Inspiration always seems to come at the most inopportune times. I used to spend hours and hours in my studio drawing and sketching. Music blasting in my headphones, I’d come up with the next wheel design or tattoo. Unfortunately, those cathartic moments are gone just like the studio in that old rental house in Long Beach. I draw a lot less now; almost never. What’s taken up my time are my boys and the off shoots in writing that you find here. I’ve swapped drawing and sketching for observing and writing. And I’m learning to be OK with this.

Back to inspiration and its timing. I was on the train heading to the office when something new and refreshing graced my eardrums. Thanks to Adrenalina for connecting me to this group. The song reminded me how powerful your network of friends and family can be in your life. I was caught up in the moment with the most pure appreciation for my friends and family who have supported me over and over in my life. This song had the power to replay all of those great memories with friends and family I’ve had along the way. And in that moment, I was so inspired by you all. But I couldn’t write anything as I was being audited by a fare enforcement officer to ensure I wasn’t freeloading a train ride to Tukwila at 5:30AM.

So here I am now, wanting to rekindle that inspiration, that vision, to put something reflective of how fortunate I feel for having absolutely the greatest friends. The song playing here on this entry is for you all and the journey we’ve taken together in my circus-like life:

“Brotherhood “ is a term that’s used too loosely in conversations about fraternities. You really comprehend the roots of true brotherhood when mass perception and the system are against you. There’s a galvanization when you and your closest group of brothers have a realization and are laser-focused on building a bond which outlasts time and withstands all collegiate challenges. To my brothers in my fraternity, we are bound for life by the Phi, the Kappa, and the Theta. We took turns steering the ship to its greatness. And while the years of life have separated us from the basement parties in our house and Hoodstock, we are just who we always were; Brothers.


He often calls me his spiritual advisor. And the first time he referred to me as this we were sitting at a little hut perched on a beach in Negril, Jamaica eating grilled cheese sandwiches and drinking Red Stripe. I don’t take this title lightly. Strangely enough, he allowed me to jump up on my soap box that day and whip his ass back into shape. We knew each other for no longer than a flight to Jamaica and the bus ride to Negril. Still, there was a connection deeper than I could ever understand. We occasionally reflect back on that first conversation and it reminds us how far we’ve come. We grew up but we’re still those two drunk dudes finding their strength to get back up and ride that donkey. He still introduces me to people as his spiritual advisor. And while there’s humor in it, I’ve found that his advice to me is as equally as empowering to me as mine is to him.


How do you stop a 6’4” angry drunk guy from hopping in his car and driving off because a chick wouldn’t give him her phone number? Lie down in front of the car on the cold wet Seattle pavement. Sometimes you do things with a reckless abandon that people question your sanity. And sometimes, you don’t think but react in a way that’s reflective of the respect and admiration you have for someone. And that’s what happened to me that night. I knew I wasn’t going to let him drive away that night. He was going to have to kill me first to do it. It was out of admiration that subconsciously taught us a hard lesson on friendship. We do this together. Always. Years have passed and well…..I married his sister and now we’re brothers.


In our lifetime, the internet has electronically made the world smaller. We have FB and so many networks that keep us engaged in each other’s lives. Before all of that, there were forums and chat rooms. Who would’ve thought that a forum about Gen5 Honda Preludes would introduce me to a friend that clearly is one of the few kindred spirits my soul has traveled with from the beginning. One car club meeting in Richmond BC reintroduced our spirits. And with that, the next 14 years blew through our lives like a hurricane. Great lengths of time sometimes separated our talks. However, we always had a confidence in the ability for the next conversation to level set us. And while I would never wish the setbacks he and I have had in each of our personal lives on anyone, I can confidently say that those episodes have added a complex web of trust and friendship deeper than any social network.


I don’t know too many people who’d drive from Long Beach to LAX at 1:30am on work night to pick up his roommate (me). I actually know one guy who did that just for me. Coming back from a Washington wedding late, he was waiting curbside for me to haul my ass back to our trashy rental in LB. And while the dude was abrasive and had an eternal pissed off attitude like he’d been listening to Pennywise far too long, he was always a loyal and dedicated friend in even the most thankless moments. I’m proud to know him and to have had those nights in Belmont Shore trolling cougars before it was cool. And now he’s married to a great girl and they have two wonderful kids. Even angst ridden young punks grow up to be great friends and successful adults.


Family can be a curse or an advocate; sometimes both at the same time. Sitting in my mom and dad’s house with my God-sisters and their families, I was humbly reminded of the support I have in them. I was also reminded by my oldest sister that at an early age I wasn’t a fan of the happy birthday song and hid under a table. But those memories with my sisters are priceless. We don’t get together nearly enough like we used to. There was a time in our lives where we got together every weekend for our parents to play cards. I miss those days when our innocence was exemplified by dancing around. While things are complicated with bills, kids, and jobs, I can always count on my sisters to neutralize my headstrong attitude with a reminder of my childhood behavior or masquerading as an ex-girlfriend to get me out of a horrible past relationship.


Being limited by the guidelines I’ve set for myself here and not wanting to bore people to death, I can’t offer all of my summaries about the appreciation I have for my friends. Just know that if you weren’t mentioned here, it’s by no means a slight toward the value you provide in my life. I’ve made great friends along the way and wish that time and bandwidth would permit me capture all of it here. But in light of time and miles being against us, have confidence in knowing that there’s no way I could ever take any of you for granted. Much of who I’ve turned out to be is a result of all of the influence (positive and negative) and lessons you have taught me in my life. Please accept my humble thank you for your friendship and this small token of bandwidth here playing a dedication to you. Cheers!

I often fancy myself as an innovative thinker. At times, it takes a major muse to wedge out those ideas from my head. Here’s an example: One night in LB many a year ago, the morning after a night of drinking and debauchery, I derived one of my greatest philosophies. The three greatest inventions of man.

In the shower, a solace of creative bliss, I pondered just how fantastic running water was at that point. Soothing and satisfying, cleaning our nooks and crannies, and sobering our minds. Running water; invention one. The next revelation happened while brushing my teeth. After drinking and plate after plate of nachos, foul breath and the need for toothpaste arise. With each brush, your teeth are nudged closer to cleanliness and your stank breath is reduced. Your mouth and soul have been cleansed. Toothpaste; invention two.

I’ve mentioned two of the three items. The third is the most epic; beer. It’s what led to the discovery of running water and toothpaste. I could sing the virtues of beer in this entry but instead I’ll opt for a neutral party’s expertise. The importance of beer has been substantiated by an independent source; The Discovery Channel.


This channel broadcast the most epic program. “How Beer Saved the World.” It’s as if my very thoughts were channeled to these producers. Our mastery over the world started with one great invention. Not the wheel, not the car, not the airplane. The greatest invention of all is beer. It’s changed the world over and over again. And here’s how:

Once nomadic Hunter-gathers stopped their wondering and started farming. They swapped caves for houses and created the first civilization; Mesopotamia. Historians call this the Agricultural Revolution. And you know what started it? Barley.

Barley was domesticated by early civilizations to make beer. Proof was found by archaeologists in the residue on the walls of ancient jugs. What they proved was that beer was discovered by accident. The ancient jugs were filled with barley. During a rainstorm, water filled these vessels. The moisture allowed the barley to produce sugars and natural yeast to create CO2 and alcohol. Somebody tasted it and at that moment, life looked a little more interesting.

The intoxicating and feel good effects of beer started a historic cascading effect of innovation and invention that changed our world.

Simple production of beer couldn’t keep up with demand. Older growing techniques of scoring the earth and planting the seeds gave way to the invention of the plow. Some ground was not suitable for growing which led to irrigation. As production increased, transportation was necessary. From the need of transportation, beer invented the wheel and carts. As the scale of farming increased, there was the need for borders and property. This need forced the creation of mathematics and measurement. All because of beer. But beer’s greatest early world invention was none of these. It came by way of bookkeeping. Beer created writing as farmers needed to record the trade of beer as a commodity.


Ancient Egyptians saw beer as a gift from the Gods. The daily ration for building the pyramids was the ancient equivalent of a coupon for beer. It was a currency. The pay was a gallon of beer a day for ancient workers. It took 213,414,717 gallons of beer to build the pyramid of Giza. Beer was a vital source of nutrition. Even school boys drank it. It was also used to treat the sick as well. Ancient beer beat modern medicine by 3,000 years.

Beer kept people alive in the Middle Ages of Europe. Water was not safe in the Middle Ages as it contained fecal matter. However, when the water was boiled and brewed into beer the fecal matter and bacteria were gone. Purifying water, beer saved thousands. Everyone drank it to stay alive. And monks were at the center, brewing beer which drove many to church to drink. It’s a Godsend.


Beer was critical in the creation of modern capitalism. Our Founding Fathers had one thing in common, Washington, Adams, Franklin…they were all brewers. Franklin once opined, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Even before that, the pilgrims on the Mayflower would’ve never made it to the new world without beer. Like the Middle Ages, the water on the ship was impure and beer was the only way to survive. Beer even influenced where early settlers landed. The pilgrims ran out of beer on the ship and were forced to land at Plymouth to reorganize.

Beer also launched the first social network of the new world. The tavern was the first social connector before the internet, email, and Facebook. Over beer, our early patriots fumed about British oppression. The Sons of Liberty discussed revolution over more and more beer. The tavern was the epicenter where revolutionary activity was planned and coordinated. Beer was pivotal in the American Revolution and becoming independent.

With our independence, beer next took on disease. Beer was the basis for the birth of modern medicine. Louis Pasteur invented pasteurization which has been linked to milk. However, he studied beer first. His discovery proved beer was alive with bacteria which were causing it to spoil. If bacteria can make beer sick, can it make people sick? The answer gave way to Germ Theory. From Germ Theory, doctors began to understand vaccination and antibiotics, and more importantly, washing one’s hands.


Beer’s next great challenge was taking on excessive heat that was ruining food and people. The first refrigeration system was developed by the brewing industry to keep beer cold. Ice was too difficult to use due to its weight and limited lifecycle. Necessity is the mother of invention, and the need to create artificial refrigeration was driven by beer. Refrigeration meant A/C, the manufacture and storage of medicine, the ability to keep organs alive, and ice cream.

To meet the new demand, factories were created to produce and bottle beer. It wasn’t the car that led us to economic power, it was beer; a decade before Henry Ford. Beer production automated the production line to create bottles. The bottle making machine was incredibly important in the evolution of manufacturing. By automating the production of bottles, child labor was nearly eliminated. Bottle making was this most significant offender in child labor.


While all impressive, beer gave us something to drink at the ball game. Without beer, we would still be living in caves. In a moment of absolute clarity, I concocted the three greatest inventions of all time. However, one of those great inventions saved us all. Beer changed the world and we owe our lives and prosperity to it.

In an exercise of futility, I’m going to write about something inconsequential to most people. Something fickle yet something enjoyable. Where this all started was with another entry where I wanted to bad mouth my employer because of recent and repeating let downs. At the beginning of that entry, I was pissed and had good motive to rip the company and the idiots that work there. However, my mood improved. And while the concept was still fresh in my head, the emotion was lost and unfortunately, I felt like I wouldn’t do the entry justice.

So I moved on to the next topic; Son #1. I’ve been working on the next entry about this fool. However, it was unfinished and once again, I lost steam and felt like I’d be doing a disservice if I kept writing and wasn’t feeling it. So on to the next topic, and that’s still not even what I am writing about here.

My wife has chosen a life of direct sales to fulfill her need for female socialization and monetary sustenance. While preparing for her next party, I opted, or was coerced into helping her prepare her wares and pitch. No, I won’t by writing about any of that either. What’s the common theme in all of these? I’m sure you are all wondering where the hell this entry is going. Hold that question; I’m going to the bar to get another drink. Why? Because this entry is going straight like an arrow toward my topic; gin and tonic.

My apologies to let those of you down who are looking for the next esoteric and inspiring entry.

Let’s start with a common denominator here, I love gin and tonic. Why? It goes back many years to Pullman, Washington. Any earlier timeframe would incriminate my very pure and pristine image with my family. You can trace back the origins of gin and tonic to Wednesday nights at Shermer’s in Pullman. You see, Wednesday nights were dollar well drinks. And for those of you who have never spent time in Pullman, there isn’t much to do on a social scale. When you realize that the most opportune activity is drinking and that you are a struggling college student on a budget, you focus extracting the most economic and social value out of your activities. And thus, we drank on a budget. Gin and tonics are cheap.

The next step is where gin and tonics became closer to my heart. Damn Snoop Dogg. Every fucking white kid from the suburbs like me wanted to be a gangsta. As soon as Snoop dropped “Gin and Juice” we all realized that we didn’t need to be gangstas, just throwing house parties, inviting girls, and playing Snoop’s jams were enough. So gin was increasingly embedded in to my intoxicating beverages because Snoop said I would get chicks. We tried for years. Strangely, it never really worked out the way the song did. Must have been the wrong type of gin or something.

So let’s fast forward to my semi-adult type life. My wife would argue that I’m not an adult but my Washington State driver’s license suggests that statistically, my age ranks among those of which are adults. At some point, there’s a defacto rule in place in society that you become an adult even if you don’t pass the test. So here we are.

Generally speaking, I hate hangovers. Some would say that maybe I shouldn’t drink or I should drink less in an effort to remove my antipathy against hangovers. Whatever. Because of the depth and quality of my collegiate education, I realized that there’s an unbalanced chemical reaction in my circulatory system leading to my next-morning inabilities to accommodate living. To overcome that imbalance, I decided to counteract these affects by ingesting complex and inebriating molecules which can be efficiently broke down by the body and reduce the unwanted affects of a hangover. Simply said, I wanted a drink that would get me drunk in a limited amount of time, on a budget, and mitigate the affects of a hangover. There’s nothing to it; alcohol and tonic water. I won’t go as far as saying I drink it for the health benefits, but I do drink it for the limited residual effect that it has.

So here I am tonight, I have this WSU Cougar mug that you can freeze and use for liquid refreshments. Being resourceful and opportunistic (and out of beer), I decided to use this chilling apparatus to chill a large concoction of gin and tonic. I’m watching my wife prepare for her next direct sales activity while enjoying several (read: six or so) finely crafted well drinks. And instead of forcing an angry mood to work on an entry about my disgust with my employer and its blindly directed strategy, I chose to write about liquor. What really inspired this entry was the feeling that I had. I felt gravity, a vacuum effect of being sucked into a chair securely. I felt supported and comfortable. The direct effect may have been that of piece of mind from the great day I had with family or that of which I received from the chemical alteration from the gin. In any event, the feeling was that of comfort, solace, and introspection.

And now for the soulful introspection that I try to incorporate in each entry, it feels nice to uncouple the stress of relocating, a dead-end profession, and a loss of personal direction with a temperately altered and collegiate branded mug with chemically inebriating contents. It just happens to be gin. I could sit in this chair all night and think about this stuff. I would never come to any answers or any cohesive conclusions. But that isn’t what tonight is about. Tonight is about unloading, getting perspective, and recharging.

I am thankful for my boys. They keep me focused and creating a better tomorrow. I am thankful for my wife. She makes me feel needed. I am thankful for a job. I need the money to make changes. I am thankful for my parents. They accept my issues and foster my growth. I am thankful for gin. It creates a creative gravity which binds me to this chair and enables me to write about ridiculous topics while my wife works on here next event.

After missing last month’s review, I’ve felt pressure from my own internal expectations to meet this deadline for procurement of new music and a subsequent and intelligible review. I nearly became a repeat offender this month as my overbearing employer once again sapped the creative life force out of my body with relentless extended workdays. But a man has to put his foot down. Okay, well it’s more of a matter of just making the time to scratch out some review on something. It’s not without challenge. I’ve picked up some new music over the last two months and have had a record or two recommended to me. But for this month’s entry of "New Music Monday" I chose to go with a local act.

The album isn’t new and the band has destroyed themselves. However, that doesn’t make the album any less interesting. As a matter of fact, that’s what makes it a little intriguing. Their name, locale, and music are entertaining and moderately engaging. In a world of bubblegum pop stars that cross dress and ignore the use of ‘actual’ instrumentation while resorting to computerized repeatable rhythms and track playbacks, one must wonder, “Why can’t a band that clearly has musical chops and a new slant on previously deceased campy garage sound make it?” Must be all the coffee in Seattle.


Let’s get to the review since I must be boring you with my hypothesis on the socio-economics of popular music and its rise to fame in the kingdom of recorded audio entertainment. The band is The Murder City Devils and the album is “In the Name of Blood.”

Briefly, The Murder City Devils are a Seattle garage-punk band which either is getting back together or they’re not. That seems to be difficult to nail down. In any event, “In the Name of Blood” is new to me and I felt compelled to write about it as it has a unique, yet strangely 1960’s familiar sound.

Get it here at LaLa.com.

So the name, The Murder City Devils, gives you the impression that it might be shock rock, a la Marilyn Manson-type dark and debaucherous music delving into horrific imagery ranging from the beating deaths of old ladies to puppies getting ran over by metro transit buses. Nope. The lyrics are pretty vanilla about typical topics; love/loss, alcohol, and cowboys. About as unassuming as your little sister having a tea party with her stuffed animals. Who needs good lyrics when the delivery makes you fee like you drank a whole fifth of whiskey, broke the bottle, and then stuck your self with it. Okay, a little overdramatic, right? To a degree, yes. But the lead singer, Spencer Moody (perfect name for a punk lead singer) delivers the innocuous lyrics in a vein similar to Glen Danzig or Henry Rollins. It’s urgent, howling, and hollow. It’s the perfect delivery accompaniment for the style of music belted out by the band.

While I have labeled The Murder City Devils as garage-punk, this is merely a way for me to begin to frame their sound similar to categorizing your stuffy nose and respiratory congestion as the flu. The Murder City Devils are psychedelic and angry. So say Jim Morrison, while fronting the Doors, didn’t have issues with inebriating narcotics, was born 40 years later in a rainy gray city, and yelled his lyrics rather than slurred the words. That’s The Murder City Devils. The use of crunchy guitar distortion and spooky Farfisa toned organs makes every song is like an angry Munster’s theme song. It’s a bit campy, a bit psychedelic, and a bit of the Doors meets Danzig. Listening to the swirling organ and angry lyrics, I feel like I’m railing down a dark black and white winding wooded road in a Barris-styled roadster firing flames out the headers looking for Marilyn Munster.

“In the Name of Blood” isn’t an original album or unique in its execution. But it’s listenable and mildly addictive. The songs of the album are all roughly similar in sound, driving guitars, simple drum kit, and soaring organs, except for one, a Neil Diamond cover.

Bunkhouse – When I started to listen to this record, “Rum to Whiskey” was my favorite song. However, “Bunkhouse” quickly unseated it for my new favorite. The whole song is about unraveling myths about cowboys. Seems like a great concept to me under the guise of punk rock and organs. It goes on to say “If you don’t think that cowboys cry, you’ve never been left for a saddle or a bottle of rye.” Simple cowboy 101.

Rum to Whiskey – So maybe this song is still my favorite on the record. It’s ‘deeper’ than “Bunkhouse” but that isn’t saying much. “She was the prettiest girl in an ugly town” is about as deep as this one gets. However, the organ work on this track is eerie and the song is about alcohol and loss. This is The Murder City Devils in their ‘smash-a-bottle-across-your-head’ greatness.

I’ll Come Running – An unlistenable easy listening song by America’s biggest wedding and family reunion song artist gets covered by a screaming organ-driven garage-punk band from Seattle. It’s borderline painful to listen to much like the original. It reminds me of karaoke at a dive bar in Renton, Washington. But it’s a new take on something else.

I personally enjoy the 1960’s-retro sound with more of a punk context. I also like the sound of the Munster’s theme song gone strangely awry. Overall, The Murder City Devils are not creating a ‘new’ genre; they are just twisting a name and a sound to fit their style. There are no fatal car wrecks or drug overdoses on the album. No homicide or crime and the band or album title would lead you to believe. Just typical Seattle garage-punk rock without a real homerun in content. Disappointing? But they’re local and they’re worth a listen. I like them, whiskey, car crashes, and Marilyn Munster.

Occasionally, I’ll be listening to music and a particular song reaches me in a more poignant way than it ever had before. For example, when I wrote about "Things My Father Said,” I had heard it many times before but on that one instance where I needed to ‘hear’ it, there it was in its most emotionally engaging manner. Other times, while listening, a song will play that rewinds the tape on my life and reminds me of a milepost of my life. That’s the great thing about emotionally charged music, when it reaches you, you always remember that moment, that emotion, that instance where you heard it and it ‘meant’ something to you. The song today on the player below goes so much deeper than that.

I remember when my brother died how confused I was at that moment. That ‘moment’ eventually spanned years. But at the period where I realized just how alone I was, I experienced a subset of songs which will forever be logged into my heart permanently that mark the experience and concatenate its effects. Today, a Wednesday, the consistently the worst day of the week, the music from my MP3 player is being piped into my ears by way of noise canceling ear pods. And there it is; a song from the subset of years past. And in an instance, I rewind the tape of my life to that afternoon on the 405 in Orange County. I remember everything about that day. The sun, the temperature, the time of day, where I was going, what I could see on the roadside, the smog, the smell of the air. But the most interesting point was that I remember is relating to the song. It was how the immediate existence of that day with everything I was going through related to not only that moment, but how I knew in the future, the song and I would be even more connected. That day in southern California, this song made me flash forward to this stage of my life where I exist now and the feelings associated with this existence. Strangely circular life is at times. The song today makes me remember everything then which compartmentally contains a memory of flashing forward to today.

I won’t go into the each level of connection I’ve found here in the music. Addressing both my past and my present existence would only concern people for my mental state of health or bore people to death. But metaphorically and explicitly though the song and its lyrics, I'm here and I was there. After that last note is played on the keys, I know it’s going to be just fine.


And like that, where I felt alone, I’m welcomed by an old friend in the form of recorded music. While the memories associated with the song remind me of the pain and tears of stage in my past, it also brings its premonitory abilities of my future to the forefront. The music lends its healing powers in the form of circulatory comfort even if only for five minutes and 27 seconds. Feeling welcome, appreciated and understood, I can sulk down in my chair and just enjoy how the song marks a waypoint in my life.

For those that are paying attention, I missed February 22. It was the last Monday of the month and that marks “New Music Monday” around our house. Unfortunately, no new music was added during the month. Let me rephrase that. No new music was added that I remember explicitly making an attempt to acquire out of desire and need for something new. Instead, I was in recovery mode.

Here’s the reason: Flatten and reload.

Basically, my laptop decided that during one of my many late-night download fests of bit torrents that it was going to acquire some sort of debilitating malware/virus/self-destructing/registry editing code. Interestingly enough, it wasn’t even music I was downloading. It was a innocent exercise in trying to make my wife happy with yet another vampire-ridden form of television entertainment.

I knew it was bad when during the download even the multiple layers of protection on my system were brought to a screeching halt and nonoperational. I kept trying to scour the system, knowing that if I turned it off or rebooted, that would be the end of the laptop as I knew it. I kept at it and swore like a sailor. I eventually gave in and tried to reboot to the last know good configuration. I think it is safe to say that when you reboot and no reboot actually occurs, that is bad. The system wouldn’t even get past the splash screen. Suck balls.


Once or twice, I was able to get to the login screen but no further. It was inevitable. Rather than waste my colorful metaphors and curses on a reboot that was never going to succeed, why don’t I just flatten and reload the machine. A fresh install wouldn’t hurt. I routinely back up my hard drives but in the most recent past, I had acquired quite a substantial amount of new entries into our musical catalog. Furthermore, I had not backed these albums up on my external storage device. So I was facing two tons of lost music. Other files that were potentially lost had no bearing on my emotions, but the music loss was substantial.

After the reload, I spent most of the next week or so trying to repopulate the music directories. I tried piecing together what I remembered having. I slaved my MP3 player back on to the laptop as it had many music files that were lost in the viral contamination of my system. I drug those back over and rebuilt the archive of music. The others, I didn’t have backed up or on the MP3 player had to be reacquired online. Both legally and illegally.


To make matters more challenging, I had an overloaded work statement for the month:

I did a flatten and reload on the wife’s laptop. It didn’t have the viral symptoms that my laptop had. Hers was just overrun with stuff and needed to be wiped clean; I also took on two new challenging wheel designs for a client; Then began to rough out a new webpage for another client; I coordinated a surprise birthday party and invitation design for my father’s 70th throw down; Valentine’s Day (men around the world…you know the horror of this day); A major re-organization at my employer which has had everyone on pins and needles wondering the effectiveness of their work ethic and necessity of their existence; And the general day-to-day requirements of building with Legos and playing video games with Son #1.

February was busy and March is shaping up to be similar. With any luck, I won’t have flatten and reload anything other than my liver in the next month.

When you spend the majority of your conscious day working for the man, you look forward to the solace of your own abode and the compassion of your family unit. It’s easy to lose sight of the comings and goings and daily happenings around the house when you are chained to a desk. It’s no different in my house. Coming home from the office always presents and interesting set of daily circumstances. Will I lose my patience with a driver who seems to have lost his or her ever-loving mind? Will I speed down a suburban street ‘above’ the speed limit only to have a local yahoo on a motorcycle chase me to my house, pound on my front door, and scold my wife in to lecturing me about posted speed limits? Or, will I enter the house only to hear the siren-like screaming of children being firmly, but parentally, accosted by their mother for the latest in disorderly conduct?

Typically, it is the latter of the list above.

I like dinner. My kids like dinner. My wife, I think, likes dinner. The problems lie on both sides of the dinner equation. For the parents, it’s the patience required to prepare the dinner. On the kids’ side, it’s the patience required to wait for the dinner to be prepared and the ability to outlast the parents when the dinner is not to their expectations. The stage has been set, dinner is on the table, now for the drama.

Son #2 used to eat everything we put in front of him. If you recall from previous posts, he skipped the bottle and baby food phases of development. He likes adult sustenance. Well, he did until recently. Son #2 believes, or at least I’m interpreting the screams as this, that it’s his God given right to eat cupcakes and crackers for dinner. He used to like meat and veggies. Now, it’s fish crackers and confectionary goodness followed by a glass of soy milk. Unfortunately for him, and my ears, this isn’t an acceptable meal. Let the screaming and arm waving begin.



Son #1 is a different breed. He has developed a liking for certain food products. And by that, I mean two specific items. The first being French fries, nondescript fried potato goodness. They can be crinkle cut, shoe strings, or tater tots. The second food of preference is chicken of the crispy outer covering variety. According to Son #1, this is how chicken naturally occurs in the universe. Apparently, we have visited KFC a few too many times. No matter how many times I try to explain that chicken exists in many other forms, some much more healthfully than others, he denies my culinary claims.



We don’t eat cupcakes and crispy chicken every night so you can tell there are 'disagreements' at the dinner table.

Because of such differences in opinion and the heated conversations which occur while seated at our table, I’ve devised a way to make this experience much more enjoyable. A drinking game.

Each time that Son #2 throws a veggie on the floor, points toward the cookie dish, and exclaims, “Cup,” we drink. Each time Son #1 asks the food related question, “Have I had this type of chicken before?” we truthfully answer, “Yes,” and he then retorts with an enthusiastic, “No I haven’t!” we drink. It functions on the same premise of the Sarah Palin drinking game. Each time she utters the word “maverick” a player takes a swig. Simple rules, just like Palin, for a simple game.

An unsuccessful dinner will ALWAYS lead to a successful drunk. Feel free to modify these rules to fit your household.

In all seriousness, we have defiance and crying at the dinner table. And typically, it comes from all four members of my family. Have we have created a little bit of this defiance and reactionary behavior by the way we portray ourselves? There’s a little nature here where the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But I think nurture might be heavily outweighing it in this instance. I’ve been thinking lately about how much children attempt to emulate their parents.

Think about it. How many times have you watch little Johnny pick up the phone, place it to his ear, and pretend to talk? We all think that it’s cute. Son #2 does it and we pretend he is calling his grandmother. But the reality is that he learned this from observing us. Why would dinner behavior be any different? I’m concerned that when we discipline our children, we raise our voices, especially if at first shot they don’t listen. They’re learning that it’s acceptable to raise their voices. I can’t help but wonder, are we raising our voices too often at our children? At times during dinner, it feels like it’s a no win game.

Most times, dinner is full of humor. It’s the occasional circumstance like the other night which paints a negative picture. Arguing about eating, timeouts, and early bed times are sometimes necessary but still sting afterward just the same. I love my two boys and need to remember to reflect back on my resolutions as well as how I like to be treated as a person and project that on to them.

Until then, the drinking game is a great idea. Here's to college and everything I learned there. Bottoms up!

Ahh, the beginning of a new year. That, usually is marked by the end of another year and artificially creates a justifiable reason to coordinate an event in the over excess of party poppers and cosmopolitans. Yes. The New Year’s Eve party. We had our own party which was absent of three foot tall tax deductions and infused with the aforementioned party poppers, a Motley Crue approved selection of adult beverages, and a camera to capture all of the inappropriateness and party-goers.

Because 2009 sucked and I was eager to see it booted out of the picture like a sleazy overweight politician getting kicked out of office after sexing an Argentine temptress. I’m hoping 2010 brings better tidings than 2009. In my schoolgirl giddiness leading up to our New Year’s Eve party, I concocted an idea to motivate my self and others to join in the festivities. The idea was to come up with a twisted 12 Step process to ring in the New Year. The fun was making it up as I went along. Strategically thinking what should be ‘classified’ as a step and what should not. Also, what ‘could’ be a step but shouldn’t because it may be offensive.


So here is my 12 Step list with a brief explanation of each step which I marched through on New Year’s Eve and posted step by step on Facebook for others to follow. As a disclaimer, each step was developed on the fly throughout the day.


‘The 'Betty Ford 12 Steps of Ending 2009 and Starting 2010.'

Step 1: Finding Nemo fruit chews, locate and eat them for breakfast.
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Finding Nemo fruit chews are made from the joys of real fruit. How is this not part of the fruit group?

Step 2: Mud, find it and make sure you have enough on your rear derailleur that it won't shift.
The weather in 2009 sucked. Finally, I had the opportunity to get out of the house and jump my bike. The conditions were muddy-frosty-muck madness. It’s a metaphor for just getting out and living.

Step 3: Locate yourself some chocolaty crunchy balls and eat them for lunch.
See Step 1. Chocolate comes from a bean, a legume and is part of the Meat and Beans group in the food pyramid. The malted crunchy goodness is a byproduct of the Dairy group. Two for one right here in one small tasty item.

Step 4: Drop your tax deductions off at the babysitter (grandparents). If you don't have children, envy your friends with them for their tax deductions or mock them for always being broke ass.
A ‘friend’ of my wife seems to think that children are resource sapping draws on the economy and those without children are penalized for not procreating because they do not receive the same economic tax benefits of those with children. Screw that. I have kids and I am broke. People without kids are generally not broke. Save the drama for your mama.

Step 5: In the essence of socially appreciative actions, apologize in advance for drunken dialing/texting. While it is New Years, it's not always appropriate to drunk text your best friend's sister. Wait...yes it is.
This always happens. Alcohol + Libido = Inappropriate actions. Do a pre-emptive strike and apologize early for going past the point of good taste and dangerously close to a 1-976 hotline.

Step 6: Beanie weenies
See Steps 1 and 3. The finest of meat in all of the land. What kind of party doesn’t have beanie weenies? That’s a party I won’t attend.

Step 7: Locate a form of entertainment which condones the act of alcohol and energy drink consumption. Thanks Red Bull No Limit for my extreme excitement in jumping over the LBC and my drunken over stimulated screaming.
Parties can have wonderful conversations. See Step 5 above. However, having a television event which lubricates the discussions about the size of manhood it would take to jump a rally car over a harbor always enhances the party. Additionally, the sponsor’s energy drink works well in vodka.

Step 8: Always invite friends that are medical professionals to your New Years Eve party so they can bring their IV bags to properly rehydrate your drunken guests.
I don’t think this requires much explanation. Medical professionals in attendance can help prevent hangovers by intravenously delivering liquids.

Step 9: Always use proper glassware when serving your specialties.
See the picture on Facebook. Better yet. Don’t see it. Step 9 is a double entendre.

Step 10: Use your best French accent and toast your champagne at midnight.
None of us could muster up a French accent after THAT volume of consumption. It was much easier to use a Scottish accent. However, to be truly accurate, please masquerade as a French frog and pretentiously toast to the New Year.

Step 11: Done. Pass out.
Sleep.

Step 12: After all of the inappropriate photos are downloaded and the last suggestive actions and texts are out of your system and phone, enjoy the beginning of a new year. Rinse. Repeat.
Following the previous 11 steps will land you right here on Step 12, the proper starting point for a successful new year.


My 12 Step process for bringing the ruckus and celebrating the New Year’s arrival. Betty Ford tested Betty Ford approved. Happy New Year to all!