This weekend The ACN was in town, so I was Uncle Pete-ing it right up. And, as per usual, that involved much playing of Webkinz.

She just added something new to her Webkinz account, a Webkinz Studio. You use it to make little movies.

So, The Monkey (you may remember her from this or this) decided that she and The ACN should make one. I was in the kitchen getting lunch ready, when I heard the giggling. I should have known that was a bad sign.

A few minutes later, the ACN yelled, "Unc!" So, I walked into the room to the two of them smiling. The Monkey said, "She wants to show you the movie we made." Then she hit play.

The title came on the screen...

"Unc is a pain!"

Uh oh.

Two characters came on the screen. A dog named "Unc" and a cat named "[ACN.]"

Their dialogue went a little something like this:

Unc: "I am glad you called me a pain."

ACN: "Don't be a sookie, Unc."

Unc: "Wah! Wah! *sniffle*"

ACN: "*sigh* Uncles."

- fin -

Then real-life me gasped in horror. And they both giggled some more.

I went back to my cooking, but they must have felt bad, because a few minutes later I heard "Unc!"

Back I went, fully expecting to be exposed as the poophead that I am. However, this one was much different.

I was a knight! The ACN was a pop idol. And in this movie I rescued her from a dragon. At the end she thanked me and I told her that I had to go because, "I have a bunch of other people that I have to rescue from dragons."

Apparently dragon slaying is something of a cottage industry in Webkinz world.

I'm not going to lie, the sequel took a bit of sting out of the original film.

However, I do get a bit humbled every time we log into Webkinz world. When we set up her account, I thought it would be amusing to set her password as "UncIsCute." But, now every time we log in, and I say the password as a I type it, the ACN turns to me, smiles and shakes her head "No" very vigorously.

And then giggles.

A lot.

This is a real conversation that I had recently:

Oven timer: Beep beep beep!

Peter: I hear you.

Oven timer: Beep beep beep!

Peter: Yeah, one second.

Oven timer: Beep beep beep!

Peter: Shut the fuck up.

Oven timer: Beep beep beep!

Peter: I am so trading your ass for a sun dial.

*Please note that while Peter is not a professional meteorologist, he feels that he can say, without fear of exaggeration, that it is 9 million degrees in Peteville. Peter no function well heat with. Peter almost spelled it "fuction." Peter will probably not blog anymore until the temperatures get back to a reasonable level.

**Peter, however, doesn't want you to take this lack of blogging as the absence of love. Peter loves you all. Peter even loves those of you that he hates. Because Peter loves to hate. Yet, he hates to love. Hmm.

***Peter would like to remind you that any comments made by Hot Peter are not necessarily those of Normal Temperature Peter, PeterDeWolf.com or the Hearst Corporation.

**** The Hearst Corporation would like to remind you that they have absolutely no affiliation with Peter... though they also hate the oppressive fucking heat.

The other night, some lucky soul was wise enough to come to me with questions about love.

Well, they didn't exactly come to me as much as find my blog archives through a google search.

They searched for:

"Perhaps the feelings that we experience when we are in love represent a normal state. Being in love shows a person who he should be."

I have no idea which of my 330+ posts that lead them to -- and I think it's a Chekhov quote -- but, I hope that they found what they were looking for.

It made me feel good.

Which isn't exactly the same feeling I got the other day when someone found my blog by searching for, "she makes me cover my face with a pillow when she does oral, but i know her mother is there."

I'm not kidding.

And I'm reasonably sure that is not a Chekhov quote.

Back to love...

I love like a laser. Very focused and with great heat and intensity.

(You like that? I totally just made it up!)

(Unless I read it someplace and yoinked it.)

So, I can understand why someone would come to me (or my blog) for guidance.

And I'd like to talk about love again today.

But, not the love between humans. That love is frail. It ends. It gets all judgmental and asks, "You want me to wear THAT and beat you with a WHAT??"

Who needs that? Am I right?

Today I want to talk about my love for Lids.com

So. Many. Baseball caps.

I don't even know what to do with it.

I love the site so much.

I even get a bit shy when I go to it. My ears get a little pink at the top. I stare down at my toe making little circles in the dirt.

Then I realize that I should vacuum under my computer desk more often.

I need a new hat. And I narrowed down my four favourites to these:


Feedback from a very much respected and appreciated source led me to lean towards the darker ones. Black or brown.

Still, I thought I would ask more of you. (Because I couldn't think of a single other thing to blog about.)

After all, one of you fine folks found my site by googling "there's a dead hooker in the bathroom" this morning.

This sounds exactly like the kind of person that would have an opinion I could rely on.

Labels: baseball caps, Love

Her: Did you forget to take out the garbage again?

Him: My darling... let us not deal with the mundane. We operate on a level so much above all of that triviality. Like a bottle, containing a lover's note of confession, effortlessly bobbing on the ocean tossed. A part... yet apart from it all. Let us embrace what it is that makes us... us. The connection. The perfection that is imperfection. Let us screw our courage to the sticking place and face this crazy world together. Let us not be bogged down by what derails so many others. Let us aim higher. Let us strive towards a romance for the ages. (Puts his hand on her cheek.) Come... will you take my hand and jump into the unknown with me? Will you take a chance on... chance? Will you love?

Her: Yeah... no oral sex for a month.

Him: Shit buckets!

Stomp. Stomp.
Clap.

Stomp. Stomp.
Clap.

4000ish people in unison.

Luke felt the concussion in his chest
as he stood at centre ice.
He leaned his chin on the butt end of his stick,
like he had seen Ken Dryden do.
On all of those games from the 70s
on ESPN Classic.

Stomp. Stomp.
Clap.

We will rock you indeed.

Luke wished for his iPod,
currently in his jacket pocket in the locker room.
He'd play that live version of Pearl Jam's "Daughter."
The one that evolves into "Rockin' In The Free World."
That would drown them out.
Maybe.

The intensity of the stomping, stomping and clapping grew.

Luke was reminded of lions and Christians.
Despite this essentially being a home game,
he didn't know which he was.
Or if it mattered.
Or why he paid so little attention in history class.

Luke looked over at the referee.
Dude was talking to the scorekeeper.
Trying to get the time on the scoreboard right.
There was either 1 second remaining
or none
when the penaltyshot was called.
The score is 3-3.
End of the third period.

Luke looked at the banner hanging under the scoreboard.
"Michigan High School State Championship 2007"
Sponsored
by
Nike.

The fact that this was the championship game
was only adding to the frenzy of the crowd.

The cheers of support
and venom-filled screams of hate
all sounded the same to him.

This didn't bother him.

He looked over at the "VIP" section.
NHL scouts, college recruiters, agents.
They all looked exactly the same to him.
Agendas with meticulously styled, grey-streaked hair,
wearing dark jackets with small logos on the left side.

He knew what they -- this pot-bellied fraternity -- were thinking.
"Let's see what this kid is made of."

This didn't bother him.

Stomp. Stomp.
Clap.

Luke looked down at the opposing goalie.
He skated back and forth.
He slammed his stick on the ice.
He stared back at Luke.
"Someone's in an awful hurry to get his ass scored on,"
Luke thought.

Luke couldn't see his father.
But, he could picture him.
Clearly.
Wearing the
azure blue
and
maize
of Michigan University.

Dad was an alum.
Dad wanted Luke to attend.
Dad wanted Luke to achieve more on the ice than Dad did.
Dad has been pushing this since Luke was 4.
Hard.
Dad didn't really achieve much on the ice.
Dad didn't think Luke realized this.

Luke did.

Luke recognized his fathers shortcomings at a very early age.
Too early.
Still and all, he thought,
overbearing love is still love.
Support with motives is still support.
There is
there.

This didn't bother him.

None of it.

Luke glanced around the crowd.

SHE was here.

Somewhere.

Stomping. Stomping.
Clapping.
Smiling.

She was probably here with THAT guy.

This bothered him.

That guy explaining hockey to her.
Condescendingly.
With his annoying, fucking blonde hair.
She'd laugh.

Putting
her
perfect
head
on
his
shoulder.

!!!!!!!!!!!!

Luke cringed.

And again.

Luke wondered if he could exorcise this crush
by spending time with the seemingly never ending supply of
puck bunnies
that his friends claimed he could "get" as a
hockey star.

Generic teenage girls.
Pretty hair -- that they tossed when he walked by them.
Tight clothing.

He was bored already.

They weren't her.

On their best day, they couldn't be her on her worst.

He smiled thinking about her smile.
Then he got pissed off at himself for smiling at the thought of her smile.

Then he smiled again.

"Shit."

He wondered how he could miss something he'd never had.
And how he could crave something he'd never tasted.

He reminded himself that she had held his hand
once.
When she was drunk.
And thought he was someone else.

Luke lived off that experience for 3 months.

Luke knew it wasn't the world's healthiest crush.

The referee blew his whistle.

He pointed to Luke.

"Let's go!" he said.

Luke took a few strides back towards the opposite side of the ice,
before whirling around.
By the time he reached the puck
at centre ice
he was at full speed.

Wind in his face,
Muscle memory,
reflexes,
years of practice,
world class skill,
all were ready to do their part.

There were no more stomps, stomps or claps.

The only sound was steel blades on ice.

Luke found it nearly deafening.

The goalie banged his stick on the ice.

Luke was bearing in on him.

Score or not,
his father would still be pushing him to Michigan.

Score or not,
she would still be leaving the arena with that guy.

Luke dipped his shoulder
faked going to his right.
The goalie bit.

Luke deftly floated the puck towards
the top left corner.

The goalie reacted.
A step behind.
But, trying to close the gap in time.

Score or not,
things probably wouldn't change much for Luke.
But...

"This asshole isn't going to stop my shot."

The red light went on.

Labels: remember that everything in here is a first draft

I'm not telepathic.

I know. I KNOW. I'm as shocked as you.

I've always assumed the skill would be there if and when I needed it.

Like when people can supposedly summon great stores of strength when a loved one is in danger.

This kinda sucks.

I had plans for it. These include, but are not limited to:

- To stop people from taking something that I want. "You will NOT eat that last piece of pizza. Don't do it. Don't... Oh crap. You WILL become scary flatulent. You will become..."

- To affect the thoughts and actions of politicians. "You WILL step down as Prime Minister, you well-coiffed sack of shit. You WILL step down as Prime Minister, you well-coiffed sack of shit... And make IT legal."

- To negatively affect players from sports teams that I don't like. "You WILL drop that pass. You will fumble that ball. You WILL brandish a firearm in the parking lot of a low-class strip joint, while you and your baby momma argue with the police. Yes, AGAIN."

Last night I decided to do a little minor telepathing, never once thinking it wouldn't work, but it had no effect.

I tried again. I made little circles on my temples with my pointy fingers and kept thinking about what I wanted to happen. (Not something dirty, you pervs.)

Absolutely nada.

This is one of the most jarring things I've experienced since I was 12 and realized that I could not use my mind to make bikini tops lose tensile strength.

So, if you are suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to leave a comment, it is most likely not my doing.

However, if your bikini top feels like it is going to fly off... Well, you never know. That could be one of those skills that it takes a while to develop.

If you only know me through my blog, you'd probably think that I am fairly mellow. Patient, even. Mostly because that is what I want you to believe.

Suckers.

But, I tried to lay claim to having said patience to family members this weekend. This resulted in replies that included laughs, a "Yeah, right!" and a "Holy fuck..."

Hardly a ringing endorsement, eh?

Even the ACN giggled at me. But, she wanted me to get her some apple juice, so she said "Yeah" when I asked her if Uncle Pete was a patient boy.

So, now that the lack of patience cat is out of the I'm a filthy liar bag, I figured I'd share a few of the things that could potentially lead to me cutting you.

I don't WANT to cut you. But, sometimes you leave a dude no choice.

(Please note, that this list very much only scratches the surface of things that annoy the ever-loving piss out of me.)

- Cheering against any Canadian individual, duo or team in any kind of sporting endeavor anywhere on earth.

- Playing "Brown Eyed Girl." (HATE.)

- Saying that Lauren Graham has "manly shoulders." (I originally typed that as "MANY shoulders." Which wouldn't have been as insulting, though still kinda weird.)

- Discussing Vietnam. (Too soon. Too soon...)

- Yammering on incessantly about wine. (Nobody gives a fuck. Honestly. I saw SIDEWAYS too. I am a chicken finger connoisseur, but you don't hear me talking about batter to meat thickness ratios, or sunflower vs. canola oil. Ass.)

- Using the phrase "as all get out." (I... don't know why.)

- Talking during a movie. (If I don't know EXACTLY why the Wayans brothers are turning into white girls, I get super pissed.)

- Taking food off of my plate without asking. (Or after asking.)

- Saying anything bad about Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands.

- Telling me that my lists are too short.

Labels: I was singing Crowded House's "Locked Out" in the shower this morning.

You've all probably wondered , at one time or another, which of the "Golden Girls" I would sleep with, if pressed.

It's only natural.

And I am about to tell you.

However, we should probably look at why I might have to do such a thing.

I suspect that the most likely series of events that would lead to such a "May-sometime the next February" romance would be if I was a rakish, and somewhat morally bankrupt, land developer working out of Florida.

I would get involved in something slightly illegal and get found out by one of the GGs. And, in order to get her to keep the secret, I'd have to use my manly wiles.

Yes, I have wiles!!!

So, that answers why.

As for who, let's look at each one of the ladies individually.


Sophia --

Pros: Little and cute. Tells interesting stories, most beginning with "Picture it. Sicily, 1931."

Cons: 137 years old. I'm off Sicilian women.


Dorothy --

Pros: Enjoyably sarcastic.

Cons: Could break me in half and consume my very essence.


Blanche --

Pros: Sexy. NOT slutty, she's just misunderstood.

Cons: A little too overt with her sexuality for my liking. Plus, very likely rife with the herpes.

Which leaves us with my choice...


Rose --

Pros: Kind. Gives off a compelling sense of loss and sadness. Underrated sexiness.

Cons: All the money I'd spend on earplugs.


Now, you know my choice. But, how would it all happen, I wonder...

Perhaps an afternoon picnic. A secluded wilderness area.

We'd finish our meals and then relax and stare up at the sky. Enjoying the juxtaposition of nearby fluffy cumulus clouds against the storm clouds moving in. Marveling at the colour of the sky around the clouds. That shade of blue that reminds you that you very definitely live on a planet.

Our eyes would meet.

And then all the sweet loving.

And when the magic was finished...

"Thank YOU for being a friend," she'd say.

"Don't mention it. You've clearly been down this road and back again." I'd reply.

Voice in Peter's Head: Hey.

Peter: You're back?

Voice in Peter's Head: Yep.

Peter: I was kind of enjoying the break.

Voice in Peter's Head: I bet. But, apparently you lost your way a little, so...

Peter: The writing?

Voice in Peter's Head: Noooo, your interpersonal relationships. Of course the writing. Dork.

Peter: I don't know. I could use help with the interpersonal--

Voice in Peter's Head: Yeah, save it, Nancy. So, you're a bit stalled with the writing.

Peter: I wouldn't say "stalled." I've been coming up with lots of ideas.

Voice in Peter's Head: Yeah, I've seen your desk. It looks like a paper and ink orgy. Why the loss in forward momentum?

Peter: I don't know...

Voice in Peter's Head: Tell me.

Peter: You'll judge me.

Voice in Peter's Head: Tell me or I'll start singing that Akon song.

Peter: You wouldn't.

Voice in Peter's Head: Nobody wanna see us together. But, it don't matter, no...

Peter: Okay, okay.

Voice in Peter's Head: That was easy.

Peter: Prick.

Voice in Peter's Head: Spill it.

Peter: Fine. I've been working on THE idea. You know the one?

Voice in Peter's Head: I do.

Peter: And the ideas are flowing. Things are percolating.

Voice in Peter's Head: Sheesh.

Peter: But, it feels like I am trying to force it to be something it isn't.

Voice in Peter's Head: I don't even know what that means.

Peter: I am trying to write it as a novel, but it doesn't feel right.

Voice in Peter's Head: It doesn't "feel" right?

Peter: No. It's like... it is too wide open. Not enough rules, maybe.

Voice in Peter's Head: Have you ever considered becoming a plumber? Good money in it.

Peter: I like having stricter rules and then trying to bend them a little. Most of my handwritten pages are basically in screenplay format, so I was thinking of turning it into a screenplay instead.

Voice in Peter's Head: Screenplay, novel, dirty haiku, what the fuck do I care?

Peter: I liked the idea of writing a novel. It felt... cooler. Bigger. Something.

Voice in Peter's Head: Never finishing the damn thing probably wouldn't be all that "cool."

Peter: You raise a good point.

Voice in Peter's Head: I usually do.

Peter: Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you sound a bit like Luke Perry?

Voice in Peter's Head: "It's Dylan. You know the drill."

Peter: Ha! Nice. Hey, remember the episode when those girls scammed Steve and Brandon and stole Steve's car?

Voice in Peter's Head: A classic.

Peter: Even after they were gone with the car, Steve still thought he had a shot with them.

Voice in Peter's Head: That dude was hornier than a four-peckered goat.

Peter: Good times.

Voice in Peter's Head: So, what IS with the writing lately? "Poetry?" Sissified imagery. What happened to the dude that could write 2500 hundred words on Archie comics or the Hardy Boys?

Peter: Uhm... I wrote a scene about genital herpes and Valtrex the other day.

Voice in Peter's Head: Oh yeah? Funny?

Peter: Not bad.

Voice in Peter's Head: Nice.

Peter: So, a screenplay it is? I'm exciting now.

Voice in Peter's Head: Oh, me too. I can barely contain myself.

Peter: I better go wake up my muse.

Voice in Peter's Head: I wouldn't mention anything to her about how your writing "feels." Makes you sound a little too... delightful.

Peter: Whatever, dude.

Voice in Peter's Head: 'Cause we gonna fight. Oh yes, we gonna fight. Believe we gonna fight.

Peter: I loathe you.

Voice in Peter's Head: Hee hee hee.

Somewhere in that hazy netherworld between sleep and awake, between night and dawn, there lived a blog post.

I saw it.

Though my job is to capture said elusive beast, this one proved too cunning an adversary.

A fleeting glance showed that it included:

He felt old and depressed when he dressed as Billy Idol for Hallowe'en and one chick thought he was Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. He felt even older and depresseder when another chick asked, "What is Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"

And then it was gone again.

The warmth and coziness of the bed lured me back to sleep.

I awoke again to the sounds of seagulls on a nearby rooftop. When I imagined their plaintiff squawks to sound like Sloan's "Underwhelmed," I knew that I was in the right frame of mind for blog post hunting.

As is my destiny.

But, oftentimes blog posts don't agree.

This one would let me think that I was closing in before revealing itself as merely a mirage of creativity.

The purpose of this eternal pursuit and retreat is lost on me. Are blog posts so rare a creature? Perhaps. And we all have our roles to play.

As the sun rose higher in the eastern sky, my stomach requested food, and the call of gmail grew louder, I watched my white whale get closer and closer to disappearing over the horizon.

"Not today, my worthy foe," I thought.

I had been bested. There is no shame in that.

But, in the split second before it disappeared completely, the sun hit it just right and I managed to read:

Masturbation is the sincerest form of flattery.

You know, maybe this blog post is better off with it's freedom.

Last week I wrote a poetry-type piece.

I was VERY surprised by the reactions. There wasn't a huge number of comments, but I did get a lot of e-mails and chat inquiries.

"Was it real?"

"Who was it about?"

"You? Poetry?"

And, being me, in many cases I gave the sketchiest of replies.

I was genuinely amazed by the level of interest. Not that people read it -- as I have a kickass group of readers/blogfriends -- but that people were so curious.

I think that played into me being less than forthcoming in replying to their questions. It made me put the privacy shields up.

But, the bigger reason was that I didn't want to mess with what I thought had turned out to be a pretty effective post, by letting people see behind the curtain.

It is what it is, you know?

"Well, I hope that she at least knows that it is about her, jerkass."

Maybe.

If, you know, there is an actual she.

Maybe she read it.

Maybe one of her friends figured it out immediately.

Maybe there was a perfect opportunity to discuss it, but ringing phones and visitors transpired to put a screwing into that.

Maybe when too much time had passed, it became an awkward subject to again broach.

Maybe I'm a giant wuss.

Maybe not for the obvious "fear of rejection" reasons.

Maybe I didn't want the reality of logistics or common sense to ruin the moment.

Maybe there are so few really pure experiences in life that when they appear, they should be celebrated.

Maybe some special moments in time should be marked, but not dissected. Highlighted, but not questioned. Enjoyed, but not stressed over.

And ALWAYS appreciated.

Maybe some people just deserve to have a blog post written about them.

Or maybe it was all just about a guy and the perfect slice of French toast.

Maybe if it was about you, you'd know.

Maybe.

Tyler Mullendore slowing it down a little for us this week.



(Admittedly, it sounded better on tv.)

Labels: Canadian Idol, Lake Friggin' Ainslie, Tyler Mullendore

Happy Birthday, Canada! You magnificent bastard.