Young Floogin's Dilemma

Last night I'm lying in bed with my daughter, telling her about the coming storm as my wife gets young Floogin Junior ready for bed. They're in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and she says "ok, make a pee pee and let's get in bed."

The toilet flushes and I hear "I hate this" from my son.

"What?" my wife asks him.

"My penis bone" my son says with disgust. "I hate it"

My wife asks why and my son says "my penis bone gets bigger then it gets smaller. Bigger. Smaller. Bigger. Smaller"

My daughter and I are now in hysterics listening to this conversation.

My wife says something along the lines of "don't worry, it means your growing" and my son says "can't it make up it's mind?"

My wife stifles a giggle and says "no, it will never make up its mind. It will get more indecisive as you get older but you need to use your other mind to help it make the right decisions."

My son stops at the door to his room, looks down and says "penis bone, this if Floogin Junior, I'm telling you to stop getting bigger and smaller. If you stay small, I'll stay small and then I can always be the little boy."

I'm half crying, half laughing when my son comes running up to me to give me a hug and a kiss. My first reaction is to back up a bit, lest I get poked with the boy's little boner.

I pick him up and bring him to his bed. I pull the covers up over his body, hand him is mlamla (don't ask, mine was a zhazhoo - it's a McNoogin thing I guess) and kiss him good night.

As I walk out of the room, I flip the lights off and hear my son whisper "stupid penis bone, I told you to stay small."

He's way too young to learn about penis bones. I'm guessing one of the other boys in his class told him it was a penis bone. I say this because my son has been walking around with one hand on his pecker for months, driving his mother crazy. We were at a birthday party for one of his friends and my wife saw the boy scratching and playing and she asked him what he was doing. His response was "fixing and itching my shemeckel." My wife turned to the mother of one his friends and said "he's constantly touching and moving and scratching his penis. I'd think he had vd or something if he was older."

The mother laughed and said "look at the boys, they all do it."

Sure enough, the group of boys he was playing with all had one hand on their crotch. Fixing, itching, moving, adjusting their wangs.

So, yeah, one of these boys must have told my son about the penis bone because it sure as shit wasn't me.

Bottle Cap Let Down

I was wandering downtown with my kids yesterday and we came across Economy Candy Store. This place is candy heaven. They've got every candy you could ever imagine, including those frighteningly fucked up ones, like the giant black gummy rat, candy cigarettes, candy liquor bottles etc.

We slowly made our way through the aisles, scoping out all the tasty sweets, then we grabbed a basket and did a second run through the store, grabbing all the candy we wanted to buy. We hit the wonka section with a vengeance. Gobstoppers and the coveted box of bottle caps. Fuck yes. I bought 3 boxes of the caps, explaining to my kids that cola and rootbeer flavored bottle caps are as good a food as you will ever eat. I detailed how they dissolve on your tongue, how they melt away, dispersing that sweet soda flavor over your palette.

My kids were intrigued.

I was excited.

We headed to my parents' place to watch the Jets game and, upon entering the loft, my kids started asking for candy.

We all popped a watermelon Zotz. My son spit his out seconds after the first fizzy hit his tongue. My daughter and I sat there, face to face, giggling as the foamy fuzz bubbled out of the razor sharp hole in the zotz.

Then we had a contest to see who could make the loudest crackle sound with pop rocks.

We tried the sprees, sweet tarts, sky bars, now and laters and then my son asked for the root beer flavored bottle caps.

So we opened the first box. I poured the contents into a bowl. I started sifting thru the bowl. My son grabbed a cherry flavored cap, my daughter went with grape. They liked it but they weren't impressed.

Hang on, there has to be at least one brown cap in the box.

No, actually, there doesn't.

So I opened the second box.

Nothing. Not a single brown fucking cap. No cola, no root beer.

Box 3? Same shit. Orange, grape, cherry. I like those flavors. I do but they aren't cola and they aren't root beer.

Fucking shafted by Wonka.

Candyman, meet Floogin McNoogin, pissed off sugar junkie.

I just sent a lengthy diatribe to the Nestle, parent company of Wonka. I informed them of their cap issues. I explained the heartbreak my children suffered. The anguish I suffered when I came across as a lying sack of shit. I detailed the tears when I explained that the store was closed and I couldn't go buy more boxes to find the coveted root beer bottle caps.

Since when did the soda flavored caps become as elusive as the McRib?

I plan on emailing Nestle every day until they respond to my complaints.

I will call them and let my kids cry into the phone.

I will get compensated for those lost caps.

24 Returns, So Do The Formulas

Let's see, Jack's out of CTU? check.
Jack is trying to lead a normal life, get closer with his daughter? Check.
There's a terror threat to a political figure? Check.
There's someone inside CTU who is threatened by an old flame/relative/friend? Check.
A political figure has someone inside their group that is trying to undermine his office? Check
A scorned politician's wife? Check
A new tech geek in CTU who is smarter than everyone and who will, either turn out to be a mole or a casualty? Check.
A new CTU operative who is like a younger Jack Bauer and who will, invariably, wind up working with Jack until he is, most likely, offed? Check.
Someone having their arm sawed off to remove a locked manacle? Check.
An agent willing to do anything to save the nation? Check, only this time, it ain't Bauer.
Chloe is under appreciated, ignored, pissed off and sassy? Check, check, check, check and check for good measure.
There's a moron running things at CTU? check (RIP Bill Buchanan)
Cops working for terrorists when they are supposed to be protecting the target? check

All this is the first two hours.

I expect we'll find many more similarities as the hours mount but, still, the show is entertaining. Jack has yet to show off his bad ass training. He's still sporting his man bag, only this one matches his new leather jacket. He's still The Man but now he's got Renee Walker back and she went from naive, overwhelmed agent to crazy, arm severing loon.

The new CTU agent sucks. He goes from having this thuggish moron accent to sounding as vanilla hollywood blandsville in every scene change.

His fiance has managed to go from being a trailer park queen to some kind of techno goddess who changed her name and avoided the apparently not so intense scrutiny of job placement at CTU.

The location has changed to NYC which, for me, should make things more fun as I can recognize all the exterior shots and see where they filmed but, sadly, instead, it is ruining things for me.

In the first two hours, Jack went from his apartment and took a walk/run a few blocks away. The exterior shots were from a street about a mile and a half away, not a few blocks.

Jack managed to get from Manhattan to Queens, break into a home, find dead bodies, talk to cops, get tasered, get tortured, break free, convince a cop he was a good guy, and head back into Manhattan in under 2 hours. DURING THE MORNING RUSH HOUR.

Anyone who has ever driven in NYC during the morning rush hour can tell you how impossible that is.

Still, we believe. We willingly accept that Jack's cell phone will work underground and never need a charge. We accept that Jack and the other folks on the show can move from location to location without the real nuisance of traffic or people. Jack has saved the nation year in, year out, and, yet, he's not recognizable by the terrorists? He's about to go undercover and the idea that everyone on the planet wouldn't know his face by now is almost laughable. Still, we believe.

Why?

Because it is still one of the most entertaining shows on tv. We know what will happen. We know folks will die. We know Jack will get close, lose the scent, close in again, only to be held back by some pointless side plot. We know Kim will find herself in some moronic situation (hello Johnny Drama and a cougar). We know Chloe will prove to be the smartest person in the room. We know the president will have to make a decision that goes against everything she believes in, AGAIN! and we know that, in the end, we will sit on the edge of our seats, chewing our nails, savoring each and every predictable minute because it's good and it's fun.

There won't be any shocking change to the formula until the show is leaving the airwaves. At that point, all bets are off. Jack might actually die.

Until then?

Keep an eye out. Tony Almeda might return. Hell, we might be so lucky as to see Mandy one more time.

The Tale of the Deadbeat Continues

It seems the issue with my brother in law has finally reached its high point. My dad has cut him off, my mom can't look him in the eye and my sister claims she's on the verge of throwing him out. Personally, I don't believe my sister. I think she is pissed off but I think she is somewhat pissed at him and somewhat pissed at my parents for not giving them more money. That's how she is.

Case in point.

My dad is telling me how this guy is such a scum bag that he continued charging to a credit card that my sister had given him and he had run the balance up to about $10,500 and which she had told him to stop using.

What?

She gave him a credit card? Why the fuck would she do that when they, supposedly, keep all their cards and accounts separate? Why would she tell him to stop using it and not take it from him? When she came to my dad, asking what she should do with this debt of over ten grand, presumably hoping my dad would pay it for her, my dad told her to call the company and tell them you want to pay it off and cancel it for 80% of the balance (this is the amount they will let you settle for without further fucking your credit). Then, when they called the card to make the offer, presumably with my dad making that payment, they found he had added another $1500 to the bill since the last one. So, she says she told him not to use it but he did anyway. This, from a guy who was told he'd be thrown out if he didn't get a job and start paying down his debt. Again, I'm not buying it.

I feel for my sister. I do. She's married to a lump of shit but, I also know that she loves him and married him, even though she knew he was a lump of shit.

So, while I feel bad, I don't feel that bad. No way in hell she let him keep the card and trusted him to not use it. I think she's lying to my parents, much like he lied to them, in an effort to keep some form of the gravy train a rollin'.

Of course, I can't tell my parents this. Shit, for the last few years I've been trying to alert my parents to the issues this guy was creating, only to be treated like I was the asshole son in law.

So, as I continue counselling and advising my parents on how to deal with this, I simply tell them that the guy lies, he continues to like and that they need to tread cautiously with their daughter as it is clear that what she says to them and what really goes on in her household are, more than likely, two vastly different stories.

One of the more impressive stories coming from that camp is that the guy has been seeing a shrink and he was diagnosed with clinical depression two years ago. Even my mother scoffed at that one. She and I both agreed that, if anything, he's fucking depressed as hell now because he is no longer being paid to be a lump of shit.

The mayo clinic lists the following as symptoms of clinical depression:
Loss of interest in normal daily activities
Feeling sad or down
Crying spells for no apparent reason
Problem Sleeping
Trouble Focusing or concentrating
Difficulty making decisions
unintentional weight gain, or loss
irritability
restlessness
being easily annoyed
Feeling fatigued or weak
Feeling Worthless
Loss of interest in sex
Suicidal thoughts or behavior
Unexplained physical problems such as back pain or headaches.

So, let's clear a few up right off the bat. He's not suicidal. If he was, he'd have done it by now. He doesn't have unexplained physical issues. I know this because, having spent a few years in the office with him, I got to know way more than I ever wanted to know about him. Don't want to discuss the sex thing. He's a bit jabba the hut like, with this massive pumpkin of a head and it pains me to see him in a bathing suit, let alone picture him rogering my sister.

Unintentional weight gain, or loss. He was a fat fuck for a long time, long before he claims he was diagnosed as depressed. He recently lost a bit of weight but that's because he went on a very serious diet. So, not at all unintentional. Difficulty making decisions? He always seems to be trying to make decisions for everyone so we can rule that one out.

Now, let's get to the issues he has that might indicate depression.

Loss of interest in normal daily activities. Not sure if he has lost interest in the daily activity of work. He wakes up each day and goes somewhere, either his brother in law's office or some woman who he is trying to do business with so I can't say he's given up interest in that. During the summer he would wake up at 5:45 on saturday and sunday to play golf, he'd come home, oil up his island of a body and lie by the pool, ignoring everyone, until it was time to go fishing and then he'd get his shit together and get on the boat so we can rule out the loss of interest. While we're at it, we can rule out trouble focusing or concentrating because golf takes a lot of both and he never suffered enough that he couldn't play golf. We can also rule out fatigued or weak feeling since he woke up to play golf, would take his kids biking and he'd go fishing and play other sports with his son.

Feeling sad or down and feeling hopelessness. Well, now, sure, probably since he is now faced with the realization that his wife, inlaws and everyone around them know that he is a worthless lump of shit but over the last two years? No way. He was a happy fucker who loved going out to dinner, loved doing all the things previously mentioned and so on.

I'm sure he cries now and I'm sure the reasons are clear. I'd be a weepy motherfucker if I owed my father in law about $150k and everyone thought I was a waste of space.

I also wouldn't be able to sleep.

Irritability. This one I'll give him. He is irritable. He is also easily annoyed. Two on the whole list that might qualify him but he only gets irritable at his wife, his kids and my mother when she asks him to do something, like replace the empty bottle of vodka that he, alone, finished off the night before. He's been annoyed and easily irritated by his kids since they were born but, they are the most annoying kids on the planet. Fuck, if I had to listen to his whiny son cry whenever he was told no about something, I'd be depressed too.

The other thing about his irritability and easily annoyed personality is that these traits were most prevalent during the day, before he'd start drinking. That makes him an alcoholic who is itching for his booze, not clinically depressed.

Restlessness? My mother just told me, last night, that there's no way in hell she will allow him to lie around the pool doing nothing all day now that he doesn't have the free golf membership. So, he likes to lie around and do nothing? Hardly restless.


He's a con artist. A gold digger. A scum bag. A lying sack of shit.

He is not clinically depressed.

Anyway, the saga continues as the days progress and, since I have started discussing it here, I will continue to do so, in case one of the 5 people who reads this, gives a shit.

Celebrity Train Wrecks

Last night I sat down to watch some tv and there was nothing on. So, I flipped thru the channels and came across Celebrity Rehab. I'm hooked. These z level celebrities are even more pathetic than the ones who strip down to their skivvies and prance around half naked on celebrity fat asses or whatever it's called.

In Rehab, a group of celebs enter a rehabilitation facility for their drug use. They've got home video of them all doing drugs. Seriously. They showed them snorting coke, smoking crack etc. Who the fuck videotapes themselves doing drugs? Why? For what purpose? Are they smoking crack and thinking "shit, we should tape this so I can use it when I go on celebrity rehab?"

The tapes themselves are fucking pathetic. One of the "celebrities" last night was shown smoking cocaine with his father. I kid you not. Is there anything lower than smoking cocaine with your dad in a van?

Yes, there is.

Letting your dad shoot you up and then fucking him which is what one of the "celebrities" did. Repeatedly. McKenzie Phillips is on the show and she fucked her pops.

The so called celebrities were a nice mix of has beens, nobodies and never weres. The aforementioned Phillips, Heidi Fleiss, The former bassist from Alice in Chains (smokes with dad), a woman who, apparently, dated Roger Clemens, Dennis Rodman and another dude who was deemed a celebrity although I never found out who he was or why he was deemed famous.

These folks are interviewed by Dr. Drew and the interview is interspersed with video of their lives, their fame, their background, their downfall and their current, mostly pathetic existences.

Heidi Fleiss is a meth head. She copped to getting tweaked the same morning as she entered the facility. She looks like you'd expect her to look. She's gone way downhill from her heyday as a hooker and that is a pretty sad thing to face. She now lives like a hermit, surrounded by parrots. She was beaten by her former boyfriend, also a (former) celebrity rehab inhabitant.

Phillips was clean for ten years before moving on to heroin. Impressive.

Rodman? Not sure what his deal is but he's pretty much the same embarrassing clown he was when he got married in a dress.

The bassist from Alice In Chains? He actually thinks he was famous and when he was tossed from the band he decided drug abuse, with his dad, would numb the pain of no longer being "the drummer from Alice In Chains." Seriously. I don't know the band, other than that one song they had that Beavis and Butthead made fun of on their show. I do know the lead singer was Layne Stanley and he died, of an overdose, I think. To be fired from a band where the lead singer eventually overdosed, you need to be a pathetic mess or a total asshole. This guy seems like both.

It is pure nirvana watching these losers talk about how they skipped out on prior rehabs because the places were filled with losers. Seriously, Heidi, you sucked cock for money BEFORE you became an addict and the business man with a coke addiction is a loser?

I'm never one to promote reality tv but this is something worth watching. Showcasing people, who were more infamous than famous and who are now so desperate to regain that infamy that they will go on tv and let the world see them for what they really are, is pure entertainment.

If you don't want to check out the whole show, watch enough to see Heidi Fleiss smile. Then come back here and tell me she isn't The Joker from Burton's batman.

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.

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.

Nothing.

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.

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.

What?

Seriously?

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.

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.

13
14
15
I'm gonna make it
16
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....

fuck
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.

17

She's holding back a gag.

18

she's got her hand over her mouth.

19

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

20

release.
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.

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 http://flooginmcnoogin.blogspot.com/2008/09/floogin-on-facebook.html
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.

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:

http://http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crown_Heights_riot

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.

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.

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.

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 http://www.abovetopsecret.com/ 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.

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)

p.s.
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.

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.

Wow!

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.