks being they lack numerous musicians. Sometimes this makes for a horribly unmatched yet distinct cornucopia of electronic sounds. And sometimes it’s a perfect blend of cohesive electronic saturation accompanied by live instrumentation.

“No Name No Color” is really their first full-length release despite releasing EPs since 2006. That being said, the lack of material for a comprehensive release could lead to a catastrophic failure due to an incongruence of suitable material. Rather it becomes a hodge-podge of shit. No so here. “No Name No Color” works well from start to finish and is cohesive. There’s also an underlying lyrical theme throughout the album, the struggles of middle class life. The monotony of suburbia and a general struggle to make ends meet seem to be ongoing reference points. No surprise given their name. It is rhythmic and repetitive guitar loops are back by bombastic drums with a sneering voice over the top.

There are three distinctive songs which paint the picture of the album:

Busy Bein’ Born - Vivid lyrically, this track swirls around the challenge of feeling oppressed and controlled by the system. The plodding drum beat and baseline feel like they're marching the listener to the submissive theme of the song. Until the end when the crunchy guitar solo and the lead singer screams about taking back his life. You can feel the shackles being broken.

New Low - I feel like I should be splitting rocks or working on a chain gang while listening to this track. The music feels like I am on the side of the road shoveling dirt. If Cool Hand Luke was alive now, this would be his them song. The theme; every day is worse than the last and you reach a new low.

Dead End - This is by far my favorite song on the album. Punchy drums march you along on the obviousness of the lyrics describing being trapped. You wake up and don't realize how you got here. Now how do you get out. I can imagine this song playing on repeat as I bust down a dirty desert highway in a Plymouth Duster with the windows down as I do some soul searching.

Is this one of my favorite records? Far from it. At times I think it falls victim to itself and the underlying theme of being trapped in middle class challenges. The music is a little repetitive and ‘hooky.’ Which is not necessarily bad as just about everyone in popular music creates a catchy hook first then builds a song around it. Overall, I like the album in safe doses. Like when I’m feeling trapped in my own existence and in a middle class rut. With songs titled "One Debt Away" and "Lifelong Dayshift" capture the theme in its entirety. The band and their product are appropriate.

But you can say this about all music. There’s a time and a place for it. And that’s what makes it unique and special to you. It’s when you hear it and identify with the feelings that have a lasting impression on you. This album ranks up there in memorable moments with many of my favorites just does not represent one of my favorites. The themes I identified with when I first heard it. That meant something to me. And because of that, I would recommend a download of the album for your own listening pleasure. You may not ‘feel’ the same way as me and therefore it may not connect. But at the very least, Middle Class Rut is a talented group and quite entertaining.

This is a test music player because Playlist.com sucks big balls.

You always can feel the end of summer by the increasing frequency of advertisements for back to school shopping, the sunsets that creep up on you earlier each night, and your growing annoyance with your children. Is it time to send these pig headed kids back to school yet? Why yes it is.

This year, Son #1 started first grade; a full day of school where my wife has to get up and prepare a lunch which most likely he’ll never eat. As most things go, my work always seems to draw me in and threatens my opportunity to do things which require personal time and commitment. This time it was Son #1's first day of first grade. Yes maybe kindergarten is a bigger milestone in this age bracket. But this is his first day of full day school. There's a lot of emotion wrapped up in this kid. More than your typical offspring. He was conceived in a time of our life that was full of pain, self destructive and hopeless. And like a Phoenix rising from the proverbial ashes, we found out we were pregnant with him and life was suddenly and eternally altered. We lost our memory on the past which had hardened our hearts and refocused our hope for the future.

Moments like that cannot be accurately or effectively communicated in a blog like this. So much emotion, so much fear, so much loss.....so much hope.

Milestones for Son #1 are that much more amplified because of the context under which he was conceived and born. He represents an iconic and timeless milestone of how far we came and how much he saved two people. In an effort to not drudge up anymore more about the past, let's talk about the first day of first grade.

Work nearly ruined it for me the night before as well as my obligation to meetings and corporate servitude the following day. But that morning, my wife and I got up and took him to school together. Now we had to take two different cars being that I had to get to work. When I didn't hop in my wife's car and into my own instead, Son #1 lost it. Screaming at his mother, he told her in his unique high pitched wale that I was supposed to take him to school.

I'm realizing that we’re entering a stage where his associations with me are growing and he’s yearning to spend every moment with me. Whether that be to learn or to be a little man. I'm learning patience and tolerance when he narrates everything I do like working on redoing the landscaping in the backyard and I aggravate a wrist injury and he continues to talk about it. I'm reminded that he’s learning to be a man and handle what’s thrown his way.


Dropping him off at school, he gravitates toward his friends and we slightly fade into the fray of other parents. You then carry on the small talk with the other parents about how you’re glad to get the kids out of the house and get back into a routine. Secretly, you’re worrying about this new milestone you’re now passing. You’re on the high speed highway of life and there are no off ramps or places to u-turn. I think that’s what scares most parents; that inability to get a redo or a replay. This is the first and last first day of first grade. This memory is unique in that regard and can never be experienced the same way again. Even if Son #1 was a moron and had to repeat first grade, this feeling during this exact moment is unique and is now gone. You are on to the next memory.

On a humorous note, looking around the playground as we wait for the first bell to line these rug rats up, I notice that many of the moms are playing the role. Showing up in the big truck or SUV in their stylish knockoff sunglasses and wearing their new pant set from Buckle even though they’re too old to shop there. The dads that are there are stoic and uncomfortable. Who knows why. Maybe they're uncomfortable because they’re checking out the other moms. I think it's more a fear of the realization that moms can be hot.

Back to the real story. The bell rings and the flurry of short people surround you. They all run into the courtyard between the buildings in an organized chaos. Almost like a mini flash mob of kids on the first day of school. I was waiting for them to break in to some choreographed Lady Gaga song. That never happened. Instead, they all lined up behind their teachers, Son #1 included. Then they marched into the school and into their classrooms and were gone. It was only parents now and well, we had to leave.

On the drive to work, I had one of those surreal ethereal moments where I knew it was best that I pull over to capture it. I have friends with kids that are now being born, kids that are starting preschool, kids that are starting grade school, kids that are starting junior high, and kids going to college. We all are sharing a cumulative moment of first days of school. And while it's a collective sharing of parental firsts, it's uniquely different for all of us. The contextual nature of our story is different from yours.

We all share the same prided and concern over the sands of time slipping through our fingers. But we all differ too in exactly how it connects with our souls. For me personally, it's almost a how did I get here type of concept. Not even seven years ago the landscape of life was much darker. Son #1 gave me hope. Moments like this are uniquely empowering and rewarding all in one instance. You can lose yourself forever in those few seconds.


Traveling up the highway to work, I was caught off guard with how rewarded and fortunate I’ve been over the years. God never gave me more than I could handle. I didn't know it seven years ago. I thought the end was upon me. I was happy and successful, arrogant and greedy. Then I lost a lot. We grounded ourselves and were rewarded with Son #1. Now we continue to be emotionally rewarded.

Let me first just say that this entry breaks the length rule. But it’s necessary to tell the story properly. The last few months have introduced me to the extreme codependence of my employer. Extended days, working from home and a heightened amount of stress have outlined the last 60 to 90 days. I needed a vacation but it almost didn’t happen.

To bring the reader up to speed, I’m writing this while on vacaton. So everything has worked out. But it wasn’t without a little bit of a challenge. At one point, it really seemed like the universe had given us enough signs to give caution to going on this vacation. Let's talk about the signs and the drama just get to where I'm at right now. Lounging on a couch staring at Blackcomb.

SIGN #1:
Every weekend in July, I tried to take either a Monday or a Friday off to extend my weekend. After all we’re redoing the landscaping in our backyard and I needed to get some shit done before it started raining again. Needless to say, the first sign was that I never got a day off. And more importantly, I actually worked most of those weekends. This trend didn't bode well for getting a complete week off in August.

While my peeps at work were telling me to get away and my friends and family were warning me about my degrading attitude, I still felt the need from my management to nearly call off the vacation. Fortunately, I didn't. But things then got more interesting. Working nonstop limits how much you can prepare for your trip and how much you can session your DH bike given the fact that you’ll be heading to Whistler for some summer shredding. So I didn’t plan for anything except for making sure that our reservations were made at our condo. After all we’re buying the place.

SIGN #2:
Late one night at the end of July, I was sitting and playing a little bit of Lego Harry Potter when my wife came home from her family reunion dance. She had picked up the mail from the mail box and there was a little surprise in it for me. Jury summons for the week we were supposed to be on vacation. Are you kidding me? Not only can I not get a day off but now my government thinks I have civic duty to preempt my escape from the real world.

SIGN #3:
The Saturday before we needed to leave, we needed to gather up all of our international travel documents and pack our shit. That morning I pulled out the boys’ birth certificates and our passports. For some unknown reason, I opened them and took a peak. What the hell? They are both expired. Mine in April and my wife's in August. For a quick moment, I thought about just going and saying fuck it. But realistically I better try and fix this. Getting to fix an expired passport on a Saturday is a pain in the ass.

SIGN #4:
I found three companies that can expedite the process. I called all three. Two were closed and the third said if I could get my paperwork in by 1pm (it was currently 8am) they could have the new passports to us by Tuesday. Good plan in theory, but let's talk about the price of such a service. One day turnaround around was $299 per passport + $110 for the passport + $60 for the State Department to expedite the process. $470 per passport just to get them by Tuesday. It really started to look like we weren't going to go.

SIGN #5:
So we started thinking about alternative plans. We could get an enhanced drivers license. The DOL opened at 8:30am so we rushed to get out of the house and down to the local office. We got there and were greeted with approximately an hour wait. Finally our numbers were called and we stepped up to the desk. The whole process of getting an EDL is two phases. After an hour wait, we filled out paperwork, then waited another hour to finalize the paperwork and get our picture taken. The moment of truth was upon us, after we had our picture taken, we were handed our temporary paper EDLs and a punched WA DL. Then we were told that the temporary EDL couldn’t be used to cross the border.

SIGN #6:
We just wasted over two hours in our schedule and didn’t fix our travel dilemma. We knew that we still needed to renew our passports so it made sense to at least get our new passport pictures whether we expedited things or not. Secretly, I was really leaning toward doing it. I wanted this vacation. But after the DOL, we were pinched for time. The UPS store could help us with the pictures. We headed there and get our pictures taken. We waited for them print and were struck by another sign. My wife's printed but then the store ran out of photo paper and couldn't print mine.

SIGN #7:
The UPS store told us Walgreens across the street could help us. Over to Walgreens. We joked that if there was one more sign, we have to believe it wasn't meant to be. Walking in to the photo department of Walgreens there was an employee cussing and hitting a photo machine. We thought it would be funny if it was the machine that printed passport photos. It was. Needless to say, we eventually got my passport pictures and headed on our way. This last sign put us past the 1pm deadline and we began to believe that the trip wasn't going to happen.

There was still one last thing to do. Call the border. I wanted to be sure that we could or couldn't get into Canada and then return to the US with the cornucopia of documents. Believe it or not, we were able to get a hold of US Customs. Two officers confirmed that if we could prove our citizenship, there’d be no way they’d refuse us entry into our homeland. We felt like we had enough and the officers agreed. Now to call Canada. Go figure, we found only one number for Canada and they were closed on Saturday. So we called US Customs again and asked if they had a phone number for their counter pas. Interestingly, the officer said that Canada wouldn't care and to go for it.

Not strong enough of an answer. My in-laws were in Canada during this. Out of support, they asked the front desk of the hotel about required documents. The front desk said a passport was required to enter and exit Canada. This was consistent with the WHTI. But they weren’t done there. They also asked Canadian customs. It was determined that to enter Canada, as a US citizen, you only need a birth certificate and a picture ID to get in. But it really comes down to individual border officers and their attitude. Catch one on a bad day and you could be stuck.

SIGN #8:
So really, it came down to a gut check. Do we feel comfortable loading everything up, heading to the border, and tempting fate for an answer? It had seemed that the universe didn't want us to go. We slept on it and intended on getting up on Sunday morning and making a decision. Well I got up, everyone else slept in. At about 9am after counsel from a friend and then from my mother, it seemed like I needed one more sign and that could only be read at the Canadian border. So we loaded up and left three hours later than I had hoped.

With the all ready heightened level of anxiety about the impending lack of appropriate paperwork and the overall anticipation of an awkward border conversation, we encounter a wicked web of traffic in both the Renton and Everett areas which bring our trip to an abrupt halt. Is this traffic jam another sign that we are choosing to avoid? We acknowledge it and patiently move on knowing that the true test of the conviction of the universe and its animosity toward our vacation waits only miles away.

When we got to the border we realized that the entire state of Washington was there too. And apparently, all of these drivers want to be in my lane. So there we are, waiting to plead our case with a Canadian border agent with expired and temporary documentation, unwillingly letting people pull in front of us due to their lack of driving skill, and secretly hoping for approved passage into the Great White North.

The suspense of waiting while talking to the border agent was petrifying. But after a few simple questions about firearms and pepper spray, we moved on into Canada. We made it. So tempting fate and taking the 150 mile leap of faith for possible disappointment and the potential unfortunate chance of being Debby downer and becoming an absolute ass to my family if this would have been an unsuccessful journey was worth it.

We kept on driving and eventually made it in decent time considering our late start. We only had one melt down by Son #2 as well. About 25 km from whistler (keeping it metric because we're in Canada) he just lost it. He was done with driving and wanted out of the car. Needless to say it was the longest and loudest 25 km of my life.

The whole process made picking up our condo keys that much more meaningful. The literal and figurative journeys were full of land mines and potential disappointments. Apparently, you got to work for what you want even when all signs would indicate disappointment. That's not to say this works in all situations. But I will say that I’m glad we stuck with it and took the chance.

The next big challenge is leaving the peace of this place and journeying back to the US border. Without proper documentation, who knows what can happen. We could be trapped here. I guess I better get a Canadian tuxedo so I can fit in.

UPDATE:
After an uneventful southbound trip to the US Border, we were greeted with only a 60 minute wait. In actuality, we hit the border at the right time by chance. Additionally, we hit the correct lane for coming back too. The US Border officer was pleasant and let us through despite our expired passports and temporary driver’s licenses. She actually said, “Welcome home” as we passed through. Despite all of the signs which appeared to be negative, we were able to have our vacation, I shredded the mountain, and we were able to get back to our homeland with no stress and anxiety; all with the incorrect paperwork. Here’s to breaking the rules and taking chances.

What I’m learning while busy performing superhero-like airframe saving activities is that if I don’t shoehorn my vacation into the corporate schedule, I’ll never get a moment to enjoy my summer, or even wipe my own ass. Over the last month or two, I’ve squinted more due to the screen of my laptop more than the glare of the summer sun. All that being said, I forced the hand of the Man and took time off to spend the day with my children.

With my wife out of town, I relied on my parents to cover for me while I was shackled to my desk. However, I was able to get Friday off from the office. I had big plans for the boys and me. We never really get that uninterrupted alone time to be together. Some of it is that we typically do functions as a family unit, I’m generally overworked, and Son #2 is a chore to take out in public when he’s awake.

On Thursday, I had the honor of waiting until about midnight until I fully knew I had Friday off. Fortunately, things lined up and I was able to spend some absolutely great time with my two sons. Good thing too because I had all ready thrown down the opportunity to my oldest son to go to the Museum of Flight. As I loaded both boys in my car that morning, I worried about the youngest because this could have been on hell of challenge if he made his mind up that this wasn’t where he wanted to be.

I packed the stroller for Son #2 because it effectively works as a wheeled personal immobilization device. I could keep him contained if shit got crazy. Both boys, especially Son #1 were in awe over all of the aircraft in the museum. Son #2 was even let out of his containment device to climb on aircraft and spread his proverbial wings. We had a blast checking everything out. Son #1 really liked the WWI aircraft and the children’s section where he could fold paper airplanes. Both kids really enjoyed the experience so much that they were bummed when I suggested we leave. I could sense the fatigue in them and to avoid a cosmic meltdown, I suggested we go to the gift shop and then on the lunch.

The gift shop only cost me two die cast aircraft, an AA DC-10 and the Space Shuttle. The lunchtime decision from Son #2 was for chocky milkshakes at McDonald’s. Of course, I’m very focused on nutrition so I made sure these shakes were complemented with French fries and chicken nuggets in all of their deep fried goodness. We opted to transit through the drive thru and head back to the grandparents’ house. To this point, everything was great. Obedient and content kids. A patient father. As we approached the point of ordering, I made one request of them, “Don’t get into combat in my backseat when we have to order. I want to be able to order without the threat of nuclear war.”


Consider that last sentence in to foreshadowing of what happened next. No sooner did the drive thru jockey say ‘Welcome to McDonald’s’ when Son #2 let out a blood curdling scream. I was sure Son #1 did something to him so they both got a love tap. So I ordered lunch for us all but couldn’t hear one word that the dude on the other end of the intercom said. To make matters just a little bit worse, I told Son #1 since he made his younger brother scream, that he wouldn’t receive lunch. I suppose that didn’t help the moment. Ultimately, we all calmed down and drank our milkshakes and ate our French fries.

On to the next day, where we had a lesson on how to pour a new concrete slab for the patio in the backyard. Both boys contributed by staying out of the way and not stepping in the wet concrete. The only moment where there could have been an emergency room trip is when Son #2 decided to hang on the side of the wheel barrow full of rock which caused it to tip. As it tumbled over, we had a near miss of the little boy. The whole experience scared the shit out of him but we had no casualties.

Later that night, the three of us hopped up on the couch and watched a bike movie. I’m always blown away by how intensely they watch my bike movies. As we watched, we talked about our upcoming vacation to Whistler. It’s a week away and we’re all really excited. Especially me. Son #1 is counting down the days just like me now. And as predictable as rain in Seattle, Son #1 was hungry. When asked what he’d like to have for dinner, he emphatically answered, “TOSTADAS!”


Even Son #2 was on board too and excited for tostadas. Over dinner, we talked more about the upcoming vacation. But the real conversation revolved around how we really love tostadas and these were the ‘best’ we ever ate. Because they were so good, the conversation took a turn to how many tostadas either of us could eat. While Son #1 never explicitly declared a quantity, he made work of about six Son #1-sized tostadas. Not bad work. Because of his championship eating pedigree, he chose to challenge me. As I walked back in to the kitchen to prepare another for myself, Son #1 stepped up his game and told me that there was no way I could eat ‘infinity and beyond’ tostadas.

That sounds like a challenge. But little did he know that despite his overzealous challenge to his old man, he didn’t clarify a time to achieve such a lofty milestone. I’ll hit that mark, even if it takes forever.

It was a great weekend with my boys. It’s hard to be a working dad and have the energy to pull off fun and guidance when you’re buried in your day to day work. You bring that stress home and it consumes you to a point where you are nearly blind to the subtleties of life’s little miracles. I was lucky this weekend to impede my obsession with monitoring my work. I focused solely on them. And the one thing I noticed over the past days was that Son #1 monitors me, my actions, what I say, what I do, and where I am. He’s getting to be a little boy that needs more of ‘me’ in his life. And while I’m always here and around him, it’s more about the guidance and confidence a father can give a son. He’s much more in tune with who I am these days. That being said, it made it even more powerful to be with him this weekend and have so much fun.

It’s a fairly routine occurrence that something so uniquely petrifying happens. However, it’s not often that you have a chance to write it down. Typically, those random occurrences happen at times when you don’t have the opportunity to even scribble it down in some sort of legible and comprehensible format. Because of that, I usually have to rely on my less-than-reliable memory of the context hours and sometimes days later. My recall then comes into question and I can leave out some integral piece of the story so that during the retell, it makes absolutely no sense.

No worries about that tonight as I’m writing in raw format from something Son #2 did and the effect it left on my wife, myself, and unfortunately for him, Son #1. Now I’ll most likely post this entry a day later, but imagine for a moment you’re in our home, after dinner, on a sunny early evening. The boys have just finished playing outside and I’ve finished tuning my bike in the garage.

To set this up appropriately, I must also set the emotional mood of the evening. An hour earlier, following dinner, which by the way Son #2 wanted nothing to do with, my wife made smores for our consumption in the warm summer air. During this sunset in July, Son #1 and #2 lost their collective minds while eating smores. I don’t mean they were on a sugar high and bouncing off lawn furniture or fence posts. What I mean is that they lost it when melting chocolate and marshmallows oozed onto their manual extremities. You see, neither child likes ‘stuff’ on their hands. With melted, albeit not hot, chocolate on their hands, both kids screeched for help and napkins. Son #1 proclaimed his hatred for such a camping desert. Son #2 bee-lined to the hose and begged for it to be pressurized with water to cleanse his hands.

Keep in mind that both of these children will paint themselves and submerge themselves in mud puddles. So I wouldn’t have expected such an extreme reaction from a confectionary delight such as chocolate, let alone the camping delicacy known as a smore.

So let’s fast forward to bedtime. Both boys know the drill. When it’s time, it’s time. Arguing isn’t allowed but this never stops Son #1 from throwing a fit which I can only equate to spasmatic fish flop like bamboo chutes were under his nails and hot sauce was doused in his eyes. Instead, it’s just the catalyst of bedtime causing the disturbance. Now he’s hungry. Now he’s thirsty. Now he has a sore throat. Now the birds are chirping. Now the garage door is open. The list of reasons goes on. But after we interrupt and let him know that no excuse is going to alter our edict for bedtime, he loses his flipping mind. Remember my description of the fish flop above? Imagine that in a spare bathroom on the cold hard floor. Flailing, he lists his excuses and falls into an unintelligible crying and screaming fit. As he stumbles out of the latrine, Son #2 watches by innocently. Clearly the gears are turning. And then it happens.

Son #2 saunters up to Son #1 while he’s in his strike against being tucked in. And at that moment I honestly thought Son #2 was going to exhibit some sort of compassion for his older brother and console him during the outburst. I couldn’t be more wrong. Son #2 casually approaches in his best I’m-not-going-to-do-anything-wrong posture, stops and points right in his screeching brother’s face and says, “Faking it!”

Son #1 yells back that he’s not. Undaunted by the volume of Son #1 and the threat of dismemberment, Son #2 repeats in the same tone, “Faking It!” At that moment, the wheels fell off and Son #1 began swinging. Nothing connected except for his ass onto a common location in our house for time-outs. Again, Son #2 says, “Faking it!” If it weren’t for Son #1 trying to get all Sugar Ray Leonard on Son #2; I probably would’ve pissed myself. My wife took the younger boy upstairs for bedtime, as passed his older brother; he said it one more time. This left me with a combustible screaming and crying six year old whose feelings are now hurt and his throat is sore. Again, Son #1 makes excuses why he can’t go to bed and how he needs a snack. And in the distance from a floor and rooms apart, I hear the faint, “Faking it!” from Son #2. Here we go again.
With what felt like a month of trying to defuse Son #1, I’m left to just chuckle at Son #2 and his unique ability to push the right buttons on his brother. Son #2 is a jack ass. And I mean that in the most complimentary term of endearment. He couldn’t be any more like me. And while I’ve written a ton about Son #1 here in this entry, you can’t escape the fact that Son #2 is great at getting under your skin. He has the innate gift of something that will piss his brother off. I’ve heard him say things like “Angry!” to provoke his older brother but this was the first time I’ve ever seen him use a diversionary tactic of innocent compassion and approach within striking distance to point right in his older brother’s face and say something as aggravating as “Faking it!” in such a sweet high pitched voice like only a 2 year old can do.

The last few months I’ve been a little delinquent in providing my colorful summarizations of my family life. This is due to the increased neediness of my employer. As of late, it seems like a majority of our workforce are becoming increasingly inept at answering their own questions. As a result, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time answering phones calls, emails, and drop in visits. My evenings at home are spent trying to catch up on my longer term projects to make progress and not get demoted.

So my creative writing time has been victimized by the man once again.

But I have a few topics about Son #1 that I just need some time to get after. And tonight, after checking my work email, I reached a critical mass on it all. No work tonight, let’s write a little something that puts the value of the innocent conversations with Son #1 in perspective.


Today’s entry is about the little gems that Son #1 innocently yields in conversation and sometimes in a cold and calculated way. If you spend enough time or observe from a safe distance (which I recommend), you’ll begin to understand that he has an innate way of capturing the moment. And typically, it’s an uncanny set of words that may not work in the classic form of grammatical rules but strangely pass for catchy phrases that emphatically communicate a specific cognitive thought or emotion.

If you have at least two kids, you’ve most likely experienced the ugly reality between your kids that is competition. It’s over everything; pop tarts, fish crackers, squirt guns, buckets, blankets, stuffed animal rats, and toothbrushes. So this may be more of my personal experience on this matter. Our two kids are generally pretty good friends and typically share with each other. It usually works out well because Son #1 likes to play with Son #2’s toys and Son #2 likes to play with Son #1’s toys. However, there’s the occasional occurrence when both want what the other has. The result isn’t pretty. Typically, there’s a physical confrontation with the younger instigating and poking the older usually goading by saying,”Angry, angry, angry.” What happens next is the older shoving, pushing, or hitting the younger. There’s an awkward moment of silence and then the younger begins waling and his tears flow like the mighty Mississippi. At that point, you hear Son #1 in a loud and projecting voice, “What’s wrong?” The fact that there’s screaming followed by a voice that’s purposefully loud for adults to hear incriminates Son #1. Anytime you hear, “What’s wrong?” in a projecting voice, you can be sure the older blasted the younger. Of course, he will deny it.

Son #1 wasn’t born with the gift of grace. One would say that he has his mother’s sea legs. The poor kid just has the worst luck when it comes to walking, running, or standing. It’s not that he lacks athletic ability. It’s quite the opposite. He’s got a motor that doesn’t quit. The real problem is that he and inanimate (and immobile) objects are his sworn enemies. To complicate matters, he and his younger brother are compelled to run laps around the first floor of our home. This can be disastrous given the walls, corners, furniture, and floors. That’s right. I said floors. But you can substitute in any horizontal walking surface. Floor, ground, sidewalks, etc. Here’s how things play out; Son #1 and Son #2 decide to ‘race’ each other. With each lap around the house, the level of excitement is noted by the increase in the volume of the screeching. This increased volume is directly proportional to the decrease in situational awareness. The next is what I like to term, ‘man-down.’ For some reason, the floor reaches up and grabs him and hurls him to the Earth. It’s hard to not laugh but that only makes the situation worse. Son #1 takes no accountability and quickly blames the floor, “Bad floor!” If it’s a chair, it’s “Bad chair!” I think you get the theme here. I’ll give him this, he can yell loud. He goes from zero to pissed off in seconds after the floor or chair grabs him.

It’s not always about causing diversionary tactics by suggesting his younger brother has some sort of malady or about casting blame on inanimate objects due to his lack of spatial awareness. Sometimes it’s about coining new phrases that can be used in every day vernacular regardless of context. Son #1 doesn’t do this by design. It’s quite the opposite. In fact, he has a tendency to sit and mumble unintelligible words, sounds and gibberish over and over again while he sits next to you, eats at the dinner table, or rides in the car. It’s flippin' annoying. BUT…(and we all like big buts)…Son #1 has the knack of creating annoying jingles and slogans. A couple weeks back on some nondescript night, I was whipping up a gourmet dinner of chicken strips and French fires while Son #1 was jabbering away in the living room working on a creative project. And whether he had an accident or not I don’t know, all I heard was a high pitched cartoon-like sound of him screeching, “Uh-oh my pants!” Now it wasn’t in terror or concern. It was in humor over his accident and sounded like a robot chipmunk geeked out on jet fuel. And it’s not that he did anything to his pants, but when I heard the phrase, I pissed myself with laughter which only made him say it again and again. The truly funny part of it all is how “Uh-oh my pants!” is an applicable exclamation in all social situations no matter what the context. Think. You are at the bar and annoying fat girl is talking your ear off. “Uh-oh my pants!” and you’re out of there. At Thanksgiving dinner and you don’t like the gravy. “Uh-oh my pants!” and you’re back in the living room watching the football game. Your wife wants you to wash the dishes, “Uh-oh my pants!” and you’re in the safety of your own space.


Words. That’s what Son #1 is about. Saying and using words; in a calculated and sometimes unintelligible way. Some I can't even write here which is pretty awesome. I guess I’m not all that different.

When you have your own blog, you have the opportunity to express your opinion quite easily to all who would dare to read your words. When it comes to music reviews, I am neither an expert nor a novice. However, I tend to lean toward a bias of reviewing new additions to our music catalog that I like. Rarely, maybe even never, do I spend much time or exert much energy on something musical I don’t like. But that’s not fair to the music that sucks. It too deserves the right of me providing some opinionated nondescript review.

So this time around, I’m going to review an album, which despite how infectious and saccharine-enriched the songs are, the overall theme and execution are downright annoyingly predictable and consistent.

It all starts with the overly sensationalized ratings killing “Dancing with the Stars.” Yes. I watch this show. Often? Not so much. But I’m drawn to the scantily clad women moving rhythmically to a talented band that typically ruins a pop music tune during the performance. Consistent with previous seasons, we find some ridiculous untalented stars paired with some talented pros. But there’s an exception to the rule. Enter Mark Ballas pro dancer extraordinaire. Birthed from two international champion dancers, the guy was destined to shimmy on the national stage. The dude is talented. However, according to my wife, he takes too many opportunities to expose his abdomen. Can we get this from the ladies too? Where’s the fairness?

Anyway. “Dancing with the Stars” is on ABC, owned by Disney. This tends to work in the Mouse-driven conglomerate’s favor when trying to woo young starlets to the dance floor. Now enter the bouncy Chelsea Kane, the Disney youth formally known as Chelsea Straub. Paired with Mr. Ballas, they have quite the chemistry. Ballas choreographs and Kane nails it. It helps that she’s a cutie. In recent competition, the duo parlayed a cha cha, limbo, fox trot, or paso to a catchy tune which hooked her name.

I’m thinking to myself, “she’s cute and has a song named after her, this band must know something.” So I research the song and the band and discover it’s a little group called The Summer Set. Thinking that it can’t be all that bad, I resort to downloading the torrent.


Let’s get into the sonic discussion of The Summer Set and their album “Love Like This.”

Just like most pop music of the day, it could be Lady Gaga, Kesha, Pink music and beats, heavy Euro-synth, and with some auto-tuned voice on top. Basically, this isn’t all that original. It’s like the pop formula of the day. It’s Mickey Mouse as a carbon based life form. Take a group of cute kids, maybe 18-23. Give them instruments. Get an old white dude recording engineer. Get some serious electronic equipment to develop and sculpt the sound. Get the most photogenic with the whiniest over-hyped rodent-like voice to lead them into battle. Lastly, make sure you always start with a catchy hook and then build the song around it. Rinse and repeat for eleven or so tracks.

Chelsea – This is the aforementioned track that got me to burn bandwidth and download this pack of Skittles dipped in syrup smothered in sugar and then coated in Magic Shell. This is by far the best candy bar in the box. Nothing unique; childhood obsession with a Mouseketeer. Come on. We all have been there. Your dad likes Annette Funicello and you like Brittany Spears as do many old men and your wife likes Justin Timberlake.



This is How We Live – On another level over indulgence, this track is bonafied bragging at your highs school reunion. It’s no Lil Wayne song about how ghetto he is. This is ex-high school, Mouseketeer wanna-be’s telling you about their ripped jeans and living their dreams. OK, it’s a little narcissistic and addictive to listen to.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s happy happy joy joy but every track is so similar to the one before it and after it. It’s an ambiguous amalgamation of electronic beats and youthful piercing voices yearning for understanding why their high school crush won’t go with them to the senior prom.

The Summer Set’s “Love Like This” has an undeniable cotton candy charm, and those not averse to sugary-sweet jams will find themselves tapping their toes and singing along to all 13 tracks. Hell, I actually listen to it and feel my teeth rotting from the high fructose corn syrup saturated music dripping down my ear canal.

The group’s first LP, "Love Like This," is definitely a solid venture, and a testament to the troupe’s seemingly boundless knack for writing killer pop anthems. Listening to “Love Like This” isn’t going to bolster anyone’s street cred, but it’s a promising collection of charming sugary ju-ju-bees from this band dead set on turning your ears into over indulged saccharine. Cavity creeps attacking.

People often ask me, “How did you become so awesome?” Flattered, I take a moment usually to bask in the glow of the adoration of my awesomeness. And then I supply a heartfelt answer explaining to them that it’s a constant work in progress to be awesome. And with hard work, perseverance, and persistence, they too can reach a level of awesomeness. Now it helps to be born with awesome. You see, with a foundation of awesome, you can attain unattainable levels of awesome that those not born with awesome can achieve.


Awesome is like being able to slam dunk a basketball. You see, everyone can shoot a basket and even become a marginally decent basketball player. If you suck at shooting, you can just stand in the way in the key and play defense. But the slam dunk is the pinnacle of the sporting art form of basketball. Being able to dunk gives you a little edge. It’s the competitive advantage that you have in the sport just like the advantage being awesome gives you in your everyday life.


Now remember, being awesome isn’t an easy task, and there are many ways that a person can have their awesomeness revoked. Again, being awesome isn’t something you’re necessarily born with; it's something you are because you choose to be. How do I know this you ask? Because I'm awesome. Now, let's venture into the world of awesome and see just how far off you are. Here are 11 easy steps to boost you into awesomeness:

1. Make a list of the qualities you think are awesome in others. Ask yourself why you think these things are awesome. Is it something you can attain in yourself? If not, is there something more awesome you could do?

2. From your awesome list, pick at least one amazing skill and refine it. Mine is reciting the alphabet backwards while blindfolded and holding a baby.

3. Be optimistic. If you start realizing life is good, then you're that much closer to being awesome. Try thinking of how much worse life could be without being awesome. When I’m sad, I stop being sad and start being awesome.

4. Try to create the awesome things you love. People will know instinctively that someone who creates things is awesome.

5. Listen to awesome music and don't be afraid to rock out to it. And if you do it in public, some might think you're crazy, but there's also the possibility that others will think you're awesome for dancing. For example, anytime Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey comes on, awesome fist pumps are what I do.

6. Get yourself an awesome theme song. This is like what you would listen to before a big game or going out to pick up on the ladies. Listen to the tunes on this blog. They’re good examples of awesome theme songs.

7. Don't be afraid of what other people think. There are six billion people on the planet so there’s no way that you can get along or please everyone. Instead concentrate on being awesome to your friends and family.

8. Get yourself some awesome clothes; awesome to you, not necessarily to the world. An awesome person makes his outfit awesome and not the other way around.

9. If you aren't the best looking guy out there, develop your sense of humor. People love jokes, especially coming from an ugly dude. Brightens up everyone's day.

10. Get yourself a catch phrase. Awesome people always say awesome stuff. Think about it. "Did I do that..?!" How awesome was Urkel?!

11. Tell everyone that you’re totally awesome. Confidence is crucial to being awesome, so always believe in yourself, even if you aren't.


Follow these steps as if they were gospel. It’s like the Gospel of Awesome and I’m your prophet. While being born awesome is helpful, remember that being awesome is a choice. Maybe you’re worried that this is the old awesome. This isn’t the Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure type of awesome. Now that was a good awesome though. Also, it’s not the cool guy pretentious jerk wad version of awesome. This is a highly evolved version of awesome. Awesome has staying power like Rolling Stones but not like Aerosmith. Look at Mick Jagger; he’s pretty awesome for an old dude. Steven Tyler isn’t awesome.


Like I said above, there are things which you shouldn’t do that will rot the awesome right out of you or impede you on the journey to awesome. For instance, if you’re complaining or whining, just remember, you could be being awesome instead. I’m not sure why but it seems that a ton of people are becoming very negative. They whine on TV, they whine on Talk Radio, they whine on blogs and on Facebook, and they whine to others. This isn’t constructive or positive. Therefore it’s not awesome. If you catch yourself in one of those downward spirals of complaining or whining, stop and think about the fact this way of thinking and behavior is keeping you from being awesome. Being awesome is that easy.

Stupid month of April. Since 2004, April has been a month I’d have gladly dropped off of the calendar year. It’s a thorn in my side. The plague of my existence. The floater in my cold beer. Nothing good ever seems to happen in April. And because of that, I want it removed from the calendar. Can’t I just skip over it? To most, this will come as me just ranting about a month that typically is wetter than most in the Pacific Northwest. I’d imagine that folks will infer that because I so vehemently loathe the rain that this would be my rallying cry for such a monthly removal exercise. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. While I hate the rain, the dreary seasonal effects of the month were merely a small visage on the overall horrific sight of a less than stellar month.

Everything in April seems to be intimately tied together in some sort of wicked network of drama. So where do I start?


Let’s start with work. No defamation of the company here. The concern is the flat-out over abundance of work statement that’s absolutely impossible to complete given the unavailability of resource. Most specifically, time. There’s just not enough time to do everything. Oh yes, but overtime is approved. And then the commute hasn’t helped either. I’ve had meetings, obligations, and appointments in far off reaches of King County forcing me to drive to work rather than commute on the beloved train. So now I’m driving from the middle of nowhere (home) to the middle of somewhere (work) and there’s only one way to get there; on an over congested highway. Awesome. Traffic. Washington drivers. So the whole work life-commute-run errands-attend meetings-finish work-head to an appointment-and commute home again thing has me a little frustrated with April.


Moving on. April sucks for health reasons too. I’d imagine that my frantic schedule hasn’t helped. So I’ve been taking my vitamins, getting more sleep than usual, and even drinking more water than beer. But in an uninteresting reversal of fortune, our entire household came down with the stomach flu. I won’t painstakingly go into colorful vomit-like detail, but I’ll give you the low points of the week. The first of the week, I think I’m ahead of the game, feel some congestion, and go to bed early. No more than an hour later, Son #1 is up looking for comfort as he’s heaving up his Spaghettio dinner on the carpet. Awesome. Time to clean the carpet. Son #1 was resilient; he puked for 24 hours and moved on. Son #2 and my wife faired differently. It involved a few more days of discomfort and output in dual directions. Son #2 puked on the couch. And at the very least, the numerical equivalent in towels furnished in the entire MGM Grand hotel was used. So I was doing laundry. A lot.

I never got pukey, but I can say there was one day that I didn’t think I was going to make it and ate a total of five saltine crackers just to see if I could puke and feel better. No such luck. After a doc appointment, I learned that not only did I have the flu, but the sinus infection from January never went away. But the last item to mention here is really the first thing to happen a week earlier. And that was fainting in the bathroom only to wake up flat on my back on the floor with one hell of a headache. Nothing like a minor concussion in the early weeks of April to set the mood right.


You know I can’t let the weather escape this disgruntled diatribe. So the rain is pissing me off. What’s the deal with having 2x the monthly average for April rainfall in the first two weeks? Now I’ve heard of ‘April showers’ but this volume of rain is ridiculous. It makes horrible drivers even worse. It makes waiting for the train shitty. I can’t ride my bike during the monsoon and even when there’s a break in the storm, local trail networks are rivers. Speaking of under water, the downpour transformed my backyard into the Dagobah swamp. I wouldn’t be surprised to find an X-Wing fighter submerged in the muddy mess. All in all, it’s ruined my all ready piss pour mood. I suppose it doesn’t matter because I’ve been sick anyway.

April can suck it. I remember April 2003 being great. I just got engaged and bought my first home in Long Beach. I was on top of the world in a dead-end job but it didn’t matter. I had great friends, it was sunny, and I could barbeque every day of the year. Now if I go outside this April I’m swimming across the yard to check the mail. I hate swimming.


I’m going to write my congressman and lobby for the removal of the month of April from the calendar. The way I see it, there’s enough days in April to spread across 30 weekends of the year. We could make a three day weekend out of 30 weekends of our choice by adding a day from April to them. Now there are about four weeks in April so instead of having 52 weeks a year, we would now have 48. That gives us 48 weekends that we look for in our tragic existence. We could make 30 of those 48 weekends a little more enjoyable by adding a day to them. What about the other 18? Who cares? I’m willing to overlook 18 two-day weekends for 30 three-day weekends. This alternative is much more interesting and appealing than the month of April.


Those with special days in the soon-to-be-removed month of April will receive a two-for-one day in the remaining months of your choice. Please submit your choices in writing to your congressman or woman.