Two posts in one day again. (I needed a second one so that you wouldn't think that I was becoming Danielle Steele.)

Drew from Evoca has been kind enough to let me be one of the folks to test their "soon to be released" Evoca Browser Mic. I tried it over at JillWrites.com

It is very, very slick.

All you do is hit "record" and use your PC mic to leave me a voice message.

It's just that simple!

Give it a whirl.



If you don't, it'll make me all sad-like.

*sniffle*

The other day I posted a little piece called "Touch." It was fun to write. But, I'm a "Well, what happened next?" kind of fella.

Yet, I hate sequels.

So, clearly I was torn.

Then something popped into my head.



He had put a lot of people in the back of squad cars before. He'd done it for men, women and children of all shapes and sizes.

Some were easier than others.

She wasn't particularly easy. He wasn't sure why. It might have been the way she looked at him. Longingly? Pleadingly?

Desperately.

He had become a cop to make a difference. On days like today, he didn't feel like he was.

But, his problems today were more than the female con and an overall sense of job dissatisfaction. He had something else on his mind.

Someone else on his mind.

Thankfully his shift was just ending.

He hopped into his Nissan Pathfinder and began navigating the streets of his town. Every 4 seconds he had to wave to someone. Small towns are like that.

He got to the bottom of the long, paved driveway. A smile formed on his face as he drove up. The garage door was open and he pulled right in.

As he opened the door between the garage and house, he saw her. (A different her.)

Amanda.

She was standing in a silk robe and holding two martinis. Somehow she had gotten more beautiful since he saw her last -- a mere 24 hours earlier.

"Hi, officer. Hard day fighting crime?" she purred.

"Long day," he whispered as he grabbed her and pulled her close.

They kissed.

It was one of those kisses where the colour of your surroundings begin to melt away.

He picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He put his martini on the counter. She tried and missed. Broken glass, gin and vermouth flew everywhere.

They didn't notice.

He carried her - mid-kiss - to the large dining room table. With his left hand, he swiped it clear of bric-a-brac.

He sat her down in the middle of the table. She greedily pulled him up with her. She pulled his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it and began opening his pants.

He loosened the belt on her robe and it fell open, revealing the tanned flesh that had consumed his thoughts all day.

He just stared at her body for a few moments. He was almost paralyzed by the thoughts of everything he wanted to do to her and with her. And then to her again.

He leaned in and kissed that spot on the side of her neck. You know the one.

She moaned and his knees went weak.

He softly rubbed his lips down her neck. Then his tongue a little. Goosebumps formed on her skin. He took his hand and gently ran it from her upper chest, down to her stomach.

Her back arched.

He slowly kissed from her stomach back up to her neck.

Then he began to shake.

She put her hands on his shoulders. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, it's just..." He was embarassed.

"What is it, sweetie?"

"Desire..." he whispered.

"You are so fucking cute!" She grabbed him by the face and pulled him in for a passionate kiss.


Hours later they were collapsed in a heap on the table. They were almost melted into one another. She was just about asleep.

He was not.

He smiled.

"So, this is love," he thought.

For the first time in his life, he really understood it.

He had always felt like it was completely horseshit when people told you, "Oh, you'll know it when you find it."

Now he got it.

He turned to stare at her. Messy hair. Flushed cheeks. His love was only growing.

She sensed his stare and opened her eyes.

"Hi, baby," she whispered.

"Hi," his voice almost cracked.

He stared some more.

He loved her with every ounce of his being. there was no denying it any longer, she was definitely 'the one.' He could not have been any happier.

Suddenly, her eyes opened wide.

"Shit! My husband is home."

Maybe it was my rap song yesterday, but I am feeling all music-y today. And it seems as if Ryan Adams is dabbling in the rap game as well. He and I should do a demo together.

I think that PeterDeWolf.com needs a theme song. (And a spokesmodel.)

Story time...

Once again, this is a tale from the past. When I was but a young Pete. Full of hope, arrogance, excitement and Aussie styling gel.

My friends and I were matriculating at Dalhousie University when we found out that The Northern Pikes were playing at our cross town rival school, St. Mary's University. This was years after the band was biggish. (They are still vastly underrated.) So, we decided to go.

We had a close friend attending SMU, so we went to his room for the pre-concert festivities. He was living on one of the upper floors of an apartment building-style residence. I can't remember the name. I probably didn't even know it at the time. (I felt like I was entirely too cool for SMU.)

11 dudes in a small room. A decent amount of beer. A silly squabble between two dudes that were never actually going to fight. (With some of the lamest banter in the history of almost-fights.) And then it was time to go to the concert.

In this posse, we had 7 guys from Dalhousie, 2 of our friends from SMU, and each of the SMU guys brought a friend. And we piled into an elevator.

At this point, one of our SMU buddies thought it would be fun to jump up and down as we all walked onto the elevator. For some reason we all decided to join in. (And I was sober!) So, 11 guys start jumping up and down at the same time. The door shuts and we actually feel the elevator going down as we land and snapping back up as we jump.

Now, I wisely got out of the engineering program soon after I got to Dal, but I could still tell what we were doing wasn't wise. The elevator went down a few floors before...

*KLUNK*

It may have been a *CACHUNK*.

Either way, the elevator came to a sudden, and unplanned, stop.

Silence.

A little giggling.

A few "Oh shit"s.

My eyes immediately went to the "Maximum Occupancy" sign. And this was one of those times when being able to do math in your head quickly is not a benefit. We were over the weight by quite a bit.

(Another bad time to be able to do math quickly in your head is when you are chatting with a younger woman. "You are how old? Hmmm. I was in the 8th grade when you were born. I... gotta go.")

After the weight thing, my mind went right to "Dude, are we going to have enough air?" It took a few minutes for me to realize that I was actually getting hit in the face with a breeze from the vent.

Some of you may have noticed the effect beer has on the bladder. No, it's true. Within ten minutes of being trapped - and we were shoulder to shoulder - someone says, "I have to pee."

10 "Hold it!"s rang out.

A few minutes later, "I have to pee too."

Then another.

This wasn't good.

We decided to pry the doors open. It worked. We were staring at a grey brick wall. Someone did notice that there was a little space between the outside of the elevator and the brick wall. Everyone seemed to have the same thought at the same time. And then we all had the same "fuck it" expression on our faces.

The neediest pee-ers shuffled their way to the door and proceeded to pee down the crack between the elevator and the wall. Pretty much everyone had their turn doing the "shuffle then pee." Don't judge us.

At some point our buddy thought it would be funny to jump up and down again. Yeah, people didn't join in this time.

At about the half hour mark, I notice that one of the friends of a friend dude had an abnormally long finger nail on his pinky. Seriously long. I had recently seen a coke lord use one for scooping Columbian marching powder on an episode of "Miami Vice." He saw me staring at it. I gave him a WTF? look. He just smiled at me. A little unsettling, it was. (Someone later said it could be for playing guitar.)

Finally, 45 minutes after our adventure began, the elevator moved. Not a lot. But enough so that when the doors were pried open we could see a floor, rather than the wall. Some security dudes were there and began to help us crawl up and out of the elevator.

When it was my turn, I was so thankful to finally be free. Then I noticed some girls in sleeping attire lining the hallway. A lot of girls. Apparently this was a female floor. I must have had a girlfriend at the time, because I didn't linger very long. (Even though this looked like the beginning of some super movie.) It might have also been because of the security guys moving us along briskly.

Finally we made it to the concert!

We made our way to a table over to the side. Some of us sat, some hit the bar. All were relieved to finally be there.

Now, one of my closest friends was being hit by that evil confluence of beer, heat and the late hour. He was getting tired. So, he put his head down on the table. Just for a few seconds. (I won't mention his name, but he may be reading this.) I was watching the band and didn't notice it.

Security, however, did notice.

They came over and told him that he had to leave. I replied with, "But... but... they haven't played 'Teenland' yet!"

Security was unmoved.

So, we woke him up and gathered the rest of the Dalhousie boys to leave.

We got as far as the hallway outside the main entrance to the room the concert was being held in. Not sure what stopped our leaving, but at some point I snapped and decided I wasn't leaving until I heard "Teenland."

The security guy looked at me strangely, but didn't force it.

The rest of the guys were standing there too, but some decided that they didn't like being asked to leave and began mouthing off to the security guys/bouncers. I am relatively sure these dudes were all from the football team. Our guys were getting VERY loud and obnoxious. This wasn't going to end well.

I was pretty much convinced we were going to get pummeled. Still, I stood by the door, waiting for my song.

Three tunes later...

"Teenland."

I smiled like an idiot for the 3+ minutes.

When it was done, I said, "Okay, I can leave now."

The closest security guy just laughed and shook his head.

I gathered the hooligans and we left.

"Teenland" played in my head for half of the walk home.

Suddenly it dawned on me how close we were to getting the snot kicked out of us.

Then the song started playing in my head again.

Can you guess which topic rocked the vote yesterday? That's right...

"What if I wrote this post as an angry white rapper... suckas."

Why do you all hate me?

Okay, here are the ground rules. I am just going to sit down and type whatever comes into my head. The only thing I have planned is to make it a diss track against Blogger.com for being on the fritz yesterday.

This is going to be painful.

Son, here is my glock/
'n here comes my spiel/
You better pay attention/
'Cause this shit is for real/
I ain't Clara Peller/
You know where my beef is/
I better not hear no Richie Cunningham/
"Oh, sorry. Gee whiz."/
'Cause this IS a throwdown/
And I AM constructing it/
You weren't actin' right/
Now you're gonna get hit/
When it comes to all this mess/
I'm just like Nostradamus/
You be out there running scared/
I'm with Luda in the Bahamas./
You think you my only option/
Come on, bitch, please..../
I make one call/
Typepad be here on her knees./
You ain't Rick James/
And I ain't a bitch./
You are hiding out/
While I'm getting rich./
Don't try denyin'/
I'm like a Supernova/
Think about steppin' to me/
And this shit'll be over/
I'll take your woman/
And lay her in the clover/
I'll bust her cherry/
I'll fertilize her egg/
I'll put on my trackpants/
And LL Cool J one leg/
Even in a dream, boy/
You better treat me good./
From when you close your eyes/
Until your morning wood./
I am the ruler/
I run this place/
Update my blog properly/
Or I'll bust you in the face.

Wow. That wasn't pretty.

The things I do for you people.

Still, you gotta give me a little love for the "glockenspiel" opening.

I don't really have a post today.

*gasp*

No, no. It'll be okay. Thankfully I did two yesterday.

The reason being is that I have what we in the business call a "blinding sinus headache." And it is annoying the creativity out of me.

To make up for this blatant neglect of my loyal readers, I am going to let you pick a topic for tomorrow's post. Ooooooooooooooh. Exciting, no?

E-mail your favourite of these titles to peterdewolf(at)gmail.com. And tomorrow I'll write about the one with the most votes. It's just that easy.

Options:

1) "My jihad (small "j"/non-religious version) against Ben Affleck. "
2) "Why I can't bet on football."
3) "What if I wrote this post as an angry white rapper... suckas."
4) "Gilmore girls season premiere"
5) "Another 'girl I screwed up with during university' story."
6) "America: Police force of the world."
7) "Почему peter настолько sexy?"
8) [Write-in vote.]

The deal with the write-in vote is that if someone comes up with something that amuses me, it totally trumps the voting results. This is a peterocracy... suckas.

I'm going to go pop some sinus pills and watch "How I Met Your Mother."

[Two posts in one day. I'm a machine. No idea where this one came from...]

She almost gasped out loud when his hand first touched her shoulder. She's not completely sure that she didn't. At least a little.

She knew he was behind her. She knew it was coming. Yet, the knowledge did little to really prepare her.

It had been a long time since she had felt the humanizing touch of a man. Too long. Nine months? More?

When his other hand reached around and grabbed the bare skin of her arm, she moaned. She tried not to. Even as it escaped her mouth, she tried to get it back.

She couldn't remember ever being so keenly aware of her own flesh. Like tiny pleasure explosions going off. She wished his hand was bigger so that more of her skin could enjoy the sensation.

And his hands were strong.

She had always suspected that she'd enjoy being controlled. She had wanted to ask for it with every man she was ever with. She never did.

For a brief instant she wondered what in her upbringing or past experiences made her enjoy the feeling of submitting this much. Then he moved her forward.

She instinctively stopped moving so that his pelvis would run into her from behind.

It worked.

"Come on..." He said. It was slightly above a whisper. His deep voice sent a charge down her spine.

He could have talked her into absolutely anything.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up and her pulse quickened.

The hand on her shoulder moved her exactly the way he wanted her to move. She didn't resist. At all. Not that it would have done any good.

He turned her around.

His eyes locked on hers. She felt like she was going to melt. She wanted to.

As he put his hand on her head, she truly felt like she might explode.

He pulled her head down...

"Watch your head," he whispered, as he guided her head in through the back door of the police car.

As he closed the door behind her, she knew it would be a long time before she'd feel the touch of a man again.

Some things occurred to me while I was on the elliptical trainer this morning, you know, elliptical training.

First of all, when you try to take your iPod out of your pocket because the Deathcab song is just a bit too mellow, you can almost lose your balance and fall off. Apparently I'm a little dopey early in the morning. (Shut up.)

(Just FYI, my iPod is named "Sir Reginald Winterbottom III.")

I also realized that my interest in learning how to play guitar is not waning like I thought it might.

For years and years, every few months I'd get the urge. Then it would slowly fade. Back in my second year of university, I learned how to play some of America's "Sister Golden Hair." I didn't finish learning it because my friends and I got hooked on playing three card poker. (aka "Red Dog.") Something had to give. I had already dropped schoolwork from my schedule, and wasn't willing to give up pick-up basketball games, so my rock career it was.

And a nation wept.

*sniffle*

That was the weeping. Pretty short, sure, but it was heartfelt.

A year or so later, a sitcom debuted on tv (CBS?) about Dave Barry's life. Harry Anderson played him. "Dave" lived in a nice house with a wife that was too hot for him. (Soon to become a sitcom staple.) His office was located above his garage and he went to work in his house coat. This had a huge effect on me.

This - along with the fictional Hallowe'en story I wrote in the third grade - really made me want to be a writer. (And possibly to have a wife who is way too hot for me.)

Something else that Dave did affected me too. When he couldn't find his muse, he messed around on his guitar. So... hot wife. Job as a writer. Playing guitar while working. Yeah, this looked okay.

Now, I am relatively sure that I have no musical abilities at all. Not even a smidge. So, I am not expecting to learn a lot of songs. Maybe just one or two that I can perfect and pull out at the right moments to surprise and impress people.

When I was young, my father told me that when you do something well, stop right there and leave them wanting more. A few years later, Jerry Seinfeld taught the same lesson to George Constanza. If I was shooting hoops in my backyard, my father would be walking by and stop. He'd put his hands up for a pass. When he got the ball, he'd shoot immediately and make the basket. I'd try to give him the ball back and he'd just walked away.

I gotta admit, that is pretty bad ass.

So, if you are keeping score, here are my father's life lessons:

1) Don't lie. (It was actually, "I fucking hate liars.")
2) Don't steal.
3) Something worth doing is worth doing right.
4) Don't date girls from Louisdale.
5) Wear a condom.
6) Leave 'em wanting more.

I wonder if #s 5 & 6 can be combined. If you have a particularly impressive outing in the boudoir, refuse to ever see the woman again. The word of mouth on your amazing skills would spread and -- Oh wait, dudes do that anyway. Good performance or no.

I am not entirely sure what song(s) I'd like to learn to play. Right now I am leaning towards "Karma Police."

I'd also dig "The Man Who Sold The World." And, of course, some Gordon Lightfoot. Maybe David Brent's "Freelove Freeway."

You can be absolutely positive it won't be "American Pie."

So, I'm going to have to add "used guitar" to my "keep an eye out for" list - along with a "discount" version of Final Draft 7.

Thanks to Dave Barry, we have a boy, a guitar and a dream.

If BOOGIE NIGHTS had come out while I was in university, this could have been a much different story.

As you may have heard, the U.S. Navy has retired the F-14 Tomcat.

I'm definitely not a military historian, but, dudes, this is the plane from TOP GUN!

And it's now retired.

First of all, what if Navy pilots in the future have the need? You know, the need for speed.

Secondly... Damn. This makes me feel old.

That movie came out twenty years ago. Anthony Edwards still had hair. Meg Ryan still had likeability. And Tom Cruise still had a personality. It was a simpler time, my friends.

Speaking of simpler times, it has come to my attention that one of my high school (and a little bit after) girlfriends has been reading this blog for over a week. And could be reading it... right... now... She's obviously a brave woman.

It is funny for me - and probably much less so for her - to remember what I was like as a boyfriend way back then. I thought that as long as I didn't cheat, and called/visited regularly, that I deserved some kind of "super boyfriend award." Possibly a cash prize. Definitely a trophy.

Honestly.

My criteria for picking potential girlfriends was also much less complex back in tha day. (Oh, that's right, I wrote "tha.") If she was cute, pleasant, had an aesthetically pleasing bum region, and didn't make me want to throw myself out of a moving vehicle, I was pretty much sold.

It's hard to believe I was ever so young.

These days I need all of those things... plus the (much mentioned) willingness to dress-up like Wonder Woman. (Yeah, I'm getting tired of that "joke" too.)

Also, I mostly gravitated towards short blondes in my youth, now it's taller brunettes. It's called evolving, people.

[Peter has just realized that he has completely lost his train of thought and is just going to wing the rest of this.]

I'd like to think that I've improved as a boyfriend with each relationship I've had. Experience, plus the wisdom that comes with aging, has taught me a great deal of things. In some ways it would be very noticible to anyone I dated back then. Other stuff is much more subtle.

Probably the biggest difference is my willingness to actually communicate now. To share those... What do you call them? Oh yeah, "feelings."

I do think that not all women want as much communication as they claim to. Once some of that mystery is gone, things change for them. However, that deserves a blog post all it's own.

So, yeah, I communicate now.

I also listen to what women say. Apparently when they talk, it is not just to show off how cute and sexy their lips look whilst talking.

Who knew?!

I've also learned that I am sometimes drawn to women with "Daddy issues" and that I like to play the "white knight." Again, these are blog posts all their own.

I like to think that each girlfriend gets a better version of me than her predecessor. Of course, without the benefit of before and after experiences, it would be hard for them to understand that. Knowing me, I'll probably just tell them.

"That's pretty arrogant, considering the company you are in."

"Yes, sir."

"I like that in a pilot."

What does all of this mean?

Well, basically my next girlfriend is going to be getting a better boyfriend than my last one did. Also, my earliest girlfriends had to suffer for the benefit of my more recent ones.

And the plane from TOP GUN has been retired.

Good bye, F-14 Tomcat. We hardly knew ye.

(Anyone who makes a "TomKat" joke in the comments gets beaten with a sack of oranges.)

[I don't even want to re-read this one before hitting "Publish Post." In my defence, it's early on a Sunday morning.]

[Peter note: Now would probably be a good time to mention again that everything I write in here is a first draft. Also, this site is all about practicing writing, amusing myself and NOT about the final product. You're a little scared now, aren't you?]

When I was a little kid, I used to wonder what went on in our fridge after we closed the door. And, no, this isn't a joke about the light staying on. I used to think that it would be cool if the food had their own little world going on.

That WOULD be cool.

Many different types of food living together. Their leader would be a tupperware container of leftover "Bush" beans. (Subtle, eh?) You guessed it, his second in command is a weiner.

Roughly half of the foods feel that the money they make is theirs and theirs alone. While the other half feels like the government has the right to use surpluses on programs that help those in need. (Things like buying new boxes of baking soda to get rid of smells.)

Half the foods feel like traditions and values most be kept sacred. While the other half feels that as times change, they must adjust how they view lifestyle customs.

Half of the foods greatly value the free enterprise system, while the other half feels like the government can do a better job of distributing wealth amongst the foods.

I think you get the picture.

Things have been busy recently in the fridge.

The beans and weiner have sent troops into a senseless battle in the dryer in the basement. They claimed that a weapon of mass sock stealing is in there. Meanwhile, the washer is building up it's nuclear arsenal and doesn't give a flying fuck what the rest of the house thinks. (Beans calls it a "nucular aresenal." Silly.)

The fridge always has to be wary of the growing China cabinet. That thing is expanding like mad. And it has a strange way of governing itself, which kinda scares and baffles the fridge foods.

The fridge is also secretly jealous of it's sexy neighbors in the cupboard above it. It is chock full of maple syrup, Cadbury chocolate bars and awesomeness.

And now, if things weren't crazy enough, a Venezuelan arepa just gave a speech in the crisper saying that beans is the devil.

What next?

Uh oh... there is talk of a bloody coup in the tool box in the shed.

My follow-up to yesterday's award-winning* hockey piece is now up.

1957 is the first year that Americans ate more margerine than butter.

(*Technically I made the award myself with aluminum foil and play doh. That doesn't make it any less pretty or special!)

Today at LAist.com I previewed the Anaheim Ducks for the upcoming NHL season. The title may have hinted at that, eh? Check it out.

Did you know that "natal cleft" was the proper name for butt crack?

A few weeks back, I realized that I needed to find a new hobby. I decided to learn how to read minds. I got quite good at it. But, now I've become bored. I think I may teach myself how to play guitar or something. However, I suppose I'll give you a little demonstration of my powers. Powers so finely-tuned that I can even read the minds of people in photographs. Impressive, no?

So, here goes...


She is thinking:

I think that I have finally found him. I know that I've said it before, but this time I really, truly believe it. He's unlike anyone I've ever met. So good. So sweet. So kind. And he loves me. A lot. I can tell. He calls me without prompting. He never lets me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. He holds doors open. He makes me breakfast. He never stares at my friends' asses.

I always feel safe with him. He makes me feel so comfortable just being myself. He accepts me as I am. He makes the things in me that I thought were weakness, seem like strengths. I've never felt more like myself than when I am with him.

My friends and family are a little jealous of how well he treats me. And I like that more than I would ever admit. They see how he stares at me. And when he looks in my eyes... It's just... Wow.

For the first time in my life, I can see myself with this person forever. I know that he'd be there for me during my darkest hours. I want to grow old with him. He was brought into my life for a reason. And I never, ever want to let him go.

I love him.

He is thinking:

You know, I'd TOTALLY still do Sharon Stone.

I love September.

I think it all stems back to the first day of school when you are a kid. It's new beginnings. Fresh starts.

And the possiblity of new cute girls in school.

I loved the beginning of the school year in university as well. Reunited with friends you didn't see all summer. All going out to socialize together.

And the reality of new cute girls all over the place.

Even more important is that September is the start of the new TV season.

Well, I'm not sure if it is more important than new cute girls. But, it's pretty damn close.

So, last night a couple of new shows premiered. One very good. And one groin-grabbingly bad.

The good was "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip." The bad was "The Class."

We should start with "The Class," because there is every chance that it will be cancelled before I finish this blog post.

To say that the characters are one-dimensional, would be rounding up by at least half a dimension. I realize that it is only a half hour pilot, but there wasn't a single character that I cared about. Not even a little. And not one of the actors brought anything extra to their characters that would convince me to give the show a second chance.

The only one that is even close to having charisma is Andrea Anders from "Joey." And she could do little to save that crapfest. Plus, I am reasonably sure that I only like her because she looks like she could be Lauren Graham's blonde cousin.

We've seen all of these characters and scenarios a million times before. And they weren't funny or interesting then. And when it tried to get serious at the end... Just painful.

The fact that people at CBS actually watched this pilot and still put it on the air is absolutely baffling.

The only possible explanation I can think of, is that creator David Crane parlayed his cachet from creating "Friends" into a big money deal with a guaranteed number of shows to be aired. (Apparently they hadn't seen "Joey," "Jesse" or "Veronica's Closet.")

There is another creator on "The Class," but, to be honest, his name already escapes me and his list of credits is no more impressive than yours or mine.

An hour and a half after "The Class" aired, and while the bad taste was still in mouths, "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" premiered. Despite the awkward title, it was an impressive debut.

As would be expected from Aaron Sorkin, we were introduced to a world that seemed... fully formed. The characters had pasts and relationships with one another. Interesting stories had already started. And we felt like we were in the middle of all of it.

The writing was great. No shock there. I liked that the dialogue wasn't quite as rapid-fire as we had seen on "The West Wing" and "Sports Night." I'm not sure if this is by design, or just Sorkin having fewer chemicals in his system.

It's hard to get too invested in characters in a pilot episode, but Matthew Perry's character and Amanda Peet's character both seemed to leap off the screen. And Perry was awesome. At times on "Friends" his "Chandler" was just... too much. His new "Matt Albie" character already seems as if it is going to give him much more to do than just make wisecracks. The character has some depth and darkness to it. I'm predicting a "Best Actor in a Drama" Emmy nomination at some point.

You heard it here first.

I highly recommend watching "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip." It had a very, very promising start.

Plus, uhm, I've read that Lauren Graham will be doing two episodes later this season. I'm just sayin'...

The couple on the left is Simon and Monica.

I am not sure who the other two chicks are. Though the one on the right is usually up for a quickie in the coat room at a wedding. And she doesn't believe in wearing underwear. Uhm, you know, or so I've heard.

Simon and Monica have been married for seven years. And, for the most part, that get along very well. They were college sweethearts, so they've learned to read each other. And there is genuine affection, which also aids in keeping the lines of communication open.

In this day and age, like many other couples, their lines of communication are often open via cellphones, e-mail, text messaging and the like. Simon LOVES gadgets.

Simon and Monica rarely fight. But, when they do, it is typically a doozy. Some phrases that have set off previous doozies include:

"Yes, your sister does have a great ass."
"Do we need all of these sports channels on the satellite dish?"
"I may vote Republican this time."
"Of all the ones I've seen, I'd say it's average size."

Simon and Monica are currently butt deep in another doozy.

They usually don't like to go to work angry, but this time it was unavoidable. So, Simon is sitting in his cubicle. He is re-running the entire fight - so far - in his head. He drums on his desk, and work could not be further from his mind.

He has to talk to her.

He knows that Monica is out visiting clients today, so e-mail is not going to work.

He grabs his brand new Nokia cellphone - with voice dialing, Blue Tooth capability, and ten thousand other options he'll never use but HAD to have included in his cellphone purchase.

Simon goes to the bathroom. He checks under each stall to make sure that he is alone. Then he whispers "Monica" into the phone and it begins dialing. She answers. But, before she can even say a word, he starts, in a whisper at first.

"Monica, this fight is stupid. In the grand scheme of things, how important is this? Really. I've had things I wanted to do, but you didn't... And sometimes you gave in and did them for me. Not often enough mind you, but... Nevermind, I am getting off-track. I think we have a great marriage. You are the love of my life. I will do anything for you. So, if this is important to you, then I am right behind you. That's how we work. Even if I really don't want to do this, I will. For you. Monica, you are a kind, sweet, beautiful, amazing woman. You are a gentle, precious flower... and I will do you in the ass. If that is what you need to be happy, I will do you in the ass. I'll do it. Do you hear me, Monica? I'll DO YOU IN THE ASS!!!"

There is a long pause. Then Simon hears a female voice reply.

"Sweetie... this is your mother. Your phone dialed 'Mom' instead of 'Monica'. Again. I always told you that you should enunciate more."

Simon almost collapses. "Mom? I... Oh... It's... Hi. Are we still on for dinner this weekend?"

"Yes."

"What are we having?" Simon nervously mumbles.

"Well, we WERE having rump roast," his mother replies.

"And how is Dad? Is he feeli--"

"I'm hanging up now, Simon."

"I really wish you would."

*click*

This season, I'm going to be doing some hockey writing for LAist.com. My first little article is up now. I am not completely happy with how it turned out, but it's the offseason. I'm still rusty.

In other news, I just started using this new "cool mint" toothpaste. I gotta say, I feel like making out with myself a little bit.

1) The fact that Supernova is going to record and tour under the name "Rockstar: Supernova." I... don't even have the words.

2) I'm not even going to talk about how obvious it is that Lukas was far and away the most talented performer on the show. I'm not going to tell you to watch this and then try to argue.

2) Last night's "Survivor" premiere. There was such a buzz about dividing the teams along racial lines. Which, obviously, is a publicity stunt by the show's producers. However, I held out some hope that maybe it could lead to interesting debate. Maybe. For me personally, five minutes in I had forgotten about all of that and was basically thinking, "Hmmm... she's cute. Oh, her too."

Of course, that may say more about me than the show itself.

3) I'm also not going to blog about the football game I watched last night. I was going to do that thing that I do, you know, when I try to build something up with an intro? "Not since Columbus discovered the new world..." Then I try to make you think I am going one way with it and then go another? And then tell you that I watched a football game between Tennessee Tech and Middle Tennessee State. Which, to me, is pretty impressive to be able to do without visiting ol' Rocky Top myself. I love my sattellite dish.

4) I am especially not going to write about this story. A little league baseball "coach" offered money to a player to bean an autistic teammate in order to keep him from playing in a playoff game. I have lost track of how many levels on which I'm enraged. The fact that Fucknuts McGee is displaying such hateful behaviour around eight year olds is criminal in and of itself.

That, as a society, we should be doing everything in our power to include kids with special needs in activities like this. And then this prick...

I'm pissed off that he is probably only going to get probation.

Mark R. Downs Jr. is lucky that I don't live anywhere near Uniontown, Pa. Honestly, I'd make it my number one hobby to torture his ass. For real. Little things at first. Slashing car tires. Following him into fast food restaurants and knocking trays of food out of his hands.

Then I'd start following him around daily and whipping baseballs at him. I'm not kidding. He'd walk out of his house in the morning and I'd bean him between the eyes. He'd walk out of the drugstore, and I'd peg him in the jiggers with a nice fastball. (I'd also carry a baseball bat, just in case he's a big dude that wouldn't appreciate being tagged in the sprouts, for some reason.)

I think the key would be to get all my torturing in quickly, you know, before the cops get involved.

I've never been arrested for anything before. That one time we got caught on Hallowe'en chucking eggs and water balloons doesn't count. Although it did lead to the older cheerleader I had a year-long crush on talking to me about it that Monday at school. I may have tried to really punch up the part where the cop told me to bust the water balloon on the ground, and I stomped on it and soaked his foot and sprayed his leg. He seemed displeased. Also, I ended up dating said cheerleader. And desipite the cool Patrick Dempsey 80's era "shy guy gets cheerleader" movie possibilities, it was much better in theory than in reality.

So, since I have a clean record, I think that I should be able to commit one semi-serious crime and still only get probation. I've actually given this thought. I figure a beating that would break some bones, yet not hospitalize for too long would be the maximum I could get away with. I've been saving it for someone who might cross my family, but this sonofabitch would tempt me to use it.

But, I probably won't.

However, if any of you live nearby Uniontown, Pa, or are willing to make the drive, I'll supply the Rawlings.

I'm glad I wasn't going to blog about that one, eh?

My uncle has a saying...

You can drive a lot of trucks, but never be a truckdriver.
But, if you suck one c--

You know, I think I'm going to go at this from another direction.

Things change when something becomes "official."

Like when you are officially old enough to vote. Or officially old enough to drink. Being officially old enough to drive a car is a great thing. Being officially old enough to be tried as an adult isn't.

Just recently I realized that I was officially too old to watch the new season of "Laguna Beach."

Some of you might say that I have always been officially too old to watch "Laguna Beach."

And, well, that would be accurate...

But, kinda mean. *sniffle*

[At this point you may think that I'm going to start talking about Lukas being named the lead singer of Supernova (or whatever the new band name will be.) But, I'm not the kind of guy to say "I told you so." I am, however, the kind of guy who sits back with a smug smile that you want to punch off his face. Thankfully this is a blog, eh? And maybe the word "crush" in the title tipped you off that this wasn't about Lukas...]

For the longest time, I didn't even know who my crush was. She'd briefly flicker across my TV screen and then *poof* she was gone.

She is...

The girl from the Mercury ads.

The first time I saw her, I immediately thought, "Sweet banana fuck... that girl is 256 shades of hot. And, man, I totally feel like buying a Mercury Mariner now."

Then weeks later, I'd see another ad. She'd look even hotter. Finally yesterday, I had to try a little googling to at least put a name with the face.

And google, once again, came through...

Jill Wagner.

So, ladies and gentleman, PeterDeWolf.com now has an official crush.

Exciting, no?

So, now if you see two people arguing on the subway about who the PDDC crush is, you'll be able to defuse the situation.

Or if Alex Trebek asks it on Final Jeopardy - and you bet everything - you'll be able to beat that know-it-all lawyer that went to Stanford.

And if you happen to meet the lovely Jill, perhaps at Target, buying the second season of "The Office" on DVD, then you'll congratulate her on being the "official" crush. She'll beam. You'll gush. A single tear will stream slowly down her cheek.

It'll be glorious.

Then maybe she'll invite you to see [the band still sorta named Supernova] in concert with her. And you'll both marvel at how electric a lead singer Lukas is.

*ahem*

INT. TYPICAL OFFICE BREAK ROOM - LUNCH

Jim and Steve compare their lunches.

Jim: Nice. My wife bought the good cheese.

Steve: Your wife is kind of a dirty whore, huh?

POW. Jim punches Steve in the face.


INT. HR DIRECTOR'S OFFICE - 15 MINUTES LATER

Steve holds an ice pack to his eye. Ralph, the new HR director, reads a file.

Ralph: This is not your first work altercation is it, Steve?

Steve: Today or in general?

Ralph: In General.

Steve: No.

Ralph: Today?

Steve: No.

Ralph: You got into a fight with a girl guide troop last June?

Steve: I'm not sure what happened there...

Ralph: It says here that you and "Missy" had to be physically seperated.

Steve: I thought price negotiating was a part of business. She called me a "doodie head." It escalated from there.

Ralph: And do you see how that was wrong?

Steve: I see how she should not be in the food service industry.

Ralph: You are a grown man.

Steve: Yes.

Ralph: She was nine.

Steve: Seriously? I think she might be on steroids. She looked like a middle linebacker.

Ralph: See, this is the kind of thing that you should keep to yourself.

Steve: Ahh. But, I'm just being honest.

Ralph: There is such a thing as "too honest."

Steve: I see.

Ralph: And the thing with Mr. Nguyen's daughter...

Steve: Pointing out erect nipples...

Ralph: Is bad.

Steve: On eighteen year olds?

Ralph: On anyone.

Steve: Right-o.

Ralph flips through more pages in the file.

Ralph: Now... Leslie.

Steve: Yeah?

Ralph: Do you know what you did wrong in that case?

Steve: I told Leslie that drinking beer was bad during pregnancy.

Ralph: But...

Steve: It was actually a can of soda.

Ralph: Plus...

Steve: Leslie wasn't pregnant.

Ralph: And...

Steve: Leslie is a man.

Ralph: Exactly.

Steve: I think I see where you are going with all of this.

Ralph: You do?

Steve: I should not have told Jim that his wife was a dirty whore.

Ralph: That's right. Exactly! I can't believe this hasn't come up before.

Steve: This is my fourteenth job in the last two years.

Ralph: Ahh.

Steve: Some people are just touchy.

Ralph: How so?

Steve: I mean your wife is a much dirtier whore than Jim's and you are okay with it.

POW. Ralph punches Steve in the face.

It's been said that there are moments that define us as people.

There are also moments that define a generation.

An event so monumental, that it forever changes the way we look at the world.

These occasions leave indelible memories and influence us in many more ways than the obvious.

They have an impact on art, commerce, government, and on us at our very cores.

You often don't see these moments coming, but when they arrive, it is the job of the storytellers to make note of it.

It started with cave drawings, moved on to music and literature. Then to stage and film. And even now to humble bloggers.

Historians get the facts, but the true storytellers are expected to capture much, much more.

They must capture a singular moment.

They often only get one shot at it.

One of those such moments is upon us this week...

Supernova is going to choose a lead singer.

But, dear friends, we can play a bigger role than just that of mere storytellers.

We can influence history.

All we have to do is vote...

For the right person.

And that person is Lukas.

He is the Canadian kid who spent his rough teen years on the streets of Toronto.

Lukas was the first person to perform on the show. And his first song was Billy Idol's "Rebel Yell." They probably should have just crowned him as the winner right then and there.

Come on.

Dude...

Or my favourite of the season, "Creep."

The evil Dilana thought she was tricking Lukas into singing "Creep." Telling the camera that "if he can't sing it, he shouldn't be here." Well, baby, Lukas can sing ANYTHING! Can-a-da!! Whoooooooooooooooo!

Sorry...

Now might be a good time to mention that I get a little bit competitive when Canadians are competing against people from other countries.

In anything. Lawn bowling. You name it.

Lukas also sang the crap out of:

The Killers, "All These Things I've Done."

The Rolling Stones, "Let's spend The Night Together."

Nirvana, "Lithium"

The Verve, "Bitter Sweet Symphony"

Coldplay, "Don't Panic."

Chad Kroeger, "Hero"

He even performed a Supernova original with the band.

Last week, the other contestants peer pressured him into trying Bon Jovi's "Living On a Prayer." Awesome.

Which he immediately followed up by an original that he dedicated to his mother, "Headspin."

So, by this point it should be completely obvious why your should vote for Lukas.

The show is on CBS at 9 eastern tonight.

Immediately after, you can go and start voting on the Rockstar website. You can vote as many times as you want.

It will make one Canadian boy very happy.

Lukas will probably appreciate it too.

Oh yeah, don't forget all that "moments" crap.

Five years ago this morning, he was doing the same things that he is doing right now. Checking fantasy football results. Thinking ahead to what he could have for lunch.

The phone rang. Felt like a normal ring. When his kind and soft-hearted aunt said that it was a call that she hated to make, her voice showed that to be true. His aunt knew where she worked. His aunt told him to turn on the news right away.

He flipped on CNN immediately. He read the words on the screen. They didn't make sense to him. As they started to sink in, he thought it was some freak aviation accident in NY. It was sad, but he didn't understand what it had to do with him.

Then he heard what building it was. His blood ran cold. He couldn't feel his legs, so he quickly sat down in a chair.

She takes a subway that runs under the World Trade Center.

When he was once again capable of rational thought, he remembered that he had already received his "Good morning!" e-mail from her.

Logically he knew that she was at work.

He was sure of it.

So, he sent her an e-mail to be absolutely certain.

And he called.

And he began to sweat.

She meant the world to him. She was one of the people he was closest to --

He didn't want to let in any bad thoughts.

News of the Pentagon broke before he heard back from her.

But, she was okay.

You already know how the rest of that morning unfolded. Most of which she watched from her office window.

As the day went on, it became harder and harder for him to stay in touch with her. The was disconcerting to him, even though he knew that she was a "safe" distance from the World Trade Center.

Finally she got word to him that she was evacuating from Manhattan. The knot in his stomach loosened. A little.

While she joined countless others in the march of the dazed, he remembered things. Little things mostly.

He remembered stubbornly arguing about stuff that seemed so trivial now.

He remembered that he didn't make the best use of every single moment he spent with her.

He remembered the way she felt in his arms.

Later in the day, she called from the apartment of a friend of a friend of a friend. Possibly in Brooklyn. He was so hugely relieved to hear her voice. A voice that sounded even more sweet and sexy and smile-inducing than ever.

Then she told him that she was going BACK into Manhattan. She was going to walk back in with some co-workers to answer phonecalls at work from worried family members. Her company also had offices in the WTC.

He was understandably stressed out by this plan of hers. But, he knew that it was something important that had to be done. And, while they later joked about this being one of the things that she did that gave him a grey hair or two, he was proud of what she was doing. He felt lucky and honoured that someone like her loved him. (Feelings he experienced numerous times over the years, and still wonders if he expressed to her often enough.)

She made it through that day in one piece. Physically and emotionally.

He'll be forever thankful.

And while their relationship hasn't turned out like they hoped it would - sometimes that happens - she is still one of the most important people in the world to him.

Every year on this day he remembers. And he thinks about her.

This year she is going to spend much of the anniversary on international flights.

Just a couple more of his grey hairs that she'll gladly take credit for.

That's right, suckas. You knew I couldn't let that first fiasco be my only vlog attempt.

A few things...

1) No psychotic arm scratching in this one.
2) Replaced it with a tongue clicking thing. Which I don't think I do in real life. Odd.
3) I swear. A couple of times.
4) I forgot a joke about how "vlog" is Swedish for "too lazy to type."
5) The joke wasn't actually funny.



As promised: mollythemoose.com

As mentioned, yesterday was the ACN's first day of "big girl school."

I thought I'd share a pic of her meeting the nice bus driver lady:

Labels: ACN

This is proving harder to write than I expected.

The ACN starts school today. It is her first day of grade primary/kindergarten (aka "big girl school.") She is very excited. She squealed with delight whenever I asked her about it.

Oh, and I may have a stroke.

I know that this is such a huge and awesome day. Logically. But, I am stressed out of my mind.

She's just so little and defenseless, and the world is so big and (sometimes) yucky.

I still sometimes see her as that little, tiny baby in the incubator.



But, she is big now. And very smart. And this is going to be so good for her. She LOVES kids. She loves activities. She should really, really adore school, as she did daycare.

Plus, people fall in love with her when they meet her. She makes friends like no one I've ever seen. My sister and the ACN were grocery shopping one day and a stranger walked up to them. The woman asked, "Is this [the ACN]?" My sister was confused, but nodded. The woman continued, "My son is in daycare with her. He talks about her ALL the time. He says she has pretty hair."

Another little boy at daycare used to try to give her hugs and kisses every day as she was leaving. The little girls would get excited to hold her hand when they all went on their walks.

Things like this happen a lot with the ACN. The gruffest, toughest men meet her, she flashes one smile and they are smitten. She's a bit of a flirt.

Once in a while, my mind goes to bad places. Like kids picking on her. Then I think about driving up there, beating the kid's family with a bat and burning their house to the ground. I, of course, realize that these are thoughts that I probably should be keeping to myself. But, a few days ago my father was mumbling something about anyone giving her a hard time and he said, "...then I'll have to go up there and kill them. I'll go to jail for the rest of my life. It will be a bad scene."

1) I am probably not adopted.
2) We may be a tad protective.

I shouldn't let these thoughts in, I know. The ACN is insanely loveable, and will have one-on-one supervision at all times. She is going to thrive.

Whenever I talked to her about "big girl school," I acted nothing but excited. Of course, she made it easier by being so excited herself.

This is a good thing, Peter.

I feel guilty for letting negatives come into my head on such a milestone occasion.

When I stood by that incubator for the first time, I prayed so hard for days like this. So hard. That she'd get the chance to experience things that most families take for granted.

And I couldn't be more thankful. Truly.

She fought even harder to get here.

She'll always be my hero.

UPDATE: The ACN is at school. She got nervous as it got closer to the time to get on the bus and started crying. Her grandpa took her out to play in the rain. She loves that. The bus came and she cried as the lady busdriver was strapping chairy into place. When my sister met her at school she wasn't crying anymore, but she was very quiet. My sister likes the EA (education assistant?) My sister gave her a little "Getting to know me" book we put together for the ACN. When ACN arrived at her classroom, a little autistic boy named Ethan that she went to daycare with was sitting inside the class. He yelled, "Yay! [ACN]'s here!" Then all the other kids said, "Hi [ACN]!"

We like that.

Labels: ACN