In 1605, Sir Francis Bacon said, "Man seeketh in society comfort, use and protection."

I am not entirely sure what that means*, but any quote with the word "seeketh" in it must be true, right?

Right.

We're going to ignore the quest for use and protection, and just focus on comfort.

People, in general, strive for comfort. Be it a full stomach, a warm bed, or writing a blog post unshaven and wearing Superman boxers. You know, hypothetically speaking.

There are those that find comfort in others.

Shakespeare said...

"Thou art all the comfort,
The Gods will diet me with."

Is there a topic that dude DIDN'T have an opinion on?

Some people will even get married to gain the comfort of having someone. Which, to me, seems like throwing lit matches in your gas tank because your car has a flat tire, but whatever. We gotta keep those cats who make the little plastic people for the tops of wedding cakes in business.

I discovered what true comfort was when I was just a wee little Pete.

It wasn't love. It wasn't understanding. It wasn't even that warm snuggly feeling you got when you wet your pants.

The key to true comfort was, and is....

Blanket and chair forts.

For real.

I think this began when I was an even littler Pete and figured out that by hiding under the covers of my bed at night, I could effective elude the Boogie Man AND the monsters that lived amongst the dust and hockey cards under my bed.

These horrifying creatures would never notice the lump in my bed. Apparently in my mind, while they could easily devour me, their depth perception was for shit.

Older Pete used a similar logic when he would date a crazy woman and expect her not to be, you know, crazy.

Hmmm. I'm not sure that logic is similar at all.

Screw it, I'm on a roll...

Hiding under my covers was somewhat limiting. (Trust me, I tried it last week.) So, the next logical step was to drape a blanket over two chairs sitting back to back to one another.

I should note that it could never be a pink blanket. I was a very macho kid. However, I was totally okay with it being a Sesame Street sheet. I suspect that was because The Count was on the sheet. He's like a cross between The Fonze and Mr. Spock.

Come on. That's pretty gangster right there.

So, in my fort I would sit. I'd be wearing Montreal Canadiens jammies and chomping on a Mars bar. And, most likely, I'd also be hiding from my parents because I somehow made my sister cry. (I tried hiding behind a rocking chair after splitting her head open with a baseball bat. That wasn't overly effective...)

And that is what I think true comfort is.

Others will probably tell you it is something different. And they would be wrong. And quite possible a little...

[Please note that Peter made a "drinky drinky" motion here.]

Though I suppose that we all have to find what works for each of us.

We have to find our own sources of comfort in this crazy world.

Hmm. I wonder if they make grown-up Montreal Canadian jammies.



(*I totally know what the Bacon quote means, I just really wanted to make the "seeketh" joke. It's true. Shut up.)

Sometimes I have an idea for a blog post, get all excited, start writing it and then realize that I just don't like it anymore... or that it is an absolute abomination.

We all know that some things seem much better in theory than they turn out in reality.

Like shower sex.

Or democracy.

Occasionally I jot these ideas down, just in case I think of some way to make them better in the future.

Or, in this case, for days when I just don't have anything to post.

These probably should have stayed hidden.

Rock on.

**********
This is my now.
I am living in the moment.

How crappified is that American Idol song? That was the winner of the contest?

I totally should enter the songwriting contest next year.

While I can't write actual music, I am an award winning lyricist.

Not many people know that I wrote Right Said Fred's "I'm Too Sexy."

True story.

I was sitting around one day, writing angry letters to the government, when I realized, "Holy shit. I am waaay too sexy for my cat."*

What'cha think about that?

So, yeah, next year I should write a song.

I will totally add a rap section in the middle where Randy Jackson can diss Simon's man-boobies.

It'll be glorious.

Remind me.

[* I didn't actually tell the cat. It would have been damaging for her self-esteem. But, she knew. She could see it in my eyes.]

**********

Frequently fictional scenes pop into my head out of the blue. These are usually populated by characters I have never seen before. They just pop in and act shit out. Sometimes it evolves into something mildly amusing that I can turn into something a little bigger. Sometimes it evolves into something unfunny, but kind of interesting. And sometimes it can even turn into a full-on screenplay. (I like those last sometimeses.)

This one turned into none of those things.

A TV reporter is interviewing a Mexican man with a strange claim to fame.

Reporter: So, tell us all about what you have there.
Man: Okay. It is a taco with the image of Kathie Lee Gifford in it.
Reporter: Wow. Can we see it?

The man holds up a taco with an unrecognizable dark patch.

Reporter: Fascinating. And where did you get this? It wasn't on a Carnival Cruise was it?

The Reporter laughs all by himself. Ah ha ha ha. Ah hee hee hee. (Yes, just like Barney Rubble.)

The man just stares at him.

Man: I bought it at the store, homes.
Reporter: I see.
Man: Once we saw that it was Kathie Lee, nobody wanted to eat it.
Reporter: Understandably so. So, what ARE you going to do with it?
Man: We're not too sure yet. But, we usually follow one philosophy.
Reporter: Which is?

The man points to a poster on the wall. It is a poster of a bearded man on a cross, below is written "WWJD"

Reporter: What Would Jesus Do?
Man: Oh no, it's not GEE-ZUS. It is What Would HEY-ZEUS Do? He's my brother. Lives in Baltimore.

The Reporter looks into the camera.

Reporter: This is Kenny Brocklestein reporting...
Man: He's all sage and shit.
Reporter: Back to you in the studio, Kim Tanaka.
Man: I also have a bean that looks like Scott Baio.

**********

Another reason why I shouldn't be allowed to talk to people.

Other person: Do you curse a lot?

Me: I could swear the chrome off a trailer hitch. Wait. That... doesn't sound right.

A simple act.

A simple infrequent act.

A ceiling-high book shelf with every nook and cranny filled.

Books that run the gamut between "Archie's Double Digest" and "The Chomsky Reader," and every stop in between, fill the nooks.

The crannies are stocked with memories. And dust.

Many of these memories are ghosts of relationships past.

And, inevitably, one ghost rattles it's chains louder than all others.

In ways that you've forgotten.

In ways that you sometimes only wish you could.

The Love Archaeologist discovering things that should have been painfully obvious at the time.

And probably were.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

The Love Coroner trying to ascertain what went wrong.

And when.

Not as a means of love resurrection, but to... learn.

Nobody wants to be doomed to repeat the past.

With every uncovered letter, hand-made (!!!) card and picture, the ghost's rattling chains become deafening.

The truly good ones come along so infrequently, we must notice.

We must try harder.

We must remember.

The Love Historian trying to give it all context.

Perhaps the room cleaning shouldn't be such an infrequent act.

One year ago today, I wrote this...

--------------------

You may remember my story about the day I spent with my 8 year old (9 10 now!) cousin. She is also the twerp responsible for an infamous series of sketches, including "Peter Pooping."*

Let's call her "the monkey."

Please don't confuse her with ACN (Adorably Cute Niece) or this dude.

This morning I stumbled upon an old journal that had been collecting dust on my bookshelf. It was given to me by a huge fan of the monkey, so that I could chronicle her many adventures.

And I did... for 6 or 7 months.

It began at Christmas 2000 and ended in August 2001. After that, her adventures became too numerous for one person to keep track of.

The following are excerpts from said book. She was 3 1/2 years old.

Dec. 25, 2000 - The monkey's daddy recently went in for a vasectomy. The monkey knows that she can't jump on him because he hurt his "Pecker, pecker, pecker. Bird, bird, bird."

Dec. 26 - The monkey's mommy tells the story of a recent day at daycare. The monkey is sent to time out over and over all day. Finally, they sent her for the last time and she starts sobbing. They ask her what is wrong and she replies, "I've been in trouble all day and I just can't take it anymore."

Dec. 26 - The monkey tells her daddy to "Take your big butt out of here," as he tries to share a chair with her.

Dec. 29 - The monkey tells us that it is time to get up because it is "Eight five three and two dots!" (8:53 on a digital clock.)

Early January 2001 - The monkey is looking at wedding pictures. "Oh, I LOVED the wedding. I was so good at the wedding. I'm cute right now."

Early January - A tow truck comes to pick up her uncle's van. She and I stand outside and watch. The monkey has many questions. "He is lifting the van... is he strong?" "Can I throw a snowball at him?" and "Is he going to take my sleigh?"

Early January - As I pull the monkey around in her sled, she sings Christina Aguilera's "What a Girl Wants."

Early January - The monkey listens to a Bill Cosby stand up routine. Bill makes sounds, she mimics. Bill laughs, she mimics. Bill says, "When I was a boy, I thought my father was an idiot." She looks at me and says, "Idiot? I thought MY father was an idiot."

Early January - The monkey passes me a skittle. I put it on her counter and tell her that I was afraid it would melt in my hand. She passes me a penny, so I put it in my pocket. She says, "Why are you putting it in your pocket, Peter? Money doesn't melt!"

Early January - The monkey gives me a blue cassette tape to give to my parents. Her instructions are, "If they like it, they can keep it. If they don't, then you can bring it back to me. The tape: Disney's Lullaby Classics.

January 23 - I'm sitting on the couch watching TV as the monkey strolls in. She crawls up on the couch, sits next to me, and puts her arm around me. She looks at me and says, "Peter, do you know how much I love you?" Then after a brief pause, she answers herself, "Fifty!"

Janury 25 - The monkey's mommy checks her answering machine this morning. There is a message from the monkey from the previous day. It was, "Hi Mommy. I'm at daycare. I learned my phone number today! Bye!"

January 31 - She refers to me as "Billy Bossy."

February 3 - With a mouthful of french toast, she tells me, "Peter, you are the precious boy in the world."

February 12 - The monkey got in trouble at daycare today. She got another "time-out." Her explanation was, "Chantal didn't want help, but I wanted to help her." Then a pause as she searches her memory, "I made a saucy face at Jacques."

February 13 - The monkey is mad at her father for saying that she is "no fun." "Daddy apologize. You are breaking my feelings."

March 3 - The monkey's grandmother is tucking her shirt in and pulling up her pants, to get her ready for daycare. The monkey is not happy. "No! They are going to call me Steven Urkel!"

April 1 - The monkey's daddy tells her that she has to go home at 8:15. So, at 8:14 she looks at the clock and then looks at me, "Peter, who can stop the clock?"

August 12 - The monkey is wearing a tiara, so someone asks her if she is a princess. She replies, "No, I'm not a pricess. I'm a princess to Peter."

August 12 - My dad tells the monkey that "If you eat your vegatables you'll get smart." She looks at his plate and then at him and says, "Okay... get smart."



[*Please note that she didn't see me or anyone else pooping.]

This is a story about Jim and Robin. They are strangers.

Or at least they were.

They are at the same party, but standing on opposite sides of the room.

Robin is standing near the door thinking, "I wish there was someone here to talk to," when she sees Jim.

Jim is standing against the wall thinking, "If I sneeze wearing these too-tight boxer briefs, I'll never have children," when he sees Robin approaching.

Robin: Hi.
Jim: Hey.
Robin: Having fun?
Jim: Quite a bit.
Robin: It's a good party?
Jim: Naw. I've just been stealing shit from various rooms.
Robin: Really?
Jim: No, of course not.

Robin laughs.

Jim: Yes.

Robin laughs harder.

Robin: I recognize you from a picture. We have a friend in common on Facebook. I can't remember who it is...
Jim: Shelley?
Robin: No.
Jim: Stacey?
Robin: No.
Jim: Phil?
Robin: No. Hang on, let me think.
Jim: Frank.
Robin: No. Stop for a sec.
Jim: Jake?
Robin: Shut it!
Jim: Aloysius?
Robin: No.. Wait. You have a friend named "Aloysius?
Jim: Ohhhh... you wanted REAL guesses?

They walk together out to the deck. They are mid-conversation.

Robin: If you don't like people, why did you come here?
Jim: Both my parole officer and court-appointed psychologist think it is a good idea for me to socialize more.
Robin: Really?
Jim: No.
Robin: Okay.
Jim: Yes.
Robin: What?
Jim: Nothing.

Moments later, they are leaning against the railing.

Robin: You were born in the 70s?
Jim: Yup.
Robin: They had childbirth back then?
Jim: Oh... So that's how it's going to be?
Robin: It would appear so.
Jim: Have you considered the possibility that you aren't as cute as you think you are?
Robin: Briefly.
Jim: Not possible?
Robin: Possible. But extremely unlikely.
Jim: Gotcha.

Few seconds of silence.

Jim: So, what is the downside with you?
Robin: What do you mean?
Jim: You seem too good to be true.
Robin: I'm moving out of the country for six months.
Jim: Of course you are. I bet it's soon.
Robin: Tomorrow.
Jim: Sounds about right for my luck.

They kiss. For a while. They bond. They kiss some more. But, eventually...

Robin: I gotta go.
Jim: Thank God. I was having a bastard of a time resisting copping a feel.
Robin: Spin class works?
Jim: Nicely spun.
Robin: Really? That's the line you are going with?
Jim: I stand by it.
Robin: Okay. So add me on Facebook as soon as you get home.
Jim: Can I change my status to "smitten" first?
Robin: I suppose. Just don't poke me. I hate it when people poke me.
Jim: Maybe they just aren't doing it right.

Silence.

Robin: What does that even mean?
Jim: I'm... not sure. Sometimes I just like to hear myself talk.

Jim walks her to her car. They embrace.

As she slides into the driver's seat, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a decorative pepper shake and passes it to her.

Jim: I searched far and wide for this gift for you.
Robin: Where is the salt shaker?
Jim: Dude, we just met.

Robin smiles, closes the door, and starts her car.

Jim watches her leave.

He reaches back into his inside pocket and pulls out a pink wallet. He opens it up and looks at a driver's license.

Jim: That's a pretty good picture of her.

Labels: no idea where this came from

For the second day in a row, I am going to start a blog post talking about a dream. Variety is for suckers.

Last night I dreamt that I was dating Danica McKellar (Winnie Cooper from "The Wonder Years.)


You gotta love spring. My brain -- and subconscious apparently -- are a little bit fixated on pretty girls. It reminds me of being fourteen.

And of last year at this time.

Things seemed to be going well with Danica. Not sure if she bought me a baseball cap or anything, but whatever... We were at some kind of party. Then things started getting strange. As in many of my dreams, people were morphing into other people constantly. And --

Wait. Are you thinking that things were already strange when I said that I was dating Danica McKellar? You don't think that I could get Danica McKellar?!

Rude!

And why not? We are both just people. She puts her pants on one leg at a time. I put my pants on one leg at a time. She is some kind of math genius with a theorem named after her. And I... can count pretty high.

I could so get her.

Don't you doubt me. I'll e-mail her right now!!

I love the fact that, in about six months, someone is going to google "Winnie Cooper dream" and stumble into this post.

Lately I've been paying more attention to where my site visitors are coming from. If I really wanted to get more traffic, I'd have made up a part about us getting a puppy and naming it "Lindsay Lohan nipple slip."

Which, I think you'll agree, is a bit of a cumbersome name.

Maybe just call it "Lindsay Lohan's nipple." Then I could say stuff like:

"I woke up with Lindsay Lohan's nipple in my face again."

"Lindsay Lohan's nipple got loose last night."

and

"Lindsay Lohan's nipple tried to hump my leg."

OK, maybe the last one doesn't work.

Although...

Mentioning Lindsay Lohan's nipple would get me lots of perv traffic. And traffic is traffic. But, what if I wanted to bring in a geekier sort of visitor?

Well, then Danica and I, at that weird party, would have been discussing the fact that, on Star Trek, the crew of the Enterprise under Captain Kirk was 430 people, but under Jean Luc Picard it was 1012.

I'm assuming that is because Kirk needed all the extra cabins for shtooping alien chicks. Now I'm all for exotic-looking women, but there are limits.

I guess I've just never looked good in green.

Still a more appealing option than Lindsay Lohan however.

I guess now I just hit "publish" and wait for the geeks and pervs to come wandering in.

Hmmm. You're reading this, aren't you? Interesting. Don't worry, I'm not going to judge.

*cough* Sicko. *cough*

When the phone rang very early this morning, I was doing what I would normally be doing at that time...

Dancing along to my DVD of STOMP THE YARD.

I was just getting to the part where --

OK. Fine. I wasn't really doing that.

I was sleeping.

And, although the details are quickly fading, I was in the middle of a dream. I know that I was married in the dream. And I was very happy about that fact. I was also impressed with what I was wearing. And I had a new baseball cap. It was red. Maybe my dream wife bought it for me. Who wouldn't be happy being married to a woman that buys you baseball caps?

Now I am totally going to want to buy a red baseball cap all day.

Or get married.

Where were we?

The phone call. Right.

It was my uncle the carpenter/handyman/apparent early riser. His schedule had opened up and he could replace the chimney today. My initial reaction was "Replace it with what?"

For some reason, said chimney runs through my bedroom closet. Thank you, 1960s building practices.

So, this process was going to involve me cleaning out my closet.

Just another thing that Eminem and I have in common.

- We both have a history of trying to revisit past relationships. (Though I think we've both learned our lessons there.)

- Neither of us would ever dis our own mama just to get recognition.

- And, of course, the mad rhymin' skillz.

The good part about cleaning out a metaphorical closet is that it isn't full of dust. Sure, there can be a crippling flood of emotion, but still...

To say that I ran into dust bunnies would not begin to do them justice. These were dust brontosauruseseses. I can't be sure, but I think that they had created their own society. There was a clear leader and the beginnings of a rudimentary language.

If the birth of Dustapotamia wasn't enough of a clue that it had been too long since I had cleaned out my closet, some of the items I stumbled upon certainly drove that point home.

I found a robe from two girlfriends ago.

I found the proud remains of half-finished screenplays.

I found a remote control truck.

I found baseball cleats. (I can't be entirely certain when I last wore them. But, I think the timeline would be something like... 1) Wore cleats, 2) Princess Diana died, 3) Built Y2K shelter...)

I found a box of matchbox cars. (I am pretty sure that I've used them since I last wore the cleats.)

There were some other pieces of amusing crap, but my brain is too foggy to recall. For someone with allergies, buttloads of dust, plus regular spring pollen... well, it's not conducive to, you know, thinking and junk.

Oh, for the record, I totally had to look up that STOMP THE YARD quote for my title on imdb.com. I've never actually seen it.

It's true.

Don't you judge me.

A year ago today, I wrote this...

-----

I've debated writing this post. Quite frankly, I don't feel like I have the writing skills to adequately express what I want to express. I'm not sure that I can do it anything close to justice. But, I'm going to try...

Today is my niece's birthday.

Five years ago, my sister was 25 weeks pregnant and here for a visit. Everything was cruising along normally. But, on the day she was leaving, she began feeling some discomfort in her stomache. It didn't seem like a huge deal.

She went to the hospital when she got home, and they initially told her that it was most likely a gall bladder issue. But, the doctor she saw didn't like the look of some of her numbers. He transferred her onto a bigger hospital in a bigger city. Thank God he did. There were two doctors on duty that day, the other one is notorious for trying to do everything himself and he would have been unlikely to transfer my sister. And this would be an entirely different kind of post.

The bigger hospital ran all their tests and my sister was diagnosed with HELPP syndrome. Don't worry if you haven't heard of it. Be thankful. It was the first time I had heard of it too. It is something that is allegedly rare, and usually occurs much later in pregnancies.

The amount of time that passed next is a bit sketchy in the fog of "Holy shit..." that is my memory of that period in time. But, before long they were giving my sister steroids for the baby's lungs. I really didn't know what that meant at the time. It wasn't long before I found out.

I hadn't even thought much about being an uncle yet. I realized it was going to happen, but my sister wasn't even showing at the time. I was excited in theory, but it was still seeming a bit hypothetical to me.

Suddenly I was thinking a lot about it. And it wasn't just the baby in danger, my sister's "numbers" were getting really bad.

My parents were rushing to the hospital. For reasons beyond my control at the time, I couldn't go.

I hadn't cried since I was nine years old. And even then they were tears of anger. My older cousin was beating me up. (Nothing serious.) I wasn't going to rat, but I wasn't big enough to do much about it.

But, I cried that day when I heard that the baby had to come out. It was such a foreign feeling. A strange, foggy sense of helplessness.

A lot of my initial thoughts were on my sister and her safety. We fought a lot as kids. More than you can imagine. My Dad recently told someone that he was sure that when we grew up that we'd never speak to each other. At some point that went away and we eventually got along fine. Though we are a small family - I only have the one sibling - we aren't at all touchy-feely. Not a lot of hugging. Not a lot of talk about anything remotely related to feelings. Granted, it is possible that everyone else was doing it and I just didn't know. But, on this afternoon I was paralyzed with fear about my sister's well-being. (To this day, we've never discussed this part either.)

As the day stretched on, the doctors kept a close eye on my sister's numbers. They were waiting for the best possible time that would provide as little risk to my sister as possible, and as much hope as possible for the baby.

I remember praying a lot. Praying and negotiating.

Then the call came from my Mom. I had a baby niece.

It hit me. Hard.

This little one was suddenly the most important person in the world.

This is where I really wish I was a better writer. It was a life-changing moment. I loved this little girl SO much and I hadn't even met her yet.

Reality started to sit in as my mother gave me more details. My niece weighed 1 lb, 6 ounces.

1 lb, 6 ounces.

Even now, the number staggers me.

Our little squirt was going to have a tough journey ahead of her, but she was here now.

My memory gets a little fuzzy here. I had a rough evening in here someplace. It involved much shortness of breath and many chest pains. It also involved me screaming like a lunatic at a nurse on the phone. "No one is answering!!!! Why is nobody calling me?!? There is nobody left in Cape Breton!! For the love of God, you HAVE to get someone there to talk to me." The nurse found my patheticness amusing and went to my sister's room and gave them all a much needed laugh by telling them what I said.

Now, I'm not sure if my breakdown was because I just hadn't had updates on how my sister and niece were doing the first night, or if it was because of what came next...

Three days after my niece was born, they discovered that she had a perferated bowel. And they were going to have to do emergency surgery.

The news was just so jarring to me.

How could this possibly happen after all she'd been through already? How could they operate on someone who weighed 1 lb, 6 ounces?

But, operate they did. And she fought through that. She ended up with an ostomy bag on her right side. (Something that was later reversed in yet another operation.)

After surgery she LOST weight. She was down to 1lb, 3 ounces.

This is one tough little squirt.

I remember clearly my first visit to see her in the hospital -- where she spent 3 months or so, working her way up to the 5 lb mark needed for her to go home. She was in her little incubator. SO tiny. Words can't even express. It is something that you literally need to see to believe. And even then, you can't wrap your mind around it.

She had all kinds of little tubes running everywhere. And I was in love.

I froze in my tracks when I stepped in front of the incubator. I was all scrubbed up and wearing a gown. I couldn't speak. Finally I managed to blurt out, "Hi. I'm Uncle Pete. I'll buy you a pony." My Dad cracked up next to me.

Only two people were allowed to go in and visit her at a time. The rest of my family quickly realized that I wasn't going anywhere, and they took turns being the other visitor. I just continued to stare at her.

I guess it was a couple months later - when she was a little over 3 lbs - that I first got to hold her. I was so afraid. She was so little. But, my sister put her in my arms. Even though weight-wise it felt like I was just holding a blanket, it was one of the greatest moments of my life. I didn't ever want to put her back down. Of course, I was so afraid to hurt her that I sat perfectly still and my arms were beginning to cramp. (I am smiling like an idiot typing about it even now.)

My sister spent most nights sleeping at the hospital at first. Her husband was working crazy shifts and then driving 2 hours to see his pride and joy at every possibile opportunity. My niece's parents were as strong and impressive as their little girl. (Something else I've never told them.)

When she was just a little bit under 5 lbs, my niece was allowed to go home. After only spending a night or two at home, my sister surprised me by bringing my baby niece to visit me. I couldn't have been more excited. I spent the first few hours of her visit, in a chair, holding the little punkin close to me. Again, just staring.

I also remember the first night my sister and husband went out to a social event. I stayed in with my niece. She was in her little crib dealie, with a fully pimped out monitor that kept an eye on everything but her taste in music, and I sat there for hours watching the display. If her heart beat sped up, so did mine. If it slowed... well mine sped up again. Even with this high-tech piece of equipment, I'd get up every ten minutes to go look to make sure she was still breathing. I did this by watching the blankets move, of course.

I'd like to say that in five years I've become a little less over-protective. I'd like to say that... But, the truth is that I'd throw someone down a flight of stairs for looking at her the wrong way. I'm not kidding.

I call my niece every single day at 6 pm. I don't care what is going on. Everything else gets put on hold. I don't care where she is or where I am. I call her every single day. I ask her if daycare was fun. I ask her if I'm a pain in the bum. (Always gets a "Yeeeah!!") We practice counting to ten. It is my favourite part of the day.

My niece has Cerebral Palsy. She can't walk. She can only say a few words. ("Unc" is one of them!) Little things that most people take for granted - like picking up a toy block - are so much work for her. And she really does work at it. She is still the toughest person I know. It is impossible to tell how much developing she'll do or how long it will take. But, she is smart. She is funny. She has the cutest little evil sense of humour. And we are the luckiest family in the world to have her.

My niece is five years old today. And I love her very much.

Labels: ACN

And I don't mean the crappy Rob Lowe movie from 1986.

Or do I?

(I don't.)

Since I can't watch the NBA playoffs now that the Raptors are out, I spent the early part of last evening just flipping through channels.

I wandered into "Ghosts of Abu Ghraib."

SO disturbing.

I guess that my outrage had faded a bit in the couple years since the photos were on the news. It came rushing back immediately. I wanted to switch the channel many times, but just couldn't.

The timing seemed fitting since I (jokingly) mentioned man's inhumanity to man in my post yesterday. However, I don't think Robert Burns could have envisioned the tales told by the people that were held in that prison.

Then I spent an hour watching the Boogie Wonderland clusterfuck that was "American Idol."

After that I tuned into "Shaking All Over," a documentary on the history of Canadian music. (The good stuff like Gordon Lightfoot, not the bad stuff like Celine Dion.) It was AWESOME. So many classic Canadian bands and performers.

During the section on folk singers, I wondered if I could write a folk/protest song. (This joined a list that already includes, "I wonder if I can write an Archie comic," and "I wonder if I can write a Penthouse Forum letter.")

So, being me, I grabbed a pen and a notebook and wrote this:

The darkness.
The darkness surrounds, but never consumes.
The rage.
The rage pauses, but always resumes.
The damage.
The damage is done, but can be healed.
The hope.
The hope is hiding, but will be revealed.

And then someone messaged me on MSN and I wandered off.

I totally forgot about it until I was making my bed this morning and saw the notebook on the floor. Then I had a "What the fuck is that horseshit?" moment.

Which was quickly followed by a "Something to blog about, suckas!" moment.

There are things that have always confused people.

Ever since iron, oxygen, silicon, magnesium, sulfur, nickel, calcium, aluminum and a whole mess of other crap swirled itself into this giant rock four and a half billion years ago -- or since God whipped this puppy up in six days -- there have been questions.

What causes man's inhumanity to man?

How DO they get the caramel in the Caramilk bar?

Why was I singing "Careless Whisper" in the shower this morning?

Why does anyone care about Barry Bonds and the home run record? (Seriously. He's a doping jackass and he just doesn't care. There's no shame in being a pariah, dude. Ugh.)

And, more importantly, why can't I think of things to blog about anymore?

This is my 298th blog post in a little over a year.

Which tells us that, in addition to being an attention whore and in love with sharing my thoughts, I also get a bit wiggy if too many days go by without a post showing up on PDDC.

But, this isn't a post about not knowing what to blog. (This isn't a rebel song either.)

This is a post about posting about having nothing to blog.

Or something.

I read a post by a fellow blogger this morning. It was a list of things that made her smile. It was simple and it was charming. And I said, "Why didn't I think of that?" Then I said, "Why are you talking to yourself at your desk, fucknuts?"

I had no answer for that.

I am listening to "Friday I'm In Love" and there are at least two things wrong with that title.

It dawned on me yesterday that when you are completely blog-blocked, there is only one logical thing to do...

Start a new blog.

That is how my brain works.

This one is going to be different. It is still in the planning phases. It is going to be a group dealie. And, since I'm a shameless self-promoter, you know that I'll be mentioning it again in here soonish.

Did you folks know that time can never mend the careless whispers of a good friend? To the heart and mind, ignorance is kind. There's no comfort in the truth, pain is all you'll find.

It's true. I heard that someplace before.

"All good things must come to an end," they say.

To them I say, "Why?"

Or "Screw you."

It really depends on my mood.

Yesterday I found out that this will be the final season for "Gilmore girls."

And I am bummed.

For those of you keeping score at home, yes I am still an adult male.

In my defense, I'd watch ANYTHING with Lauren Graham in it. A Dirty Dancing sequel. A Jennifer Lopez movie. Fox News. ANYTHING.

And now there will no longer be weekly doses of fresh new Lauren Graham goodness on my TV. Sure, I can watch reruns, but it is not at all the same. (Except for the one where she wears glasses. I can't get enough of that one.)


As many of you know, Lauren Graham is the official crush of PDDC.

As you might have seen here. Maybe here. Possibly here.

And now she won't be on my TV as often.

Le sigh.

However, I must stay strong.

She'll still be in movies.

And some day she could find her way back to TV.

But, we'll be different then. We'll have been through too much. History, you know? Sure we'll pretend like nothing has changed. Like we can both immediately fall back into being ourselves. But, we'll know better. It'll be unspoken, but we'll see it in each others eyes. We had a glorious moment in the sun and now it is ending. I am going to try to enjoy every last bit of it. Until *poof* it disappears...

Oh, and if she doesn't end up with Luke in the series finale, I am totally going to write a strongly-worded letter.

Labels: Lauren Graham

He thought he knew what she was feeling.
She didn't think that he felt at all.
So, they didn't talk.

She didn't want to be THAT girl.
He didn't want to reward over dramatics.
So, they didn't talk.

He thought she wanted the truth.
She wanted the "right" truth.
So, they didn't talk.

She wanted to be a priority.
He felt like he already treated her as one.
So, they didn't talk.

He didn't like feeling pressured.
She felt like she was being patient.
So, they didn't talk.

She thought she was too old to find someone new.
He figured that all women were the same anyway.
So, they didn't talk.

He's having a Hungry Man Dinner alone.
She's in my bed.

Not so fucking hungry now, are you, man?