Tales From the Vault

I was cleaning out some files and came across this little posting that I think was on my old blog. Kinda funny although I haven't a clue as to what prompted me to write it although I'm sure it had to do with the woman who lives in my building and is always with her "babies." She talks to them like they're kids. It's pathetic, for her and the dogs.

Anyway, here it is, something from the archives.

Lately, I’ve been seeing more and more people are walking around with pocket dogs. You know the ones I’m talking about. They fit in a handbag. Their bark sounds like perhaps they’ve been sucking on helium and they look like the business end of a good mop.

I hate these little pests. They’re not dogs. They’re more like rats with an attitude. If you are a guy and you have a pocket dog, it’s time to come out of the closet. I have it on good authority that women are not attracted to men with these little sissy dogs. For the ladies out there, getting one of these dogs signifies a major step in your life. You have given up hope of finding a man and eventually settling down and having children.

I see these women all the time. They give their dogs names as if they were children. Gone are the old style dog names like rover and rex. One woman in my building has two of these little things. She named them Jane and James. She calls James “Jimmy”, unless she’s mad. Then she actually says James Charles Smith (the last name I won’t give out, for fear of someone recognizing this lunatic and handing me a defamation lawsuit). This woman says things like “kids, get on the elevator, others are waiting” as if these stupid little balls of fur can understand her. They run in and out of the elevator and she is constantly holding the doors and, therefore, holding me up on my way to and from my apartment.

She isn’t the only one. They’re everywhere. You see them on the street. Usually they are attached to a 25 foot retractable leash. These cords are like some Vietnam era tripwire. I know this because I am constantly stepping over them to avoid being flipped onto the street. Occasionally I let my foot get caught in the leash and I give a hard pull. This will pull the dog off the sidewalk and towards me. Suddenly, I am 9 again and playing kickball. The dog is sent flying and the strength and length of the tripwire is tested. Ok, this doesn’t happen but damn it I want to try it once.

To make matters worse, these rodent owners take to dressing up their pets. Little dog sweaters, booties and hats. It’s sad really, for both the dog and the owner. Putting a sweater on your dog is the last gasp before succumbing to the lonely life you are destined to live. And please, don’t tell me Paris Hilton dresses her dog up and she is far from lonely. Why do you think she acts the way she does? She’s crying out for attention and is in dire need of a man who will be the friend, lover and companion she is seeking. Paris, I can be that man and I won’t sell any video to some sleazy internet smut peddler. I’ll peddle it myself and make twice as much.

Anyway, seeing a dog in a sweater is a sad thing. You can’t help but stare. It’s like looking at a really ugly woman. You don’t want to look but your eyes are drawn to the ugliness. Before you know it, the ugly woman is looking back at you, you are forced to smile and suddenly you’re dating her. Ok, that doesn’t happen to everyone. It should. It would leave the hot girls for the guys that deserve them, namely me.

Did you ever notice how you don’t see a big dog in a sweater. Do you think a black lab or a german shepard would stand for such nonsense. Nope. The first time you tried to put a rain slicker on a Doberman would be the last time. The dog would bite you, grab its bowl and chew toy and move out. I don’t think they even make sweaters for those sized dogs.

When you see a dog in a sweater, no matter how small and annoying and ugly that small dog is, you are overcome with a sense of pity. It’s like seeing a child dressed in some horrific way, like knickers on a young boy. While you hate the dog, you can feel the suffering. These dogs always look like they are ashamed to be with their owner and the dogs always have this “please, kick me into oncoming traffic” look on their faces.

Well, if you are a small dog, and if you are subjected to being dressed up like some loser’s child, stop by NYC and look me up. I’ll gladly kick you into traffic.

Day Three, Stuck At Sea

After leaving Nassau, the boat headed to Coco Cay. This is a private island, owned by the cruise line, and it is filled with activities for the kids. They've got water slides, snorkeling, beaches, land based games etc. This was the day the kids were really looking forward to.

We woke up and got ready for the day. By the time we sat down for breakfast, at least 4 tenders had transported 800 or so people to the island. The kids were wearing bathing suits under their clothes, our bags were jammed with all the necessities for a day at the beach. As we finished up our feeding at the trough, an announcement was made over the loud speaker. "Due to an increasing wind, we are temporarily halting tender transport to Coco Cay."

Great. Now what?

So, off to the top deck we went. The kids played ping pong while the adults sat around in an area of sun, trying to ignore the steady, cold wind blowing across the boat.

"The winds have increased to 45 miles an hour and we are going to begin evacuating the passengers off the island. There will be no return trips to Coco Cay. We apologize for this but the winds are creating an unsafe situation on the water leading into the harbor."

What the fuck do we do now? Stuck on the boat. Too cold to swim. Too windy for rock climbing.

The kids hit the arcade after playing ping pong for an hour. I hit the casino. The tables were all reduced to $3 minimums to entice every moron on the planet to try their hand at the tables. Free drinks were offered. The lines to the bars were snaking across each deck. People were getting a drink and getting back on line. A pathetic display of "gimme the free shit."

I sat at a blackjack table and watched a group of chinese passengers playing next to me. I was winning more than losing but the chinese, clearly unaware of the game and the basic concepts, were taking cards from me, causing me to lose more than I should have. It was frustrating as all hell, made all the more annoying because they spoke no english so you couldn't explain that you don't split kings when the dealer is showing a face card. To make matters even worse, even though they were doing it all wrong, they were still winning. After about 45 minutes, I gave up. I walked away with an extra hundred or so in my pocket but, I figured, I should have been up over $250. The dealer acknowledged as much and commended me on my patience and understanding when I didn't tear into the other players for not knowing what they were doing.

Dinner was, yet again, a fucking disaster. As mentioned in yesterday's posting, my mother in law bitched about the lack of chocolate desserts on the menu. So, at the end of dinner, the waiter came over and brought us the dessert menus. He also brought over chocolate mousse for everyone at the table. He said they had the chef prepare it for us, that it wasn't on the menu and nobody else was getting it. My mother in law tasted it and called the waiter back over. She then complained about how terrible it tasted.

I was sitting next to her, my wife and my sister in law had moved away from her to talk to the kids (in reality, they were distancing themselves from the embarrassment of her next complaint). I turned to her and said "they made you a special dessert because you were upset yesterday. you should have thanked them and not eaten it. Sometimes, a little gratitude, instead of constantly complaining, is the way to go."

She started to say something to me and I stood up and walked away from the table. I didn't want to get into it with her and I knew that, at that moment, if she were to respond in any way, other than to agree, I'd have lost my control.

That night we hit the theater again. The night's entertainment was a juggler and we figured the kids would love it. Surprise of surprises. We all loved it. This guy was fucking cool. He came on stage to the doors and proceeded to blow us away with his antics. Not only was the juggling cool as hell, he was fucking hysterical. He kept calling himself monkey boy, saying we wouldn't be impressed with an act, we'd simply want him to "add another ball monkey boy."

He did this amazing trick and then he said he only put it in the act a month ago and this was the first time he nailed it on the first try. Then he said "normally, it takes a while to get it right. Now I have time to kill."

Suddenly, from off to the side of the stage, a little voice says "dance for us, Monkey Boy."

The whole theater laughed. The juggler laughed.

My wife and I sat there, jaws open, stunned.

The little voice was my daughter's.

The juggler took it in stride and, after the show, when he came out to go wherever the entertainment goes on a cruise ship, we spoke to him about bringing the act to NY. He turned to my daughter and said "well timed joke, very nicely done."

We apologized and he laughed and said that he was serious. He said it was nice to see a kid who paid attention to the dialogue as well as the physical aspect of the show.

The kids went to bed, the parents hit the casino and we all lost a few hundred bucks in under 20 minutes. The casino, from this point on, was feast or famine.

Since we couldn't get off the boat, we left the island early, with the plan to be arriving earlier at Key West on Thursday.

Key West. Where we couldn't go fishing, instead, forcing the kids to sight see.

Key West, where we would begin the end of the trip.

I couldn't wait.

Day Two...

Day two started with breakfast. If Guinness had a record for largest accumulation of crappy food, this would be it. The food, in general, on the boat, made airplane food look good. This is a result of the boat not using flames to cook anything. No propane on the boat as it's an explosion hazard. The eggs were of the not egg variety. the bacon was not from a pig. The pancakes looked like ancient yarmulkes. It was bad.

After we ate I headed to the excursion desk to see about things to do in Nassau (our port for the day) and to book a fishing trip in Key West.

I was all set to book the trip for myself, my son, my brother in law and his son when the woman I was talking to told me my son was too young. Too young? That's right. The fact that he's bigger than most 7 year olds didn't matter. The fact that he has been fishing since he's 2 didn't matter. His age was on the manifest and the rules stated that he had to be 5.

So much for fishing.

It was too cold to do the dolphin swim or the snorkeling so we opted for the glass bottom boat. We grabbed our kids and supplies for the onshore adventure and headed to the dock. We were greeted with a sea of even fatter people. Carnival had a boat docked on the other side of the pier and their passengers could eat our passengers for breakfast. Literally.

We found our group, a mix of both cruise lines, and headed to the boat. We boarded the boat and a nice young man from the island started talking into a microphone about how he was going to alert us to points of interest along the way to the shallow reef. He said we'd see houses owned by famous people, former nude beaches and the hospital where Anna Nicole Smith's son died. My nipples were hard with anticipation.

As we pulled out from the dock, our guide said that he needed a few people to move to the other side of the boat to level us off. I looked back. A family of 3, with a combined weight well over a thousand pounds was sitting behind us. More than half the boat had to switch sides to level us off.

We saw Nic Cage's house. Charlie Chaplin's house. Barry Bond's house. Michael Jordan's house. The former nude beach and the hospital where Anna Nicole Smith's son died. People took pictures of them all. Why? I couldn't say.

We drifted over the reef and saw a few fish. Nothing spectacular but that's to be expected in a shallow, man made reef of mostly dead corals. The bulk of the reefs in the area died a few years ago. No reason. Just a massive die off.

My son was fairly interested in this and we pointed out fish and corals and he even recognized some of the undersea life as something we've had in our tank or seen in stores.

Then we went out onto the deck so the fat fucks could get downstairs and see the reef. My son was handed some bread and the real fun began. He was feeding the fish and loving it.

We got back to the dock and decided to wander thru the town a bit and grab some lunch. We ate a fairly decent meal in a restaurant in town. Mahi Mahi and grouper and the kids loved it.

I found out that codeine is sold over the counter in Nassau and grabbed some pills to make the rest of the trip more enjoyable.

We wandered around the town, I almost bought a very hard to find Rolex. Limited edition watch that is impossible to locate in NY. We wound up back on the boat around 5:30 and we had to rush to get ready for the next feeding. Nobody in our little group of men was hungry but we couldn't miss the meal because it was the captain's dinner. This is a meal where they suggest you don tuxedos and formal wear. I fought with my wife about it when we packed. I told her I didn't think it was necessary to wear a jacket. She won the fight and so we all put on jackets and fancy clothes and went to sit and stare at shitty food.

We told the kids to avoid telling anyone we had just eaten. We knew we'd get an earful for feeding the kids off the boat, right before this big, important meal. So, when he was asked what he wanted to eat, my son said "nothing, I just ate" and my mother in law went ballistic. "You ate off the ship? Why didn't you come back for lunch and then go back to the town?"

Um, because we wanted to eat edible food?

My mother in law complained about the dessert selection. No chocolate? How could there be no chocolate. It was bad enough that they didn't have shrimp and lobster for the dinner but this was an outrage.

She bitched so much that the head waiter had to come over and explain that there would be chocolate desserts on other nights. It didn't matter to her. She was not happy and, she said, she'd be putting this in her survey.

My mother in law then explained to us how she keeps a list of all the things she doesn't like so she can complain about them later. She does this all the time. Every meal I've ever had with her in a restaurant involves her complaining about at least one thing, with the hope she can get something knocked off the bill. It's embarrassing and I'm shocked my wife, or her sister, even dine out with the woman anymore.

When dinner was over we had about an hour to kill before the show they wanted to see was starting so my wife went with her mother to the captain's cocktail party. They did this because my mother in law couldn't miss the passed hors d'oeuvres. The woman is all about free food. Never miss a meal, never pay when you can get it for free. The kids were all playing video games so I hit the casino for about 45 minutes. Won about $150. The winnings gave me enough happiness to tide me over during the horrific show we had to endure. A group of low rent performers singing and dancing to disco hits from the 70's. My son sat on my lap, asking why he was being punished. I explained that he wasn't, that we were doing things, as a family, because that is what families do.

When the show ended, the game plan was to put the kids to bed, the oldest would stay in the room with my son and the other two would go with my mother in law to her room, where they were sleeping.

Problem was, it was 10:30 and my mother in law didn't want to go to bed until after the midnight buffet. That's right, more food.

She finally caved and the kids and my mother in law went to bed.

Back to the casino, this time with the women. We all tapped out in about 30 minutes. I lost my buck fifty. My brother in law lost two bills (one for him, one for his wife) and my wife tore thru my hundred bucks in not time at all.

We hit the midnight buffet, not to eat, but, rather, to see the scene.

fucking comical. All these fatties shoving more of the same shit down their throats. It became clear to me that the same food was being served at every meal. The breakfast ham was renamed for dinner but it was the same gray slab of dried flesh and so on.

The next day was Coco Cay. This is a private island, owned by the cruise line. Tons of activities on the island. Snorkeling, swimming, water slides, beach games, a barbecue, etc. I climbed into my coffin with a mild amount of excitement over the prospect of a day on the beach, swimming in the clear, green waters of the Caribbean.

day three tomorrow.

The Start of Hell

Left Sunday, Valentine's Day, for Miami. The plan was to fly to Miami, sleep in a hotel near the docks and then get on the ship to cross the river Styx into Hell.

The flight down was perfect. The kids were angels. We arrived in Miami around dinner time, grabbed our bags, made our way to the hotel, checked in and then we needed to get some food in the kids' bellies. So, where do you eat when you are in Miami, near the docks, without reservations, at 8 PM? Bayside Mall apparently. So that is where we went. I'm not a Florida person. I'm not a mall person and I'm not a people person so this was going to be a difficult evening for me. The mall was filled with fat people moving in and out of crappy stores or restaurants. It's one of life's mysteries how so many people can be willing to lay down on a table and have their teeth whitened in public. Must be the new miracle formula.

Anyway, the options for food were the usual Florida Mall fare. Chillis, Hooters etc. The wait at every restaurant was at least an hour and a half. We tried the food court but, it seems, the fat fucks waiting to eat at hooters were having snacks at the faster fast food counters. Eating argentinian steak house take out while waiting for your all you can eat argentinian steak is a fucking sickness.

We decided to peek into Lombardis. It's a chain restaurant that claims to sell past and seafood although there wasn't much seafood on the menu. It was far pricier than the other restaurants, with the main courses coming in at around 12 bucks a pop. As a result of this outrageous pricing, the restaurant was half full and we sat down to eat. I spent a nice amount of time trying to get prosciutto but the waiter had no clue what it was. So much for the italian side of the italian restaurant.

Dinner was pretty fucking gross.

On the way out, one of my kids made a comment about how fat everyone was. The other child remarked about the tattoos. Everyone seemed to have them.

My wife leaned in close and said "these are all cruise people."

SUHWEEET!!!!


We woke up the next morning, showered, got our shit repacked to accommodate a day on the cruise without our luggage and we headed down to the lobby. My mother in law calls my wife to tell her they are heading to the boat early as she is handicapped (apparently annoyingly psychotic counts) and she says she will be able to get us on early too. When I asked my wife why we wanted to be on the boat early, when it was too cold for the kids to swim, she responded with "from this point out, we cannot ask questions."

So, off to the dock we went. We got there 20 minutes before the outlaws so we checked ourselves in. Seems they let everyone on at noon and my mother in law just thinks she's special.

Once inside the check in we had to sit and wait for the rest of our group to arrive because my mother in law booked three rooms for nine people and that means that one of my kids is booked under her room and we cannot go in without her. This also means that, in an emergency, one of my kids will be taken to one muster station (this is where you go when you abandon ship) and one kid will got to another muster station.

Now, I'm not too concerned with the ship going down but, still, how fucking stupid is the plan when it puts a 70 year old pain killer addicted hobbled woman in charge of two children in an emergency?

Ok, so back to the boarding. We get on the boat and head to deck 8, where our "rooms" are. Rooms is really generous but I can't think of another word that would best describe this space.

I was expecting a small room and small is what I got. Two single beds with about a foot, maybe less, between them. Another bed was hanging from the wall. My son demanded that I sleep under him (after hours of convincing him it was cool to sleep up top). This meant I was sleeping in a cot with walls on 5 sides. It was a coffin with one wall missing and it kept me up at night thanks to my claustrophobia.

There were 4 small drawers, space for a few items of clothing and a bathroom that was so small that you needed to leave the room to soap up your back.

What struck me most perplexing wasn't the question of why would anyone subject themselves to this kind of torture. It wasn't "how the fuck are we going to stay in this room and not kill each other?"

It wasn't anything like that.

No, all I could think of was "how do all the fat people fit?"

Seriously. The drawers were tiny. A 300 pounder couldn't fit more than a couple pairs of of boxers in one of those drawers. The entry hallway was narrow and to get into the bathroom or the shower, one had to turn sideways to ease inside. These fatties couldn't fit unless they buttered themselves up but then, what's the point of showering if you need to butter your body to get out again?

Ever scarier, nobody does a cruise alone. This means the fat people were travelling in pods. Mother, father and fat kids. Who's brave enough to sleep under one of those murphy beds with one of these fat kids in the bunk?

These are the things that got me thru the first day.

The first feeding was another treat. All you can eat and this is, truly, a great deal.

If you can eat a lot of shit.

By shit I mean the brown stinky stuff that comes from your ass.

The kitchen operates on electric only. No gas, no flame.

So, the steaks? Gross. The chicken? Gross. The only thing that was edible was the fried shit, the bread and the salads.

That doesn't stop the fat fucks from ordering 3 of everything. Sitting at the table that first night, my son across from me, eating his chicken fingers, me picking at a Caesar salad, looking down and seeing the rest of our table inhaling everything that was on the menu, I realized that I am vastly different from my wife and my daughter when it comes to food. My daughter likes the same things as I do, she loves my cooking and she loves great food but, at her core, she's like my wife. She's a cruise eater. My son, on the other hand, was somewhat disgusted by it all and when anyone would order appetizers or entrees, claiming it was for him, he'd stop them and say, politely, "no I want the chicken and nothing else."

He and I were inseparable for the rest of the cruise as we both knew that we would need each other to get thru the week.

The forecast for the week was more of what we had on day one. Lots of shitty food. Overcrowded rooms. Constantly trying to plan the day, and night, around meals and cold weather. That's right, the trip to the Bahamas was going to be a cold on.

Tomorrow is Nassau. High of 70.

Stay tuned for more....

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.