Thursday, December 31, 2009

Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End

Tonight we say goodbye to 2009. We kiss off pandemics, we say adios to terror attacks, pointless wars, economies in turmoil, shitty job markets, crappy environmental destruction, horrific baseball seasons, terrible basketball seasons and so on.

Tomorrow we welcome in new pandemics, new terror threats, new economic turmoil, new, shittier job markets, continued environmental destruction, another bad year of baseball for the Mets, more pathetic play from the Knicks, and so on.

I'm looking forward to saying goodbye to smoking again. I'm looking forward to the false hope the Mets provide each year. I'm looking forward to the Knicks going after King James and still disappointing and I'm looking forward to a complete change in the world.

In other words, meet the old boss, same as the new boss.

The king is dead, long live the king.

My year was a strange one. My business flourished. My second business is flourishing. My kids continue to astound and amaze me. My home life has been a roller coaster of good and bad and, yet, I look forward to more of the same.

I've met some amazing, incredible people this year. Some will continue as a part of my life, for better or for worse and, sadly, some will be a wonderful memory of short lived time together. Others will haunt me, my mind never fully allowing me to erase you from the recesses of my memory.

You all know who you are.

So, tonight, I'll ring in the new year. I'll kiss my wife, kiss my kids, mentally kiss those who's lips should touch mine but cannot and I'll even reserve a thought for those who's lips can kiss my pucker.

I'm hoping to have more things to blog about. Hoping that I'll provide laughs, deep thoughts and pointless reading for the folks who actually come here.

I'm guessing the smokeless days and nights will help provide some fodder.

I'm looking forward to a book by an author, she knows who she is. I'm anticipating sitting down at night, cracking that spine, feeling the pages under my fingers, becoming part of her story, part of her life again, if only for a moment.

I'm looking forward to a lice free home. A new season of baseball, without all the losses. I'm looking forward to electric nights at the Garden again. I'm looking forward to moving forward, seeing new things, experiencing all that I can.

I'm assuming I'll get the same shit, with a different digit at the end.

Have a happy, and a healthy new year. Be safe tonight, and every night.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Vaseline Head

So we went to the doctor for a follow up lice check. We did this for peace of mind. Instead, we got added insanity. The doctor looks in my son's hair and sees nothing. She looks in my daughter's hair and says she has nits. She looks in my hair, says I have nits. She looks in my wife's hair and, yes, Virginia, there are nits.

The doctor writes a scrip for some toxic shampoo and tells us to comb out each head prior to doing the shampoo treatment. We ask what works best for combing out and the doctor says olive oil is very good but vaseline is the best because it basically suffocates the lice and they cannot free themselves from the gooey mess.

So, off we went. We hit the drug store, picked up the treatment, picked up a few extra combs and snagged some vaseline.

We got home and started prepping ourselves for the comb out. I used handfuls of vaseline in my hair. Matted it down, massaged it into my scalp, added more, added more, added more.

My daughter opted for a mix of vaseline and oil. She did this because the vaseline massage was hurting her scalp whereas the oil was not.

We left the goo on our heads for an hour. We all wore shower caps, me in a nice, hot pink.

During this time we cleaned. We vacuumed, we packed things up for the laundry, we sealed up bags of hats and scarves and we stripped beds, pillows blankets etc.

Then we began the comb out. I went first. I lost a ton of hair in the process. It was horrific. Then, while I showered, my daughter was combed out.

Vaseline does not wash out of your hair. Water beads up on it. Shampoo is useless. I needed something stronger. I had my wife grab the dish washing detergent as it works well in getting the grease out of the pan, or so they claim.

It didn't work.

After a half bottle of lemon scented dish washing liquid I gave up. I got dressed and ready for dinner. My wife and I were taking my parents to Minetta Tavern for their anniversary. This was a huge reservation. The place is booked for months but, thanks to some issues they had with a midweek reservation we had, they rebooked us twice, resulting in their offering up a prime, 8 PM table on a prime, Saturday, night. We couldn't cancel so I had to go out with this head of goop.

I looked like a reject from the Jersey Shore tryouts. Every time I passed a smoker, I panicked, fearing a stray spark would land in my hair, igniting my greasy coif.

My parents asked me why my hair was so wet. I explained the situation. They laughed.

Dinner was amazing. Best burger I've ever had. Then we went home.

I woke up at 8 the next morning and hit Home Depot. I explained to the sales help that I needed something that would remove grease or oil and, yet, still be gentle enough that it won't make my hair fall out. They asked why. I told them my son put vaseline in my hair. (can't run around telling people I've got lice).

They suggested Dawn. The bottle says ultra concentrated and there's a picture of a baby seal on the bottle. Why a baby seal? Well, apparently, Dawn is the soap of choice when animals get stuck in an oil spill.

If it's good enough for a baby seal, it's good enough for me.

I raced home, ran into the shower and started pouring this shit on my head.

I scrubbed. I lathered. I let it sit. I rinsed.

My hair clumped up, water beaded up on the helmet of goop and nothing came out.

I spent an hour and a half shampooing my hair. I finally managed to get it clean enough that I can touch it without coming away with vaseline fingers.

We get dressed and head to Brooklyn where the lice expert will check us and comb us out properly.

We arrive and she looks at my daughter's greasy hair and says she can't look for anything, she can only comb her out as the vaseline is still too think in her hair.

She looks in my hair. Nothing.

She looks in my wife's hair. Nothing.

She looks in my son's hair. Nothing.

Nothing came out of my daughter's hair.


She then tells us that most doctors see protein buildup on the hair shaft and think it is a nit.

She pulls a hair from my wife's head. Shows her the protein deposit and explains the difference.

We slink out of there, feeling like morons for going completely batshit about the lice the night before.

This was last weekend. Sunday to be exact.

Last night, I'm sitting on the couch, watching tv with my wife, and I stand up to get something from the kitchen and my wife asks me if I still have vaseline issues. I tell her that I think I might but it definitely feels like I got most of it out. She suggests I take a peek in the mirror.

I do.

My hair is dark and greasy again. The back of my hair is matted and clumped and sticking straight out.

There's nothing I can do. I'm vaseline head.

New Year's Day I am going to stop smoking (again) and I am going to shave my head. It's all I can do.

A fresh start to a new year, via a chrome dome.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

A Random Question

Why is it so fucking awkward walking up and down an unmoving escalator?

7 Angry Men (and Women)

I finally got tagged for jury duty. I've been sent notices before and avoided them, even avoided those pesky warrants claiming I could be arrested for not serving but this time I went. New York County Criminal Court no less. I was told to arrive no later than 8:45 yesterday. I dropped my daughter off at school at 8:45 and then proceeded to the courthouse, arriving, roughly, 20 minutes late. I figured I'd explain to the court that I have two kids, two parents and we split the morning delivery duty up so that both kids can be in school on time and, if the court doesn't like it, the court can kiss my McNoogin.

I arrived late and nobody said a word.

Then I figured I'd give them the sob story of how I'm self employed and I have no employees and sitting in the jury pool for days will cost me thousands of dollars in lost revenue and that I find everyone there to be guilty of something and there's no way I can be fair and impartial when I'm pissed off at the system for making me lose money and I'm positive that the individual on trial must have done something wrong because cops don't arrest a totally innocent individual who has led an exemplary life. Let's face it, if your life is pure and honest and the cops can't find one person who will tell them you did something wrong, how can they arrest you for something that isn't a total slam dunk with evidence? They can't. Richard Kimball would have never would have been arrested. There was evidence but his history was such that sainthood was inevitable.

Anyway, I tried to plead my case and the jury guy told me he was going to push the self employed folks thru as quickly as possible.

They call the first pool and my name is the third one called.

DWI case. 2 days tops. Ok, I can sit thru an hour of questioning and figure out how to get thrown out.

I tried. I did. I said I know former US Attorneys, DEA agents, District Attorneys, an elected official, a judge and several courthouse employees (all true). Will it cloud my judgement? No. I'm sure that my beliefs would not be swayed as I feel fairly strongly about the people who get arrested. I tell them I believe drunk drivers should be penalized harshly for their crime.

Still I get picked.

Ok, fine. How much arguing can a lawyer do when there is a breathalyzer result that is damning (.18 almost 4 hours after the arrest), a video of the defendant being unable to complete the physical tasks etc.

The defense lawyer was retarded. He argued some seriously stupid shit. It was so bad that a group of law students or interns sitting in the back row of the room cringed and gasped whenever her went with one of his inane side roads of stupidity.

The case was pretty simple. Dumb, drunk woman, who was kinda hot, drove the wrong way on a major bridge. To make it to the ramp she entered, she would have had to do some seriously fucked up driving. Add to that she was on a small island between Manhattan and Queens and she was heading towards Queens when she got stopped. She was trying to get to Hoboken. That's in the exact opposite direction, downtown and west of where she was. She was so fucking wrong in all areas that the idea of her fighting any of this was comical.

Still, we endured the testimony of two cops.

Still, we had to watch a video of this woman attempt to walk a straight line.

Still, we had to hear how, when asked to recite the alphabet from C to M, her response was "C M."

Why this woman wasted everyone's time is beyond me.

This morning, the DA's third witness was an hour late and the judge told the DA to continue without the witness. A plea bargain was then reached.

Then the bailiff told us we were done for 6 years and he was shocked to see them plea out the case as the deal wasn't so good and he asked us where we stood with a verdict if the testimony we heard was all we were going to hear.
Guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty,guilty, innocent.



Some dude said he thought she was innocent. He said that he had a parking ticket filled out wrong once and the paperwork was kind of messed up on this one and, therefore, perhaps she wasn't guilty.

What about the 0.18 blood alcohol? The numbers alone are procedural. She was guilty based on that alone.

Oh, well, those machines might not be accurate.

Fortunately, we didn't have to sit thru a session of arguing with this moron who admitted he had no job, nothing to do now that his duty ended early and he was kind of enjoying the legal process.

I told the guy I'd have hung him out the window by his ears until he changed his vote.
Another guy said he'd have helped.

Then we got into a somewhat heated but friendly argument over how stupid this guy was, even though he had the right to argue against us.

Finally, after about 10 minutes of this I stood up and said I would love to continue the debate when we next meet, hopefully by coincidence in Disneyland. I stood and left, confident that the legal system is totally fucked up and one hundred percent positive that I will never, ever, sit thru that bullshit again.

Wednesday, December 09, 2009

Elevator Auschwitz

I'm running back to the office. My stomach is churning. I feel like I might explode. I race to the back of the lobby, jam the call button and shift around uncomfortably, waiting for the damn doors to open. The bell rings, the doors open. In I go. Alone. Thank god.

Floors 1-12 are not available as this car only stops on 13-27. The stomach turns. I have no choice but to let one small fart out. How bad can it be? I unclench. A little whistler comes out and then, sensing the release valve's been opened, my intestines unload. The whistler builds. The comes out louder, no longer a high pitch squeal, more of a baritone. The wind tunnel grows, my ass cheek are actually vibrating from the gas flying out between them.

The fart turns, it now has a more melodic lilt to it. It's breezier, an almost airy quality to it, like it can life me up and float me away. I start rocking my hips, creating a rhythmic quality to this symphonic squelch.

The fart tightens up, the sound is sharper, harsher, higher in pitch again.

The sound coming from my ass twists and twirls as the last gasp of air escapes my bloated innards.

My stomach feels normal again. I didn't shit my pants. Big plus there.

I feel great.

And then the smell hits me.

It's a stench for the ages. A real bomb and I'm stuck in this elevator with it. I'm half choking, half laughing as the floors start to light up. Thank god, salvation is coming.

I'm gonna make it
what the fuck? no, please god, no, please this is horrific, I'm so busted, please don't open up, damn you elevator, get stuck. no, wait, plummet down, killing me instantly. It would be better than having the door open and....

it had to be a good looking woman
so fucking typical
there go the doors.

Welcome to Auschwitz honey. Me and you and our own little gas chamber. her eyes are watering. I must be the wrongest color of pink ever.

And there we go. I'm now getting the giggles.

Great. She's going to think I'm having a seizure from the smell of my own ass cheese.

Either that or she'll panic and think we've been attacked by some crazy nerve gas that makes us laugh like loons.


She's holding back a gag.


she's got her hand over her mouth.


her eyes are burning holes thru me. she's pissed


the doors open, I stumble out, turning to say something and seeing her gasping at the fresh air. I shake my head, give her my best "I'm a sorry loser" look and crawl into my office.

Tuesday, December 08, 2009

Seriously now, you put that on facebook?

We had a family health scare over the holiday weekend. I wound up calling an ambulance on Sunday afternoon and saving the life of a relative. I won't go into details as it's not for public consumption, which is my point in the posting. Suffice it to say, I spent the week at Peconic Bay Medical Center (Riverhead, NY), sitting with the sick relative, worrying that the issue wouldn't be found, then wouldn't be resolved, then would be resolved but leave this person in a state of permanent issue.

My younger sister was there. My older sister came for a few hours on Tuesday. Not a whole lot of surprise there. My older sister came and started talking about what time she was leaving shortly after her arrival. This weekend I had dinner with her and there was an issue with the sick relative, who is home, recovering. My sister was quick to suggest we not leave this person home alone for the night, if the issue didn't resolve itself. I agreed and asked my sister if she could stay. She suggested we call my other sister. Nice of her. I said I was kidding, I didn't expect her to stay as I was there and I would stay.

Anyway, my younger sister was with me during the week of hospital visiting. She was her usual self promoting, positioning for power amongst the relatives, self. During a conversation with her, she confided in me that this issue was far worse for her because her relationship with the patient was different, they meant more to each other than my relationship with the patient. Right. That makes sense.

dumb ass

Day two, a procedure is ordered, the patient is on the mend. day three, not much better. Day 4 a slight turn for the worse followed by a total reversal and fully alert and happy. Day 5, home.

I was at the hospital each day by 9, home some time after 1 am each night. My sister was with me the entire time. We'd come home and crash. Wake up and go, after she did a morning speed walk, which is very important it seems.

When, exactly, she found the time to update her facebook page about the situation is beyond me.

That's right, she was posting about the health issues on facebook. For starters, this is something the sick person would probably not want to be discussed amongst my sisters 150 or so fake friends. Second, the sick person was just discussing the disgusting lack of privacy that facebook users seem to display in posting pictures of events and other folks without getting permission from them.

So, this person, who is sick, who was in the hospital, primarily because they did something stupid, is now being discussed and worried about by people she doesn't know, never heard of and hadn't heard about in over a decade.

All because my sister wanted sympathy from her cadre of imaginary friends.

I found out about the facebook thing 2 ways. First, my older sister called me, asking if I thought it was appropriate. Seems her kids saw it and were a bit put off by the declarations made by their aunt. Second, a client of mine, who is on my sister's friend list, called and asked for an address to send flowers.

Like the sick person needs that.

Now, I don't use facebook. I see no point in it. See my old post
for more details on the why of it.
I don't understand the need to tell people about this shit but I'm in the minority.

Now I'm waiting for the jokes to start flying about how my family had lice as I am sure that the louse situation made the facebook updates as well.

that's right, we had the fleas and now I'm contemplating a head shave to ensure that each little itch isn't those creepy crawly fuckers.

If I do shave my head, I'll tweet it as I remove my locks, posting pics on facebook and singing about it on myspace.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Friday Night Adventure

Our nanny's mother died a week ago so she was out all week. It was a very tiring week. Between work and shuttling the kids around, I rang up insane mileage around the city and the baby sitter costs were insane. My wife was in week two of the new gig so she wasn't going to start bolting to lend a hand. In the few instances where I had kids in two places at the the same time, I called in reinforcements. My mother was, surprisingly, a big help and I outsourced a few sitters whenever necessary. The nights were no less tiring. We had plans almost every night last week and this week is shaping up to be just as busy with a screening of the new Clooney movie tonight and cigar event with the boys tomorrow before watching the parade balloons get inflated Wednesday night and the big turkey day Thursday night.

So, what does any of this have to do with my Friday night adventure? Nothing. It's early and I'm tired and I rambled a bit so fuck off.

Friday night, my wife and I went the wake. Now, as a jew, church visits have been, for the most part, as a tourist in some old european city. I've been to one church wedding and one church funeral where the priest railed on for a solid 15 minutes about how jesus was crucified by the jews. This was years ago but, somewhere, Mel Gibson was smiling.

To get to the church, we had to hop on a subway and ride it to the bitter end. To Crown Heights. For those of you not from here, Crown Heights was the scene of a rather famous riot as a result of a young boy, named Gavin Cato, being killed by some orthodox jew motorcade. The ensuing riots culminated in the murder of an orthodox jew named Yankel Rosenbaum. There was a lot more to it, including some rather hateful remarks by Al Sharpton. Information can be found here:


Anyway, we hopped on the subway and, at the end of the line, hopped off. It was a strange scene for us. Couple of white jews, the only ones on the train, or the platform. Lots of eyes on us. We exited the station and found the church right on the corner. As we walked up the steps, our nanny was standing out front, apparently, looking for us. I guess she was worried we'd get lost, or, perhaps, worse.

The church was gorgeous inside. It was like we'd walked into the local church in some italian village. People were staring at us. We were the only white people in the church. 100 or so mourners and we stood out. The mourners kept looking back at us and the woman directly in front of us was shooting daggers at us, like we had no business being in the church.

Many of the women were dressed for a formal party with short skirts, low cut tops and lots of bling.

If that wasn't odd enough, there was one woman walking around the front video taping the service. She kept moving over to the corpse, as if she was hoping to capture the dead woman's reaction. It was pretty fucking strange.

Several woman spoke. A few of the deceased's daughters and granddaughters sang. It was very sad, very touching. Our nanny tried to speak and broke down at the end. She recovered towards the end of the service and, when they announced that there would be a final viewing, we hopped up on the line of mourners, so we could express our sympathies to the nanny and her family.

As the line slowly moved towards the casket I pointed out the giant baptism tub to my wife. It was like a hot tub in the middle of the church. Then, as we got closer to the casket, we saw something that made the rest of the evening's oddities seem almost normal.

They were taking pictures around the casket. Posing over the dead body. It was as if they all came to see a celebrity. Folks were holding up cell phones to snap their pictures, others had brought their digital cameras. The closer we got, the more we heard things like "move in closer so I can see you with Teddy (the deceased)."

Who the fuck takes pictures with a dead person? Are you framing those pictures and hanging them up somewhere? In the middle of a dinner party do you offer up the chance to watch the wake video and view the photo album? I understand all cultures are different but, seriously, posing with a dead woman in a casket? Sick if you ask me.

It was getting late when we finally left the church and as we walked to the subway entrance, we noticed it was a somewhat less friendly crowd than when we first arrived. We also noticed the 8 cops hanging around the upper level of the station. We also noticed when, as we walked past them, one of them pointed to us and two of the cops started following us. They tailed us down to the platform and watched the car until it left the station.

I guess they, like the nanny, wanted to make sure we didn't get lost.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Miley Cyrus, Disney Star or Trailer Trash?

Took my daughter to see Miley Cyrus last night. The show was vastly different from the show we saw two years ago. For starters, gone is the wig, the innocent Hannah Montana persona and the kid friendly stage show. We were sitting along the path from the backstage area to the stage so we saw Miley come out with dancers in barely there clothes before the arena did. We saw someone, her boyfriend according to my niece, grab her ass as she ran past, and we saw that she barely flinched as he practically double knuckled her sphincter. The dancers took the stage first, in seductive poses and then the music started.

The music is harder, more edgy and the lyrics are no longer about bubble gum and jeans.

She struts around the stage in shorts so short that she spent an inordinate amount of time pulling the flimsy material down to cover her partially exposed ass.

At one point, she's wearing a see thru shirt and my daughter pointed out the bling dangling from her belly button. She's 16 and sporting stripper wear and stripper accessories. The only thing missing were the clear heels but I'm guessing they'll pop up in the next year or two.

I understand her desire to prove herself as a talent beyond the world of Disney but, to do that, she needs to ditch the show. Sure it's a cash cow and it has established her as a super star but the audience was, for the most part, ten and under girls and watching their idol gyrate and dance in a frighteningly seductive manner cannot be good for them. She bends over and wiggles her ass, slapping it playfully, she slides her hand slowly along her chest, downward. She strips without removing what little clothing she's actually wearing. As a father, it's frightening. As a man, it felt creepy watching her on stage.

She's clearly still a kid. She was reading her lyrics from several teleprompters on the stage (hidden to most but visible to those of us close to the stage) and she had to stifle laughter a couple of times as a result of pranks she and her dancers and band mates were playing on each other. At one point, mid song, she started gesturing to various kids in the audience, interacting with her fans, until she, kidding around, suggested, via a funny face and an elbow, that one kid knock another in the ribs. She then had a look of horror on her face when she realized that her "suggestion" was being acted out. She giggled and mumbled "no, don't do that" mid song. It was the closest she came to being the kid she really is.

My daughter was a bit freaked by some of the theatrics. She loved watching Miley float over the crowd in a wedding dress and when she sang "I Love Rock and Roll" whilst riding a flying motorcycle, my daughter seemed entranced.

During some of the more risque dance numbers, my daughter had a more perplexed look on her face. Gone were the stripper poles that had made the news, replaced by hanging ropes, but the image was that of a group of slutty, stripper wanna be's, singing and dancing around ropes instead of poles.

Disney has been known to dump their stars when they do things that go against the wholesome image their stars are supposed to promote. Miley is such a big star that, I guess, she is given a bit more leeway. The truth is, this girl has a few years left where she can toe this line between teen star and adult star and, at the rate she's going, she's going to chase her young fans away, the older audience won't be interested in yet another trashy girl from the trailer park and she will, likely, wind up as yet another example of how the parents of child stars are so busy raking in money that they forget how fucked up their kids will be as a result of their being thrust into adulthood before they sprout their first pube.

I'm guessing Miley will continue on her path to Dana Plato-dom. She has already sent out pictures of herself doing things most parents would kill their kids for. She will escalate that behavior and, by 18, we'll have seen a nipple or an ass. By 21, if she's not pregnant with her second kid, she will probably be hooked on all kinds of drugs and by 25 she'll doing porn. It's inevitable.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Floogin McNoogin, Fashion Faux Pas.

This morning, like most mornings, my daughter threw a fit getting dressed.

Things always start out normal. She wakes up in a great mood, all happy and excited for the new day. She gets dressed and things go haywire. This is always a result of her outfit. She will only wear leggings. No jeans. No skirts or dresses. Leggings and nothing else. To make matters worse, the leggings all stop just below the knee and she doesn't like to wear boots so, now that it's cold, a fight ensues.

She's yelling at my wife, my wife is screaming back and I step in and try and diffuse the situation to no avail.

In the end, I'm fighting with my wife, my daughter is in tears, my wife is pissed at me and my son is pissed off for being woken up so early.

A hell of a way to start the day.

So, after listening to my wife and daughter scream at each other, I snapped. We were now going to be late for school and that is a bad thing. My daughter is in a special program and, as I've mentioned in prior postings, if she is late or absent more than a handful of times, she can be tossed from the program.

So I snapped.

I'm screaming at my wife to just let her wear whatever the hell she wants.

I'm screaming at my daughter to stop being such a fucking diva and get dressed.

I'm trying to talk to my son, to convince him we're not all insane.

My daughter shouts "I want to go to therapy after school because you guys are making me crazy."

I tell her she can go to therapy 7 days a week at the home for difficult girls.

She cries some more.

Finally, she puts on jeans, tears are streaming down her face. She's upset beyond belief.

We leave the apartment at 8:30. School starts in 15 minutes and we have a 15 minute drive in traffic free, 3 am roads. Unfortunately, it's rush hour so we won't make it to the school in less than 30 minutes and I'm furious.

We're in the hallway, waiting on the elevator and I'm trying to talk to my daughter about the morning insanity and I tell her that I'm sorry for yelling but I don't understand these things. I explain that women are different from me. I tell her that women go berserk over their clothes. Their underwear needs to match the rubber band in their hair and this makes no sense to me. I tell her that men get dressed and women have this inane ritual of trying shit on, alternating shoes that result in a shirt change and that her mother is guilty of this and it is creating a monster in my little angel.

My daughter says "so, men don't care about their clothes?"

We step on the elevator.

I tell her that we care but we don't need to spend hours trying on a hundred different combinations of pants and shirts and then, after settling on the shirt and pants, spend another hour trying shoes. We just don't do that. We have pants and shirts, they either match or they don't and we have shoes, brown or black, and they go with the pants or they don't.

I tell her "look at me. Do I look like some kind of billboard fashion model? No. I'm wearing a white shirt, brown pants and brown shoes. There's really..."

That's when I saw it.

I was wearing two different shoes.

The elevator stops, I grab my daughter's hand and tell her we need to go back up, I can't go to work in two different shoes.

My daughter looks at me and I swear I heard her thinking "putz"

As we pulled up to the school, I told her she'd have to run into the building while I paid for the cab.

She told me that, when they asked why she was late, she was going to tell them the truth, that daddy wasn't happy with his outfit and had to go back and change.

The six year old wins, again.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Try To Keep Up

HN1 vaccine issues at home. Do we, or don't we? Tis the question at hand. Seems everyone with half a brain is wrestling with this question these days. I've spoken to enough doctors that getting it makes perfect sense but, then I read the news and peruse and I think, perhaps, I'd be better off dangling my kid from a balcony and seeing what transpires.

As is usually the case after October 15th, I was all set to go fishing with my dad. Cabo was the destination. I was sifting thru the dates, trying to figure out what works best for both of us when he told me he can't go. Always something.

The hunt for a new home continues. Found a great apartment on Friday. Was all set to take the next step, make an offer and get building financials when I found out that the apartment is off the market.

Same as the house we were supposed to look at over the weekend.

Speaking of the weekend. I firmly believe that my sister is the dumbest person on the planet. She throws a birthday party for her daughter on the Sunday after Halloween. No biggie, right? Wrong. She decided that 10:30 am was a good time and she decided to have the party close to her apartment, which is on the most eastern street in NYC (aside from the FDR). Did she forget about the marathon? Probably didn't even know. So we packed up our shit, worked our way uptown to the 80's where she lives, headed east and ran into a wall of runners and cheering spectators. Where can we cross? 57th. Where do I live? 57th.

Back down we went. Back home. Fuck that. I'm not schlepping all the way back up there to the one street east of the marathon so that I can be stuck walking home with my kids.

About two months ago, my wife and I were scheduling our kids after school activities and every time she suggested something that might result in the kids needing to be in two different places at the same time, I brought up the concept of her, possibly, not being available, due to work. She shrugged it off. Then, the sitter asked if she could take Wednesday's off as she's been so tired lately. She must be anemic because my kids are in school all day so she can't be too overworked.

Well, she was offered a part time gig yesterday, with a start date this Monday. She'll be working for 3 months, covering for a woman on maternity leave. The agency she'll be working at is considered to be one of the best to work for. Polar opposite of what she's used to. No crazy hours, no insane pressure. But she will not be around on Wednesdays so the sitter needs to come back.

And what of all those overlapping schedules?

Looks like I'll be filling in as my schedule is far more flexible. I don't care. Anything that results in my wife working, not spending, sounds fucking great.

So, last night, we're discussing the job and she says it's not freelance, she'll be on payroll so there's no need to worry about keeping track of her income and expenses. She then tells me she wants to withhold as little as possible. Great, I tell her. Set the withholding for single, 0, I tell her. She says that sounds like she'll be taking out more, not less.

She will. I explain to her that she is responsible for her taxes. I explain to her that she needs to make up for the 10 months of unemployment with no withholding. She looks like she's going to cry. I explain to her that, while I don't expect her to use that money for the birthday party she planned on throwing me but never did, nor do I expect her to go buy me birthday presents for my long gone 40th, that she claims never happened because she was low on cash. Hell, I tell her, I don't even expect her to use the money to start paying for her own cabs but, I do, most definitely, expect her to pay her own fucking taxes and, if not, she can file a separate return and handle the taxes all by her lonesome. She agreed to withhold the maximum.

My son started getting boners last week. Believe it, or not, this was actually a topic of worry last week. Almost as worrisome as the swine vaccine. The sitter mentioned that all of the other boys she's had under her care, sported wood with some frequency and little McNoogin did not and she was concerned. Then, lo and behold, little man wakes up with morning wood. My wife was dressing him and she was pulling up his jeans and he said "mom, my wiener feels weird."

So, when I brought it up that night, I figured, I'd explain the boner as best I could and my wife shushed me. She's of the belief that we should not talk about his pecker, lest we create some kind of monster.

And on the topic of morning wood......what the fuck is that all about? Seriously. I can understand waking up with a diamond cutter when you've got a half naked woman lying next to you, or not. I can understand a young, pubescent man's need to unload the build-up but, at 40? Seriously? All morning wood does for a man my age is remind me how old I am.

I wake up with a tree trunk and I roll over, realize there's no chance of getting rid of it the natural way, so I shift and roll around trying to will it away. After realizing that I'm stuck with the thing, I hit the bathroom. No, not to rub one out. To pee. It's what 40 year olds do. With a bit more frequency than 30 year olds.

A normal penis points downward when you pee.

Morning wood is like a good drink. Tall and strong and straight up.

You look down and your boner is staring back at you. Pee now and you'll give yourself a golden shower.

So you bend. You spread your legs. You flex.

You contort. You twist. You grab things for support and you try and aim that thing towards the bowl.

Pee hardons are the reason men became gymnasts.

Pee hardons tell a 40 year old man that he's getting old. He can't bend and twist and throw a leg on the sink while touching his forehead on the tank behind the bowl. It's not possible.

If it was someone else's bathroom, maybe, you'd try and work the long, arching pee stream into the bowl by starting out in one spot and shuffling forward as the boner subsided but your own shitter? Not a chance. Nothing worse than pulling a muscle trying to pee and then being forced to mop up the rim shots.

Someone sent me a funny email about the chinese animals and the correlation to diseases, swine/pig, mad cow/ox(cow) and there was reference to the year of the cock. It was funny but the years are wrong so I'm not posting it.

Fucking emails with lame jokes that I need to research before repeating.

I need a hobby.

I promise to come back if y'all promise to actually read this thing.

Monday, October 05, 2009

The Tooth Fairy Cometh

My daughter doesn't believe in the usual childhood myths and legends. When she was three she told her niece, who was 7 at the time, that Santa Claus probably wasn't real because he can't go down chimneys in the city and the only way to get gifts in would be thru a window or by the front door and the doormen in her building don't let anyone in without buzzing up first.

To say she's wise is an understatement.

So, when she lost her first tooth a year or so ago, she put it under her pillow but made jokes about how much the daddy tooth fairy was going to give her.

We tried to convince her otherwise, to no avail. I told her the tooth fairy was small, green and had wings. I told her that, sometimes, if you look carefully, you can see little green footprints where the tooth fairy walked around your face, inspecting the lost tooth. She wasn't buying any of it.

The last tooth she lost, she again put under her pillow, with a note that, she said at the time, was for the tooth fairy only.

So, when I crept into her room, slipped my hand under the pillow and removed the tooth and the note, I got a hell of a surprise.

It was addressed to me.

Yesterday, she lost her upper front tooth. Apparently, losing these front teeth is a big deal to the 2nd graders in her class and my daughter was ecstatic. She called me to tell me. When I saw her she was beaming with pride over her hockey player's mouth. Her other upper front chomper is loose as hell and it seems to have shifted now that the mate has fallen out. She has the appearance of a one toothed goober from the south. It's adorable in a "don't smile honey" kind of way.

She told me that this tooth was worth at least $25 or an ipod touch and she thinks a credit card is probably not out of the question.

I told her to talk to the tooth fairy because she's responsible for these things.

She said "I am talking to the tooth fairy, DAD!"

So, I suggested she wrap the tooth up and get some sleep. Once again, she wrote a note.

Here it is, verbatim:
Dear Tooth Fairy,
I lost my first top tooth, so I want more than 10 bucks and mabey(sic) even a credit card or an I touch.

(drawing of her tooth)

I'm so excited I lost my first top tooth so give me something big!!!

She slipped that note, along with her tooth, into a plastic bag and stuck it under her pillow.

After she fell asleep I cut out a picture of an itouch from one of the Sunday paper inserts. I then took a note card and made a mock credit card for Fairyland Express and paper clipped them both to a $20.

I slipped my hand under her pillow and pulled out the tooth, replacing it with my little package.

Then I took a green marker and left little dots on her cheek, leading up to her nose and all over her nose.

No word yet but, I'm hoping, the footprints will work to convince her that yes, Virginia, there is a Tooth Fairy.

Sunday, October 04, 2009

On Foot Over The Line.

So, I went out to dinner last night with my wife and two other couples. The wives are my wife's college roommates. The husbands are ok, I guess. Both are very successful, one is self made, the other took over his family business and grew the business to a much more successful enterprise. Vastly different people, both of them, with me falling somewhere in the middle.

Anyway, during the course of the meal I feel a foot on my leg and I look up at my wife who's sitting across from me, and she smiles at me.


So not like her.

The foot moves up my leg and before I know it, I'm getting a foot job. Aroused, and enjoying it, I look back at my wife and she's smiling at me while talking to one of her friends.

Realizing that I need to stop the wife before things become explosive, I slip a hand under the table and grab the foot. I start massaging the foot and smiling back at my wife who now looks at me like I'm mildly retarded.

I look down at the foot.

Not my wife's.

I look casually back at my wife and I notice, out of the corner of my eye, that her friend seems to be enjoying something other than the conversation.

What the fuck?

Does she know she's parked on the wrong cock?

I casually move her foot down, away from my frank and beans and it comes back.
So I move it again.
Again, it comes back.

Fortunately, at this point, the Eiffel Tower is more like the leaning tower of Pisa, and I slide my seat back a bit, making it impossible for the girl to reach me.

I gulp down the stoli orange on the rocks, readjust the little guy and head to the bathroom to regroup.

Was it a mistake? Does this woman know she was foot jerking me and not her husband? Do I tell my wife that her best friend of 20+ years was toeing the line, as it were?

I stayed back from the table for the rest of the meal, leaning forward to eat, making for a most uncomfortable meal but the alternative was an entirely different kind of uncomfortable.

On the walk home, my wife asked my why I was so weird during dinner. I told her I was tired, that I wasn't up for the night out and, in the future, let's not do these kinds of dinners when I'm so tired and overworked.

Apparently, we're seeing this couple again in three weeks. I doubt if I'll tell my wife. Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding. Maybe she did think I was her husband. I hope so.

I'm wearing a cup next time, just in case.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

What's the Fascination, Kenneth?

So I went to get shaving cream at Macy's and was greeted by a wall of people behind those metal jail bars for midgets that the cops use to cordon off protesters. As I walk by I notice the throngs of people are carrying signs or posters and cameras. I take a closer look and see that they're all carrying Mariah Carrey crap.

So I ask one of the cops what's up and he tells me Mariah Carrey is making an appearance in a few minutes. I shrug my shoulders, move in to Macy's, get my shaving cream and exit as far away from these losers as possible.

I say losers because, to be honest, anyone that is over the age of 12, who stands around in a crowd of people waiting to see a celebrity is a loser. That's right. It's not like the celebrity is going to change their lives. Mariah Carrey will get out of the limo, flash those fat thighs, maybe provide the porn sites with a nipple slip, certainly give the tabs more fuel for the "she's fat or pregnant" pages and then she'll do her thing, posing for press photos, maybe sign an autograph or two and move on.

And the 29 year old fat chicks and greasy dudes will live far more enjoyable lives I guess. Why not? They can now say they stood outside, rubbed asses with other dudes, whilst Mariah Carrey walked by and, guess what man, she looked at me. Seriously. She saw me and we made eye contact and if there weren't 500 other losers around, she weren't married, I wasn't a fat, unemployed stain on society, she wasn't Mariah Carrey, wasn't married, wasn't wealthy, talented and, some might say good looking (not me), she'd have asked me out man. Seriously. we had a moment there and I could see, in her eyes man, the way she looked at me, she wanted me. Bad.

What the fuck is the point? Why do people sit around so they can see, that's right see, a celebrity? I don't get it.

I waited over night, in the rain, for stones tickets when I was in college. It was one of those things, decided at 2 in the morning, when we were hammered and, probably, high on some for of narcotic, so we went, figuring, the stones are old, they might not tour again. Waited all night, made friends with the girls in front of us, thankfully, because they sold out when it was my turn to buy tickets and the girls asked us to go with them.

The last fucking row in the superdome. That's like sitting on the 75th floor of a building, staring down on the street. But they had speakers so we heard the music and I could care less about seeing those corpses prancing around on the stage.

I'd never stand around to get a glimpse of a celeb. Perhaps, because I live in a city filled with celebrities, and I see them wandering around from time to time, I'm no longer as impressed. There are those moments when I spot a celeb and I dial the wife or email a friend but only when it's a cool sighting like seeing the donger on the street or sitting in front of Abe Vigoda at a show, doing a double take upon seeing him and having him lean over and confirm that yes, indeed, he is still not dead.

Sure, I've seen them and, at times, spoken to them but only because the situation called for it. Richard Gere once approached me in a store because we were both killing time checking out stereo equipment and Alec Baldwin did exchange shoe advice at the Cole Haan store in East Hampton (he talks to everyone) and he did play with my daughter when she was hysterical one night in a restaurant but I'd never, ever stand around waiting to see him.

I tend to do the opposite when it comes to celebrities. I have no desire to bother them and, as such, I tend to move away faster than normal. What the fuck are Drew Barrymore and I going to talk about? Would she feel more comfortable if I stared at her?

No, she wouldn't.

So why the fuck are those folks still down there, an hour and a half later, waiting on Mariah Carrey?

To misquote the crazy fuck who assaulted Dan Rather, What's the Fascination, Kenneth?

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

I'm Off The Wagon and Paying For It

So, I decided to eat some carbs. Surrounded by bagels all weekend will do that to a guy. Plus, I've been carrying around a roll of sprees and a roll of bottle caps for about a month now, in anticipation of my ditching the diet for a few days.

I've been thoroughly enjoying myself. Bagels, rice, pop corn, the aforementioned candy etc.

After picking up a salad for lunch, adding all the things I never, ever eat, I decided to walk ten blocks to the only candy store in the vicinity that might actually sell bottle caps (I know this because I scoured the area yesterday when I ran out). Like a junkie seeking a fix, I marched uptown to the candy store and there, in the window, was the most glorious site. Row after row of Wonka candies. Wonka Bars, Pixy Stix, Runts, Spree!!!! Bottle Caps!!!!! and tons more.

I tried to contain my glee but I think I might have wet the shorts a bit and let out a small moan.

I bent down, scooped up fistfulls of the spree bottle cap rolls from their respective boxes and headed to the counter.

"should I pop one of these bad boys open now or wait till I get to the office?" I thought to myself.

"No, wait. You don't want to run into someone looking for a root beer flavored bottle cap."

So I showed some constraint. I waited. I ate my salad, I did some more work, I reached into the bag and pulled out a roll. I snapped the roll in half as I scoured the internet for ways to ingest bottle caps in a manner that will make them last longer, producing a stronger, longer lasting flavor. I fingered the round little morsel as I read about main lining sprees. I popped the little sugary happiness into my mouth, closed my eyes and bit down.

What the fuck?

Drool flooded my mouth.

My eyes watered.

My lips turned inward, into a most horrific scowl.

Did I just eat a rotten bottle cap? Is that even possible? Did Wonka add a new flavor - sour ass?

I look down at the roll next to my quivering hand.

Shockers? I bought shockers? Who the fuck stocked shockers in the spree and bottle cap boxes.

I emptied my bag o' tricks onto the desk.

3 rolls of sweet tarts, 1 roll of shockers, 1 roll of sprees and three rolls of bottle caps.

Now, do I walk back and swap out all the wrong stuff? No. Of course not. I love sweet tarts and the shockers, once you get over the initial, um, shock, are actually kinda good.

I'm still going back, just not returning anything.

After all, no junkie turns down drugs, he takes em and gets more.

Monday, September 21, 2009

The Sad Price of Fame

So, my son starts his last year of pre-K today and, last week, the school inundated us with emails, meetings and so on. As a result of all this communication, mothers started talking, old friendships renewed, new friendships begun. In the course of all this activity, my wife found out that we have a celebrity in our midst. The temple itself has quite the roster of members, from Ron Perlman to Jerry Seinfeld but the school, well, that's not something we're used to so, when we learned that this rather well known actor's kids would be attending this fall, we got a mild thrill. His kids are both younger than my son so we'll have no real chance to bump into each other although I know a half dozen parents with kids in the older child's class so, perhaps, birthday parties might result in some chance meetings.

Then my wife ran into a friend she hadn't seen in a while and this woman tells her she has a kid in the celebrity kid class and the actor's wife approached her after their orientation meeting and asked if she'd be interested in getting a cup of coffee. Turns out the actor will probably never be seen at the school. He will not walk on the street with his children and he won't go out in public with them because he wants to keep them sheltered from the cameras and the paparazzi and all that crap.

My first reaction was "how sad it that?" Think about it. You have kids and you cannot experience walking down the street, holding their hand? You can't swing them with each third step? You can't take them to the zoo in Central Park or push them on swings in any of the parks scattered throughout the city? That's a shitty deal. That's not parenting.

Don't get me wrong, the woman wasn't complaining about his parenting or any such thing. She was merely pointing out that he won't be around as he doesn't want his kids to be hounded and he wants to keep the school free of that bullshit as well.

Then I started thinking about the many celebrities I've seen and met around the city. I've stood side by side with James Gandolfini as we both pushed our kids on swings. Spoke to him a bit as our kids ran around the jungle jim. Nobody was taking his picture. I met Sarah Jessica Parker at the ob-gyn's office (same doc as my wife). No photogs hanging around out front and she was with her son, who was about a month old. Kelly Ripa takes her kids to birthday parties, she doesn't seem to be surrounded by photographers. Granted, none of these celebs are anywhere near the star wattage that the guy I'm talking about is but, still, they're targets of the cameras and I've never seen them being bothered by the cameras.

Here's what I think. I think that Angelina Jolie enjoys the cameras. I think Lindsey Lohan calls the photographers to tell them where she'll be flashing her beaver that night and I think that, perhaps, in LA, things are different than they are here. In NYC there are a lot of famous people and most New Yorkers could give a shit. Thus, you can walk into the gross deli on 35th and 7th and see Nicole Kidman and her redneck husband buying meals for their crew or some other large group of hungry, not too picky, people. No shit, she was loading up food from the salad bar and nobody even noticed.

Now I want to befriend this guy so I can show him that it is possible to lead a normal life here in the big apple. All he needs to do is call Jerry Seinfeld and ask him how he manages to lead a normal life here without constantly being the target of all those cameras.

And for the record, no, I won't say who he is as his privacy deserves to be respected.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Viva Las Floogin..

The hangover is finally fading, the body slowly recovering from the lack of sleep and I'm now back at work and ready to talk about Vegas.

I know, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Know why?

Me Neither.

It's a strange place. All neon lights and pretend tourist destinations. Who, in their right mind, picks a Vegas hotel over going to Paris, NYC, Egypt, Rome, Venice, etc is beyond me but, apparently, they do. This is why you drive thru the city and, as you gaze out the window of your car, it looks like you are scanning the pages of a travel brochure. It is truly strange.

And somewhat sad.

Driving thru the area felt like I was on a back lot at some Hollywood studio. It was like making a wrong turn in Disney's Hollywood Studios, and finding yourself in some after hours version of the park. Adults only.

Don't get me wrong, I had a blast. I saw college friends that I haven't seen in close to twenty years. I spent time with my college roommates and all my old partners in crime. I stayed out until after 6 am, we laughed our asses off. Some funny stories will never be told but they happened.

Of course, the group I was with would have had the same good time if we were in New Orleans, Houston, Anchorage, Des Moines. We didn't need the blinking lights and the bells and whistles of Vegas to have a good time.

Sure, being surrounded by hookers who want to grind and gyrate with you until you realize you might as well take her upstairs for the $500 because there are no freebies in the joint tonight.

I'm under the impression that every woman out at night is a prostitute. I'm not calling all women hookers. Not at all. I just think that every woman we saw during the time out there was willing to fuck for $500. That's right. I personally turned down more solicitations to bump and grind in one night than I've turned down in my entire life. Women hit on me but not with the frequency or the aggressiveness that every woman in Vegas hit on me and every other guy there.

They all want to party. They want to dance in your little VIP section, drink you always flowing booze, snort some of your drugs (if you got em), and they'll do this all night long, always reminding you that, at the end of the night, the entry fee to her club is $500.

OK, maybe they aren't all hookers. They might all figure, hell, I'm going to get fucked up with the guy, drink his booze, dance with him and snort his drugs. I'll probably end up fucking him anyway, maybe I can clip him for some coin too.

One of the guys in our group took home two girls that had been partying all night with some of the gang. When the fucking had ended, they asked for their money and he said he thought they wanted to fuck, not fuck him. He claimed to have had no clue they were hookers, told them he was tapped out, broke and he's sorry.

So they pissed on his leg (no shit) on left. No pimp showed up to break his legs or steal his luggage or hang him from the balcony until a friend came and grabbed some cash for him. This leads me to believe most girls in Vegas are amateurs. They charge for it but they often get screwed and fucked. A pro would have taken the money first. A pro would have had a better contingency plan than pissing on the guy's leg.

These women help make Vegas what it is. A flashy, soulless town.

Vegas is depressing. It has no history, no soul. Every city was built on something. Not Vegas. Built in the oppressive heat of the desert, built for the sole purpose of drawing people in and taking their money.

New Orleans, Los Angeles, New York City, Chicago, Boston, Paris, London, Rome, Venice, Munich, Tokyo, Moscow....Vegas.

Vegas is new, it's flashy, it's loud, sleazy, it's fuck, it's like being in a quiet restaurant on St. Barth's and being embarrassed by the loud group of drunk Americans at the next table. Vegas is that loud, embarrassing group. Vegas is to cities, what Texas is to states and what Americans is to people. Don't get me wrong, I'm proud to be an American but I know that, globally, when people think American, they think Texan. Loud, obnoxious, bit low on class, bit flashy, perhaps a bit sleazy.

I'm sure there are normal parts of Vegas and I know there are normal people there because I know a couple of them but, still, overall, it's a pretty fucked up joint and by living there, you are, to some degree, becoming part of that fucked up joint.

By the way, I've already booked my room for the next bachelor party in Vegas.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Proof That There Is No God, part 2.

Shortly after my daughter was born, my coworker, went into the hospital to have her baby. The day after the delivery she collapsed and died on the operating table. Aneurysm.
She was my age (34 at the time). She was overweight and borderline diabetic, before the pregnancy, administering insulin shots during the pregnancy. She was a high risk candidate for an aneurysm and the hospital totally fucked things up. This was the first time I had proof that there was no god. All this woman wanted was a baby. She tried for years with her husband before going the in vitro route. The first two times, it didn't work. Three times' the charm, they say and on the third try, she wound up pregnant. She enjoyed barely a moment with her son before being taken and, to this day, I can't understand how something like this can happen to someone so good, so nice and so fucking undeserving.

Well, today, I got another dose of proof.

My bookkeeper, who has been with me for a few years now, who buried her mother less than 6 months ago, thanks to cancer ravaging her body, found out that she, too, has cancer. She's had all kinds of ailments of late, heart issues, etc and each time she's gone to the doctor, she's come away fine. Not today. She had tests done a week ago and the doctor called yesterday, asking that she come in today. Never a good thing when they won't give you the news over the phone. I told her the doctor was probably looking to tag the insurance company for a complete visit, thus he wanted her in his office.

Sadly, this was not the case. She now faces the prospect of surgery to remove the disease and, if that doesn't work, well, she knows, all too well, what lies ahead.

This is a single mother, who has struggled to provide her daughter with a good home and a proper upbringing and, in August, she had the pleasure of driving her daughter to college for her freshman year.

She's now tasked with coping with the realities of this disease alone. I know her, she'll tell her daughter when she's ready, not wanting to worry her and not wanting her daughter to even consider leaving school to be with her.

She came to the office today, after the doctor's appointment because this is her second home. A place where she knows we'll do what we can to comfort her and she knows that we will do whatever it takes to make her smile, to forget, if only for a moment, that the same shitty disease that took her mother from her, is now in her, looking to do what it does best.

If there was some being out there, some forgiving deity who absolves you of your sins, he'd never, ever let someone like this get the fucking sniffles, let alone cancer.

Again, I'm left thinking that it doesn't add up. To put it in the most simple of terms, it isn't fair.

I've never been a big believer in god but I do hope there is one because nothing would give me more pleasure than, upon my death, being greeted by this guy, and then being evicted for punching him in the face.

Friday, September 04, 2009

The World's A Crazy Place Man, Right? It Is, Right Man?

I'm standing in front of my building, enjoying the sunshine, taking a break from my work (been here for a couple of hours). I'm standing there, watching the throngs of people heading towards their offices and I see this very tall, black guy walking against the flow of traffic. He's got his arms up and out and he seems to be motioning to, well, nobody in general but he's moving those arms like he's talking to someone, pointing out some important shit.

I look away and start my internal prayer "please walk past me...please walk past me...please walk past me..."

"He comes up with his hand out, looking for a shake. Sidles right up next to me and says "the world's a crazy place man. It's crazy, right? It is, right man?"

I give him a quick glance and agree that yes, indeed, it is crazy.

He asks if he should do it and I tell him I don't think so. I'm not sure what the fuck he's talking about but, to be honest, this dude was homeless and off his meds so whatever it is that he's thinking of doing, can't be good.

He's got his hand out, still waiting for that shake and now his shoulder is up against mine, he's bumping shoulders, talking about how crazy it is and how he thinks he should do it and I realize, I am going to have to shake this guy's hand or run like a mother fucker for my building. I grimace and take his hand, he gives it a quick shake and squeeze and says "you're right, I'm doing it"

Then he turns to face the flow of pedestrian traffic and I'm looking at him and he gives me a look that says "be discrete, don't look at me" and his eyes move to the crowd and then down to the ground. Back to the crowd, to me, to the ground. He wants me to follow his eyes so I do.

And I look to the crowd, then I look down at the ground where his eyes are and as my eyes pan down I see what he's going on about.

He's holding his fully erect cock, wrapped in his shirt, in his hand. His free hand is motioning around like he's pointing out something and he's gripping his cock, pointing it at the people walking past him.

I move to my left, he stands next to me, saying "I'm doing it, I'm gonna do it man, it's a crazy world and I'm doing it, man."

Now, I'm not sure what else he's doing but I have an idea and I don't want to be covered in it.

I start to walk towards my office, wishing him good luck and he's saying "c'mon man, come back, I'm doing it. I promise."

I left him standing there, holding his cock.

The world is, most definitely, a crazy place. More so now that I have met the man with the elephant cock who likes to stroke it for the crowded morning commute.

My day is complete.

Monday, August 31, 2009

Vacation And The Shitty Bookends of Family Time

Been a while but I'm back. Took a nice long, well deserved rest. Back to Montauk for a week on the beach, riding waves, swimming and sunning with the kids. It was just what I needed, minus a couple of minor annoyances but would it be a Floogin vacation if there weren't a few minor annoyances?

Spent Sunday night with my parents and my pain in the ass sister and her annoying family. Monday was travel day, driving to Montauk in time to get some swimming in at the hotel before dinner and sleep. Tuesday, our first full day there, was annoyance number one. My sister and her family wanted to come see us one day out east and they chose Tuesday. Our first day there and we couldn't relax. We had to deal with them. The annoying kids, the asshole husband and my pain in the ass sister. Oddly enough, she was the only none nuisance the whole day. Her dead beat husband complained about the beach which wasn't our first choice but he couldn't park at the good beaches without paying for a one day permit and he's too fucking cheap for that so we hit the only beach with public parking. It's still an amazing beach but, according to this pile of nothing, it was too crowded, the sand wasn't "nice" and a myriad of other pointless complaints. Their kids can't sit still for two seconds but, somehow, that vast expanse of sand and surf isn't capable of occupying their attention for even a fleeting second. So, we lasted a couple of hours on the beach. Then we hit the best restaurant on the beach. A nice, outdoor rooftop deal. Stunning views of the beach, nice breeze, amazing food.

Well, all that if you aren't the fat fuck who thinks everything is shitty if it isn't free, it seems. During the meal we found out why they chose this day to come see us. It was the one day that there'd be nobody to tend to them at my parents' house so, off they went, ruining the first day of my trip.

They came back to the hotel and whined about the smell in the hallway, the shoddy carpets, the too small pool and anything else they could complain about. During dinner, a place I hate but a place that is perfect for cheap fucks like them and ideal for dining with kids that don't eat, don't sit at the table and don't want to let anyone enjoy a good meal. Basically, this place was designed for them. He complained about the service, the food, the gravel in his motherfucking shoes.

Before we were even finished, I asked for the check, paid for the meal, in full, thanked them for ruining the first day of our trip and asked them to go home.

Wednesday and Thursday were far more pleasant. We stayed on the beach well past 6, built sand castles, rode the waves, boogie boarded and had a fucking blast. We played mini golf, we ate great meals on the docks, and, at night, I had a chance to dine out with the wife, sans kids.

All was great.

Until some cocksucker named Daniel decided to rain on my parade. Literally.

Fucking tropical storm off shore allowed some minor front to settle over us on Friday, effectively ruining the beach day. We wound up doing lots of other things to pass the time but it was somewhat depressing being in a fishing and surfing town with no fishing or surfing to be had.

On Saturday, that asshole Daniel dumped a shitload of rain on us but, fuck him, we were leaving anyway. We drove home in the rain, stopping for lunch, for a pit stop at the children's museum and a few stores. Anything to avoid sitting in my parents' house, doing nothing, with those screaming, whining, crying, pain in the ass kids.

We arrived in time for dinner. Barbecue. Always barbecue. The fat fuck likes to barbecue and drink. He's white trash.

Sunday was spent splitting up. I was planning on heading back to the city, my wife and kids stayed behind. The weather was shitty again so she decided to take my daughter and go shopping. Her cousin wanted to come so my wife took him. He's about 9 months older than her and there's this fierce competition amongst them, thanks to my mother and my sister. Truth be told, there's no competition. He's a whiny brat of a kid who somehow managed to get into the city's top public school but, as he heads into second grade, he can't fucking read. Go figure.

Anyway, they were shopping for clothes for my daughter and she's not much into shopping. My nephew, however, is gay and loves to shop. We always thought he was a bit on the fem side, he wears tons of bracelets, his favorite nintendo ds games are fashion and cooking games, he knows all the disney songs and dance moves from the high school musical series, hannah montana etc. His friends are all girls, he never plays with boys. He's gay.

At the store, my wife tells me he ran around like some crazed beast, grabbing accessories to go with clothes my wife was picking up for my daughter and, she said, his sense of style is amazing. He knew which patterns went with what, he picked out shoes, hats, belts, etc. She said it was like shopping with a real girlie girl.

Then he turned into his more annoying side. He was screaming and acting like a putz and she finally had enough and took them home. Then he teamed up with his sister to pester my son. My son doesn't take to being pestered and those two kids scream and cry when someone brushes against them and the combination of the those two an my son always winds up with those two crying bloody murder.

This time, we watched it unfold and it was most enjoyable. My niece, who's a year older than my son and, possibly, on the slow side (I know, not a joke but she can't be that stupid without having some kind of handicap), decided to try and stand in front of my son, no matter where he went. My son did his best to move away from her, asking her to stop, screaming at her to stop and then I told her that I saw what she was doing and it wasn't nice and she gave her mildly retarded smile face and stared into space so he pushed her. She moved back a step and started screaming "Floogin hit me." I stood up and said, "no, he pushed you lightly because you wouldn't get out of his way, even after he asked you a few times." Then, the more annoying gay older brother decided to get into the act. He leaned his face right into my son's face and did his best, high pitched "nananananana."

My son kicked him in the chest and slapped him in the face.

The little fag went down like tower two.

It was that fast.

Both of my sister's kids are now screaming and crying and out rushes the big sweaty trailer park king.

"what the fuck did your crazy son do this time?" he bellowed at me.

"He shoved your pain in the ass daughter out of his way because asking her several times didn't seem to register and then, when your moron son thought my son was going to get in trouble, he shoved his face in my boy's face and mocked him, so Floogin hit him, and kicked him."

I then bent down and picked up my son and said, loudly, in front of the whole fucking family "Floogin, we don't hit, we don't push and we don't kick. I don't care how annoying they are or how much they tease you, you don't hit them. You don't hit baby marcus, do you?"

He said no, Baby Marcus is a baby.

"Right," I said "we don't hit babies and gayson and idiotdaughter (not their real names but oh, so appropriate) are big babies so we can't hit them."

I know, sort of bad parenting but what I wanted to do, at that very moment, was high five him and call his taekwon do school and tell them they missed the best punch/kick combo ever.

Later in the day my sister asked me why I was going to sit on a bus back to the city and find myself dropped off blocks away from my apartment with all my luggage when they could drop me off at my front door. I explained that I didn't think I could handle the two plus hour ride, sandwiched between her kids. I told her it would result in my stabbing pens in my ears to avoid listening to their whines.

She said she totally understood.

Got home after 9. Enjoyed a nice, quiet meal. Alone. Enjoyed a nice, quiet apartment and a kind sized bed, alone.

It was a rather fitting end to a hectic weekend. Sadly, that hectic weekend somewhat dimmed the bright sunshine that was the week in Montauk.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

What the hell?

Since my brother in law moved out, we replaced him with another accounting firm and a small company that does all things tech. The accounting firm is a nice little firm, run by a guy a few years older than I am and he handles slightly different types of accounts so we can feed each other business as it comes in. A great mix. The tech company is run by a husband and wife who are a few years younger than me. Very nice folks. The guy is a wanderer, he cannot sit still for very long and he wanders in and out of his office, looking for someone to talk to or something to occupy his time. The wife is, clearly, the brains of the operation.

She's also kinda cute.

Their office is located across the "hall" from mine and since nobody ever shuts their doors around here, I can see into their office at all times. I can't see him but she is almost always in my vision. Enough so that I've been privy to the whale tail thong display a couple of times. Not that I look but when you have something directly in your line of sight, it's hard to miss.

Today, she's wearing a dress. Nothing fancy, nothing too sexy but a dress. Looks good on her. The look she was cultivating until now was one of New Hampshire lez so the dress, with a hint of leg showing, is a welcome respite.

Anyway, I'm on the phone, talking to a very good friend (booking the Vegas trip) and she turns around in her chair so that she's facing me. She appears to be doing something but I cannot tell and I am not going to outright stare at her. That's when she spread the knees a bit.

She flashed a bit of the goods.

Not enough to induce wood but enough for me to notice.

And Floogin liked it.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Diarrhea, minus the happy ending.

I'm a moron. I'm the first to admit it. I have this tendency to get hooked on something and go balls out on it until I've paid the price. I then stop, cold turkey and move on, for a spell but, being a moron, I tend to drift back towards these stupid habits.

I do the no carb diet most of the time. I am fairly good at keeping my diet free of sugars, starches etc and, for the most part, my body is grateful. I lost over 70 pounds as a result (7 years ago) and I've kept most of it off. I go off the diet from time to time, indulge in sweets, pasta, whatever. I go off, my body punishes me for it and back on the diet I go.

The one thing I've managed, for the most part, to avoid, has been the smoking. About a week or so ago, I bought a pack. First one this year. It led to another and I've now been hating myself for smoking for about a week. To mask the stench and to try and keep me from wanting more, I picked up a pack of Dentyne. I hate gum chewers. It's an ugly habit but it beats the smoking so I chewed. And chewed and chewed. I dig the taste so I started upping the intake. I decided to check the ingredients, make sure I'm not ingesting carbs and I see that the gum has sorbitol and malitol as the first two ingredients. These are alcohol sugars that can, in large amounts, cause all kinds of intestinal hell. Diarrhea, gas, etc. I know this because I once downed two bags of sugar free butterscotch candies, only to find myself with what can only be described as a leaky ass. I spent a great deal of time hovering over the can as my body drained itself like a car getting an oil change.

So, I look at the pack of gum and see these two ingredients, then I look in the garbage can and see two empty packs lying there and a half chewed pack on the desk.

Fuck me.

The stomach had been rumbling, I thought it was hunger.

Nope. My stomach twisted and a strange noise came from my gut. mmmmmooooooorrrrroooooonnnnn it squealed.

Sensing I was about to piss out of my ass, I bolted for the bathroom. Fumbling with the lock, not sure if the butt clench will contain the package that is screaming, literally, to get out, I start to sweat. It's 100 degrees today and shit sweats aren't pleasant in an unairconditioned room. The sweat box that is the bathroom will be 150 degrees and I'd be sweating without the stomach cramping and the intestinal attempts to invert itself.

I managed to open the door and get my pants down as I settled onto the seat. The noise that escaped my anus was something akin to a dying moose. Some ghostly wailing followed. I gripped the sides of the bowl. It's coming.....that horrific expulsion of all things it comes...a ghastly moaning from my ass, coupled with some kind of mechanical churning sound inside my stomach and the sweat is coming and I'm ready for it, I want it, I'm embracing it, bring it I want it I want to feel the burning fluid I want to smell that acrid disgusting roadkill smell and then it happens.

That's right, it vanishes. Nothing.

I sit there in my drenched clothes, waiting for the payday, and it never comes. I figure my body is waiting until I get dressed before turning me into a soft serve machine but still, it never happens.

I do the unthinkable, I give a push. Normally, pushing with diarrhea can blow your o-ring and cause horrific damage to your ass, the bowl, your thighs and your already fragile ego but this time, nothing happened. I simply no longer had to shit.

There's nothing in me so my body can't expel it but it can, apparently, put me through the motions, punish me beyond belief for chewing all that gum. It's like a blow job minus the orgasm and without the blue balls to remind you that, at the very least, you did have your dick in someone's mouth.

I got nothing.

I want that happy ending, I need that pain and suffering to make the whole experience complete.

Fuck it, I'm going to chew all the gum that's left while I go pick up some mexican food and some licorice for dessert.

Show my body to fuck with me. I'll shit for two days. Then we'll see who's in charge, won't we?

Thursday, August 06, 2009

I love the smell of ass in the afternoon.

It's been hot here lately. August rolled in and brought 90 degree heat and humidity to go with it. It has been brutal. Yesterday I took little Floogin and Papa McNoogin to see the Mets play a day game. Amazing seats, ten rows behind home plate. Off to the right? The dude who won American Idol (my wife had to point this out to me as I had no clue who the guy was). To the left? Smoking hot blond with Zach Braff. I was going to say hello (we've met, mutual friend and all that) but the dude was so sweaty that I was afraid he'd get his sweat on my sweat and man sweat should never mingle with another man's man sweat.

Behind us, in the box? Couple of hot tv women, maybe actresses. I couldn't figure out who they were but we all recognized them.

Anyway, all this eye candy and people watching and the game itself was a good one. It was my son's first game and he loved it. He was attentive, interested in the game itself, and cheering and clapping and having a blast. My son, like his dad, sweats. A lot. So does his mom. We were all, pretty much, soaked from our own meltage. It was most unpleasant. Even the air conditioned 360 club failed to keep us cool.

The Mets won for a change. It was a blowout. So, we spent the ninth inning in the shop, buying Floogin junior souvenirs and getting his sister a hat (she asked for one). We hopped on the subway and headed home with the crowd. Floogin sat on my lap in the barely air conditioned subway car. More sweat. We split up at Grand Central Station, me heading towards the office, they went home to take showers.

I got back to my office and the enjoyed the cool, refreshing air for an hour and a half and then I grabbed my stuff and headed home. I walk home for two reasons. One, I like the exercise. Two, the subways are brutally hot and, if the street level is brutal, the subways are a death trap.

So, I walk.

Up Seventh Avenue, towards Times Square. The streets are without cars there, set up for walking, sitting and loitering en mass. I first noticed the smell as I crossed 42nd street. It actually smelled like sex. Now, Times Square, and 42nd Street in general, had a reputation for being a hooker filled, porno zone and the stench of warm jizz would be normal, were it 1974 but, sadly, this is the Disney version of Times Square. Joe's Jizz Emporium is now The Lion King. Twatoria Del Twat is now Madame Tussaut's wax museum and Toys for Twats is now Bubba Gump Shrimp. It's sad bit, with that sadness comes the lack of genital stench.

Or so one would think.

I'm walking and sniffing and I'm thinking, ok, it's been a long time since I had sex (with someone else in the room) but that is the smell of hot love. I'm looking around, expecting some bacchanalia type orgy but all I see are fat tourists standing around taking pictures or sitting on their over sized asses, pondering their next feeding.

So, I start mouth breathing, trying to get through this smell zone as fast as I can and it starts to fade. No, not fade. It is no longer as prevalent but it's there. Masked by this new smell that is getting stronger with each step. It's the smell of an overripe, unwiped, sweaty, pungent ass.

It grew worse with each block until it was so bad that I was considering going back a few blocks to enjoy the smell of ball sack.

I moved forward, knowing that the sooner I got home, the sooner I'd be free to breath cleaner air.

But it never got better. Somehow, it got worse.

Imagine, if you will, being held down and some 900 pound tourist from the Midwest, who's been eating only tacos and broccoli and cabbage, walking around the city in the 90 degree heat, wearing a wetsuit, and then dropping trou and settling his brown eye right over your nose, draping his cheeks over your entire face.

Pretty fucking bad, right?

Now imagine him taking a dump.

That's how bad it got.

I looked around to see if anyone else was noticing this. Nobody seemed to be choking. No eyes watering. I know my schnoz is strong. I know it can sense odors that others cannot. Still, this wasn't some faint hint of ass in the air. This was a giant sweaty gorilla ass of biblical stenchage.

I was now a couple of blocks from my apartment and I should have been in the clear. Literally.

And yet, here it was, following me home. Did I walk through some Seinfeldian stench that is following me around, reminding me that there is a hell, and this is how it smells? Did I step in some steamy pile of shit that came from a monster dog? Did I wade through Clifford the Big Red Dog's Big Brown Shit?

I looked around, checked to see who was looking at me. Nobody. I did the foot check. Nothing there.

I glanced around again.

Nobody was looking.

I lifted my arm, pretended to stretch and turned my head to the right, my nose inches from my armpit, I inhaled and.......

I gagged.

It was me. I stunk.

If a thousand animals ate each other's shit and then they died and Louie Anderson and Roseanne Barr had sex on top of these dead animals, eating the animals as they fucked each other, their sweaty love creating a broth for the dead animals, and then they vomited up the meal so that vultures could re-eat their mess and vomit it for Louie and Roseanne to eat again, and then they shit it out? That's how I smelled.

Realizing I was a walking WMD, I picked up my pace, trying to get home before anyone saw me. Or smelled me.

Fuck, were people smelling me and thinking "man, that guy smells like Louie Anderson's shit?

This was horrible.

I raced upstairs, mouth breathing, hoping to not be noticed. I started peeling off my sweaty clothes in anticipation of the cleansing shower, the boxers coming off as I opened the bathroom door. I was greeted by my daughter who was taking a dump in my bathroom since her brother was having a bath in the other bathroom.

"daddy, you smell worse than my poop. get out!"

And so I waited.

I told my wife the story and she said she thought the room smelled bad. I told her I didn't sit on anything and I threw my clothes into the incinerator as soon as I was cleaned, leaving them on the bathroom floor during the shower so that they smell didn't leap onto the carpet.

She says we may have to move.

I'm fucked.