cranky1000

I see you from my spy plane, baby… I see you walking on the ground

Today was my birthday. All of my facebook friends had something nice to say, and I made a point of responding to each of them. I also had a good day at work. Hooray.

My ex-wife got me “rock’em sock’em robots” and said they were from the kids. I must say: this kicks ass. She managed to get not just the perfect present for me, but the perfect present for me to play with the kids, which is my favorite thing to do. Although I’ll often get mad or sad when I think about how our marriage fell apart, or how she has a girlfriend (but I don’t), it is hard to dwell on those things when she does something nice that shows that she really is capable of understanding me.

The big happy, of course, is that my kids were so fabulous to me. They sang Happy Birthday and stuff, but we also had a great Memorial day weekend. It was the first weekend for the pool and even though I hate swimming, it was a good time because it is a joy to see my daughter teach my son to swim, and to see their enjoyment. There were some new lifeguards, and they all had an excellent attitude. I like them. So we went swimming on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. That’s a crazy swimming time. Good for my health too. All good, all good.

What does this have to do with spies? Nothing. It’s all preface. Really this post should have started on the next paragraph. Maybe it should have been two posts. Moving on…

My daughter (Agent D) and my son (Hat) have a secret agent codes, and a code name for me. I’m “the Rutabaga.”

The deal that we worked out in the divorce settlement works like this:

My ex-wife picks up the kids from the after-school program.
On some days, she drops them off with the babysitter.
On some days, she takes them to her house, which is far on the other side of town.
But on certain days, she is allowed to “exercise her parental rights” at my house during the interstitial period between when the after-school program ends and when I come home from work.

When my ex-wife is hanging out in my house, the kids are often anxious for me to get home. They seem to sense the liminality of that time period. Maybe to feel more in control, they’ve made a game out of spying on the comings and goings within and without of the house. They stake out the road leading up to the driveway; which they call “The Garden,” and the garage, which they call “the Salad.” When I walk into my house, I’ve got a ritual where I put my keys on a hook that is mounted near the garage entryway. If I don’t do that, then I tend to forget where I put them. Lately, I have been getting a bit panicky when I can’t find my keys. My keys, are known as “the Herring,” and the hook is known as “the Hook.”

On a typical day, my daughter will pretend like she is holding a walkie-talkie (actually it’s a hairbrush, held upside-down) and communicate with my son (who just uses his fingers):

“The Rutabaga has left the Garden and is in the Salad.”

“The Rutabaga is leaving the Salad, and is fishing for the Herring.”

“The Rutabaga has let the Herring go away from the school! The Herring is not on the hook!! Repeat: the Herring is not on the hook, but is swimming free!!! Agent D to Hat, Agent D to Hat: I am obtaining the Herring and intercepting the Rutabaga, stat. Cover me on radar, Hat: Standby for my co-ordinates. Transmitting co-ordinates!”

At which point my daughter will pick up my keys and say, “Daddy, I’m so glad you’re home. Don’t forget to hang up your keys.”

I will pretend like I didn’t hear any of that and give her a hug and a kiss. She’s a clever girl…

The death of Gary Coleman is Absolutely Bill’s Mood

My birthday comes right after memorial day. It’s strange that his death comes right before it. But death always comes at a strange time. Gary Coleman’s life was too short, but his childhood was just the reverse.
Ok, now some lyrics. When I think about this song, the “monkey” in these lyrics refers to me. If I get around to it, I’ll publish a story that I wrote an outline for about a person who, on his death bed, makes a deal with the devil that allows him to travel back in time, in order to try and change his fate. He fails to change anything, and finds himself back in the present. The last words he utters are a joke set-up. He asks his tearful nephew, “Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?” (Its because he’s dead).

I swear the story is funny. If I wrote it the whole thing, I bet they’d give me a medal for awesomest story ever about time travel featuring a joke about a dead monkey. Oh yeah? There is so such a medal, and I want it! Ok, now… Lyrics:

I was born in a lighthouse, my mother was the sea
I crawled to school each morning, when it occured to me
That life’s just a mood ring we’re not allowed to see
And this is what it said to me

My room is comfortably small
With rubber lining the walls
And there’s someone always calling my name
He calls when I’m alone
And he calls when I’m not home
And he calls when I’m stuck out in the rain
I’m insane
I’m insane
I’m insane
I’m insane

Now listen all you swingers, don’t you try to tag along
I know monkey see, but monkey’s dead, for you it would be wrong
Put a dime in my jukebox, you’ll only hear this song
And it won’t be fun for long

(chorus X2)

Thank you

— TMBG “Absolutely Bill’s Mood”

Too late or still too soon to make lots of bad love and there’s no time for sorrow…

…run around, run around with a hole in your head ’till tomorrow.

I ran into a slacker at a different karaoke place the other day. Like me, he was flying solo. For purposes of this blog post, I will call him “Slacker.” We compared notes.

When you run stag, you need a defensive mechanism to compensate for a lack of a wingman. Ideally, you pick a gimmicky defensive mechanism that also has the potential to attract wingmen (feasible), or possibly women (less so).

Slacker’s gimmick was that he solved the crossword puzzle from the local paper.

I had developed a gimmick over the winter. I had been carrying around a notebook into which I would jot down ideas, as if I was going to do something with those ideas. As lame as that sounds, the notebook gimmick was possible because I had a woolen winter coat that was the perfect size for the notebook.

Now that summer is here, the intensely sad nature of being a guy walking around writing crazy things into a notebook was painfully clear. So I just stopped bringing it. But it meant that I would walk into a place, just me and no defensive mechanisms at all. When you have no defensive mechanisms and are all by yourself, you end up just eyeballing people in the crowd.

The term for guys who do this is “creeper.” Its a fair criticism. When you are on your own, stop being on your own. The key is to step up as soon as possible. Make a human connection or bail. This sometimes means jumping on the wing of another dude flying stag.

Hey, man. S’up? That word there? 36 down… “arsenal.” A-R-S-E-N-A-L

For real, bro? Whoah… yeah it is! That’s awe-some, bro. Awesome.

And just like that, my new name is “bro” and he and I are hangin’ out.

Anyhow, Slacker and I, compared notes about on-line dating. While we did that, I was his wingman. He tried to pick up the waitress for whom he had feelings. After a drink or two, it became clear that they had a history and that it wasn’t a good one. I kept my thoughts about this to myself, but started to think about leaving.

At least, we compared notes.

So what did I learn from these notes? Turns out, neither of us like online dating. This wasn’t exactly a profound revelation.