After waaaay more debate and research than I am willing to cop to, I have finally ordered my new official baseball cap. I can tell you are all very excited.
And here it is:
I had to stick with the Blue Jays again. I just didn't realize that there were 548,754 different types of Blue Jays caps.
I also, with an assist from Christie, ordered a couple of t-shirts!
Ooooooooooooooooooooh. Even I'M going to want to seduce me in those. It would probably go a little something like this:
Peter: You look good tonight.
Peter: I feel terrible. Unshaven. Hair is a mess.
Peter: It's natural-looking.
Peter: Yeah right. I'm going to get some sleep.
Peter: But, I was thinking...
Peter: Oh, I KNOW what you were thinking.
Peter: It's been a while...
Peter: Well, maybe if you talked to me once in a while.
Peter: I'm talking to you right now.
Peter: You can't just turn it on and off. What do you take me for? A whore??
Peter: I wouldn't say that. Though if you were a city in southwest France, you'd be Toulouse.
Peter glares at Peter.
Peter: OK. Humour clearly wasn't the way to go. I know that now.
Some times I look in the mirror and wonder if that dude in there lives a parallel life.
One where he makes a fantastic living as a writer. Where he writes things with immediate impact, as well as things that might be read generations from now. Things that make a difference, you know?
Writing that fulfills him, as well as makes him yearn to create more. And more. Causing a never ending hunger to explore and share and feel and learn and screw-up and help.
I wonder if his writing is sometimes interrupted by a couple of incorrigibly cute, and freakishly tall, kids with dirty faces crawling over his lap. Pawing at his papers. Leaning on the space bar. Giggling. And making him smile so much that his cheeks hurt a little.
I wonder if he is occasionally rescued from this tiny army of sticky fingered urchins by a patient wife.
A woman who is an amalgam of all the female characters on The West Wing. A woman who somehow inexplicably finds his pain in the assness to be endearing.
A woman whose strengths make up for his (numerous) weaknesses. And, of course, vice versa.
I wonder if he appreciates it all.
And other times I look in the mirror and wonder, "Where the hell did that scar on my chin come from?"
It's Monday and I have nothing for you. Ever felt too loopy to write something sensible, yet not clear-headed enough to write anything "funny?" Yeah, that's where I am right now. I started typing up a little scene earlier. It was about a boy and a girl and a place and a conversation to be had. It had a twisty ending. It felt too similar though. So, you don't get it. Also, I should remember to keep saving this as I type, because we are in the middle of an ice storm now and the power could crap out at any point. I REALLY don't like it when the power goes out. This is one of the most adorable things I have ever seen. You know what's wrong with blogging? Well, the power JUST went out. Thankfully it came back on right away. Now, I have to re-type three sentences. I said "You. Fuck. Bastard." when the power went out. I swear a lot. So, where was I? Oh yeah. A problem with blogging. And this is not going to turn into a continuation of my Andy Rooneyesque screed from last week. Wait... Screeds are long aren't they? Rant? Diatribe? Something. A problem with blogging, at least for those of us who use our real names, is that we don't have cool nicknames. I was watching some UFC over the weekend. I was a bit late getting into that sport because there is something iffy, to me, about a sport where you are supposed to wail on a dude once he goes down. That's not right. Dude's down. I do like Georges St. Pierre. Seems like a nice fella. Canadian. Kicks ass. I am not a big fan of his nickname though. "Rush?" There IS one dude with a cool nickname. "War Machine." That is badass. Admit it. Are you admitting it? I wonder if it is from The Guess Who's "American Woman." And don't even mention the bastardized version by Lenny Fucking Kravitz. Peter "War Machine" DeWolf. At some point over the weekend, I jotted this down on a post-it: "She's got a past he can't undo. He's got some facts she can't un-true." There was a song playing in the background of an episode of The West Wing that I watched last night. It was The Grass Root's "Midnight Confessions." That sucker will get stuck in your head. It was one of my favourite episodes of The West Wing. It's called "Game On." It is the one where President Bartlett faces off against James Brolin in his final presidential debate. And he WORKS him. He's all "Talk to me about Eskimo poetry now, you dirty Streisand-marrying Republican!" President "War Machine" Bartlett. Probably not.
He pawed at the fraying edges of his dream, Like a sailor frantically unfurling a chart. It was disappearing. Quickly. What had started as a mundane, if detailed, REM dance, had somehow morphed. Unexpectedly. Unwelcomed? He kissed her. "Oh, you can't do that," she whispered. After kissing him back. The guilt was severe and immediate. He apologized. "It was nothing," she smiled (almost) dismissively. There are things that hurt more than guilt. She went on with her business. His pain faded. He was getting happy again, when The chill and light of the morning began to conspire. Successfully. Still, his beef with consciousness faded quickly too.
I decided years ago, but still well into (chronological) adulthood, that I was going to wear mittens in the winter. Not gloves. Mittens.
Mittens!
Dads wear gloves. And, as numerous tests have proven over the years, I'm not a dad.
I could think of no reason why I would need to be able to use my fingers individually outside in the winter. Especially seeing as how I am not a World War II sniper.
Also, if things were getting ready to do down, you know, in the streets, I feel that mittens are better for chucking the knuckles. All my fingers together. Soli-damn-darity!
I currently own some kick ass mittens. On the outside, they look like any other mitten. Just knitted with some regular yarn. But, on the inside...
Lined with lambs wool. From a lamb!
Every time I put them on, it feels like little lambs are hugging my hands. My fingers feel warm and loved. And that is really all we can ask for. Am I right? I'm right.
I am trying to learn to respect people that wear gloves. But, it's a journey. I just don't understand. I am not saying that because you keep your fingers separated that you are absolutely a segregationist, but, you know...
After reading this, you may approach me on the street.
"But, Peter, people should have the freedom to choose what they wear on their own hands, right?"
"No, that's not right. You are completely wrong. And, quite frankly, kind of a moron. Now BE GONE!"
"But -- but-- " you'll try to reply.
However, I'll have turned away, because I've already told you to be gone.
You'll slowly start walking away, all crest-fallen.
Then I'll say, "Wait! Come back."
And you'll race back to me, with a hesitant smile and hopeful eyes.
I'll ask you, "Do you have change for a twenty? I'm going to a diner for lunch and want some flexibility when it comes to leaving a tip."
"Will four fives do?" You'll ask.
"Yes. That's perfect. I really appreciate this."
"Happy to help out."
"Thanks so much. Would have been a hassle otherwise. And I am a bit pinched for time."
Two posts today! Exciting, no? A brighter man would have saved this for tomorrow morning so that he wouldn't be stressing about coming up with something to write. However, rationing and patience aren't my things.
Neither is common sense, apparently.
So, I went to the eye specialist today.
It isn't a big deal. I had an issue a while back and got it fixed. It wasn't a major deal to begin with, but he said that if we let it go unchecked, it could damage my retina. I'm no expert, but I don't think retinas grow back. They aren't like limbs. So, we took care of business. Now my peepers are peeping normally.
Huzzah!
Still, every once in a while I go back to make sure everything is cool. And today was one of those visits.
He normally sees patients at a hospital an hour and a half or so away. But, every few months he comes to my town to see old people. And me. When asked, before my first appointment, if I'd rather drive an hour and a half or, you know, 45 seconds... I wondered if he could do the examination while I sat on my couch and watched "Deadliest Catch" on DVD.
When I walked in the office this afternoon, every head in the waiting room snapped forward to see who entered. I was greeted with attempted whispers asking "Who is that?" in both of our official languages.
I checked in and took my seat.
Then an aggressive, and soapy, smell assaulted my nose. This displeased me. Still, I tried to remain patient, here in this pungent cloud of Avon old lady perfume and roads not taken.
My appointment had originally been set for 1:45 pm, but this wasn't my first rodeo. I knew that they typically ran pretty late. So, I called before heading to the office. The chica told me that they were only fifteen minutes behind. So, I arrived at 2 pm on the nose.
And waited for 35 minutes. And that was for the pre-appointment eye chart looky-loo.
I should mention that I didn't bring anything with me for entertainment. No mp3 player. Not even my phone. I could have been texting random silliness to some of you good folks. "Frogs have no ribs! True story."
They did have a TV though. And it was showing programming from our local TV station. Today that consisted of something involving a bunch of footage of people in kayaks paddling around with a school of black fish, while elevator music played. And played. I can't remember exactly what black fish are. A type of whale? Porpoise? Something. They are big and black (really!) and jump out of the water like a dolphin. And yes, I live on the ocean. I am just fairly oblivious to my surroundings.
After, like, twenty minutes of watching this, and listening to old people argue about where the footage was shot, a new lady came in. She was probably in her fifties. And she was VERY excited about the black fish. It was like she had went to her senior prom with a black fish and this was bringing back the loveliest of memories for her, and she was capable of forgiving him for getting a bit handsy.
"Ahhh! C'est beau. C'est vraiment beau," she said to nobody in particular. Then she turned to a lady, who was 80 if she was a day. She was little. And her hair looked a lot like that of the chauffeur guy/bad guy with heart of gold in 'Adventures in Babysitting.'
This was the conversation. I am translating it to English for you. I'm nice like that.
Lady in her 50s: Oh, I love black fish. Do you love black fish?
Lady in her 80s: No.
Lady in her 50s: You don't??
Lady in her 80s: Can you eat them?
Lady in her 50s: Haha. No. ("Haha" is the same in English or French.)
Lady in her 80s: *Dismissive old lady sound* (Kinda like "Smeh!")
And... scene!
I was working hard not to laugh at that. And I had to avoid looking at the TV or the lady in her 50s.
So, for a while I just sat and stared at the wall. David Puddy-style!
Other than during a brief period of giggling about David Puddy, this got boring.
I should also mention that this office, when not being used for eye stuff, is a diabetic clinic. So, I spent some time reading diabetic informational posters. That lost much of it's appeal when I convinced myself that I experience every symptom of both hyperglycemia and hypoglycemia.
I then noticed that an older woman -- in her 70s, I suppose-- had pulled out a notebook or journal. And it was full of all kinds of writing. I resisted the urge to ask her if she was a blogger and if she wanted to exchange links. Barely.
Thankfully, the clinic lady came and called my name at this point.
The doctor is a cool guy. The first thing he said was that he liked my sneakers. (The white ones.) Then he immediately put in the yellow drops of evil. I am not sure what they do. Probably freeze your eyes, right? I'm not much of a details man. I trust that he knows what he is doing. That's why Universal Health Care pays him the big bucks, right?
While he checked my eyes, we mostly discussed The New Yorker. We experienced the generation gap, as he talked about curling up in bed with a copy, while I talked about reading it online.
I was out in about five minutes.
So, I made a follow-up appointment for a year from now and headed for the door. As I opened it up, I heard, in two languages, old lady voices asking,
They make you take tests before you do everything these days. Before you can start driving. Before you are interviewed for a job. "Clearly not before you are allowed to write a crappy blog post!," you say.
Rude.
While shooting the poop with the LLOB (Lovely Ladies of Blogging = Clink & Molly) yesterday, I mentioned something that I should ask women on a first date. Specifically it was something that, if answered a certain way, would likely mean that we were monumentally incompatible.
And that she was, in fact, Satan.
Because I am me, and always trying to think of something different to write about in this bastard blog, I began thinking that at the start of every first date, the two daters should exchange tests. Then they'd be filled out (with #2 pencils) and returned for grading. It's like the SATs of getting into each other's pants.
If one or both of you fail, then you pull the plug on the date right there.
No fuss, no muss. No searching for your underwear 4 hours later while the cab waits outside to take you home where you'll learn that there is no shower long or hot enough to fully wash off the stench of regret and Fantasy by Britney Spears.
I'll pause while you call me a "GENIUS!"
*brushes off shoulder*
Finished?
Cool.
As is also the Peter way, I took it a step further. I began thinking about what I would put on my own test.
And these are a few examples of what I came up with. There may or may not be a trick question or two.
**********
- Boston's "Amanda" or The Stones' "Angie?"
- Which "Sex & The City" character are you most like?
- Where do butterflies go in the rain?
- You've found yourself on the edge of a river bank with a case of beer, a lemur and Lance Bass and you can only carry one thing across at a time. Would you: a) Take the lemur first? b) Take the beer first? c) Take Lance Bass first? d) Scream, cry and blame me for you having to make this decision, before bursting into uncontrollable laughter and asking me what I see in you?
- How often do you use the word "retarded" on any given day?
- Arrested Development or Family Guy?
- Giver or receiver?
- liberal or conservative?
- If you could punch one person in the dark, and never get caught, who would it be?
- TV in the bedroom, an issue?
- '67 Mustang or '67 Corvette?
- toilet paper feeds from the top or the bottom of the roll?
- Would you be upset if my hand ended up on your ass at some point tonight? (KIDDING. I'm kidding. It would be both hands.)
**********
While we are on the topic...
What would be one question that you would absolutely have on your list?
He yawned and stretched. His left ear popped. Finally. He exhaled loudly. Well, it seemed loud to him. Now.
He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a package of cigarettes.
An unopened package of cigarettes.
It had been 6 months and 4 days since he had quit smoking.
He rolled the package around in his hand.
He still carried it. Everywhere. It was something of a security blanket, he supposed.
He tapped it with his finger for a bit before putting it back into his pocket.
He knew that it would be a big deal for him to remove the plastic wrapping. A symbol.
Of failure? Of inevitability? Something.
Probably not the text book way to quit smoking, but it worked for him.
He did things his own way.
He didn't have to, but he picked up the old picture from his passenger side seat. He absolutely wouldn't need it to recognize her.
But, that was probably not why he was looking at it. Again. He stared. Again.
He was fascinated by her smile. Still. It wasn't put on. It wasn't forced. It was... happiness?
He was amazed by how she looked at the camera, yet seemed oddly unaware of it. Or just indifferent. It couldn't affect her.
He didn't know any of the other people in the picture, but he was sure that they existed in orbit around her, and not vice versa.
He put the picture back down on the seat. Next to a shiny black leather case.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to Eddie Vedder singing about "a star in somebody else's sky."
"But, why?" indeed.
The steering wheel was attached to the rest of his Toyota Tundra 4x4. Which, according to many, was a strange choice for someone who drove exclusively in the city. He didn't care.
Again, another example of him doing things his own way.
And doing things his own way led him to where he was sitting today. Right now. At that moment.
Despite it only being the 21st of August, there was a slight chill in the air. It felt and smelled a bit like fall. All the more jarring considering the oppressively hot summer they had just endured.
It all had a first day of school vibe to him. He imagined/remembered wearing brand new white sneakers -- that would be lucky to remain white until lunch time. Suddenly, inexplicably, and without invitation, twenty-five year old memories of his childhood began to flood in. He quickly pushed them out of his mind, having no time to wade through the Rorschachian mess of images and unavoidably intertwined emotions.
He was here for a reason.
He noticed two men shooting the shit down the block. One had a dog on a leash. Perhaps a chocolate lab puppy. Unnoticed by his owner, the little dog gnawed on his leash. As if trying to make one heroic break for freedom from a future lived under the thumb of this stocky, accountant-looking motherfucker with the bad combover.
He could relate. He rooted for the dog.
And then he saw her.
He definitely didn't need the picture to pick her out.
He felt his breath catch in his throat a little.
She was leaving her house and already on her cellphone. He was sure that she was the recipient of the call. And he wasn't surprised.
Her hair was a little shorter, he thought -- or just tucked a bit into her coat. And it was what he had always imagined chestnut brown to look like, but he could be completely off.
She was wearing glasses. They worked.
They really worked.
She was dressed cutely, but not really showy. She looked like the cover of a JCrew fall catalogue. She looked so damn good, he thought. It was almost as though she was doing the clothes a favour by wearing them.
Instinctively he glanced in the mirror and ran his hand through his hair. Presumably to achieve just the proper amount of rumpled-looking.
After a couple of failed attempts to extricate himself from his seatbelt, he got out of his truck and walked towards her. She was going in the opposite direction. He sped up a little to catch her. His pulse was racing. When he got close...
"Excuse me?" He said, never more aware of his voice.
She turned around.
He continued, "Dana... Are you Dana Patterson?"
"Yup. That's me," she said, her mouth, eyes and voice all working in concert to create the perfect smile.
He reached inside his pocket and tapped on his package of cigarettes.
I've mentioned numerous times how the universe messes with me, right?
Well, it is at it again.
I am going to talk about sports for a minute. Don't stress. It'll be over quickly and it won't hurt a bit. Whoa. Shades of prom night.
And I'll do my best to give you a chuckle.
Again like prom-- Nevermind.
Plus, I'll throw in a little Monkey story at the end. (No skipping ahead!)
Last year I got involved with a pretty serious fantasy basketball league with some dudes. We mostly keep the same players year to year. We have a (VERY COMPLICATED) salary cap. We try to mirror the NBA as much as possible. Trades. Free agency. Everything except the firing of guns outside of Indianapolis strip joints.
And I, for one, refuse to rule that out completely.
These are hardcore basketball fans. And hardcore stats junkies. The group includes, math majors, a basketball journalist, a stats professor (!!!) and... me.
But, that's cool. I figured that my street smarts, sports knowledge, gumption, charm and manly touch would allow me to be competitive.
Fiiiiiiiine. The charm and manly touch might not help (I hope), but I just like to keep putting it out there.
In our initial draft, I picked young guys. Dudes I expected to become stars. I picked some guys that I knew would stay in Europe for a year or two. I picked one fella because saying his name made me feel like a Mexican wrestling commentator. "Juan Carlos Navarrooooooooooo!!"
I had a plan. I saved salary cap space for the future. I had the second overall pick, and despite much scoffing from EVERYONE, took a young point guard named Chris Paul. I took him over Kobe, Dwayne Wade, Kevin Garnett, etc.
And, in our inaugural season... every single one of my players got injured and my team was brutal. The universe also likes to badly injure players that I select in fantasy drafts.
I ended up with the second worst record in the league, but won the first overall pick in the lottery. Yes, we have a draft lottery.
Everyone expected me to draft Greg Oden. "Best center in years..." "Will redefine the position..."
Does Peter listen?
Nope.
Does Peter ever listen to advice?
Uhm... rarely.
Should Peter stop asking and answering his own questions and get on with this post?
Most definitely.
I had worries about Oden's health. He had some weird hip/leg/back thing on the go. And he looked like he was 47 years old. So, I took Kevin Durant.
And now Durant is tearing up the league. And Greg Oden had (a SERIOUS) knee surgery before the season and is out for the year.
And Chris Paul? Dude, seems like a hall of fame lock in his third season.
And my crappy team, that people laughed at last season...
#1 overall, baby!
I was going to write this post the other day.
It was going to be all braggalicious. (Even worse than this one!)
And then the universe, sensing my plans, injured my young starting center, and break-out star, Andrew Bynum.
He's going to be out for two months.
Coincidence? I think not.
I wasn't shocked. At all.
It was my own fault.
Now, I am not writing this post to try to anger the universe. It showed me who is boss.
I just thought I'd do this little post to let the universe know that I am POSITIVE that the Patriots will win today. And that the universe can't stop them.
And also that I would hate it if Randy Moss tore his ACL, MCL and broke a nail today.
**********
Since you were all so patient...
So, The Monkey's Mommy and aunt arranged for a manicure and pedicure lady to come in to the Monkey house to give, well, manicures and pedicures.
There was a bunch of people getting them done.
The Monkey went last.
She told everyone that she wanted a pedicure, and she wanted "polish on my finger nails too."
She said that the next day she had to go visiting people to show off her fingers and toes.
Then she sat in the chair, leaned back, looked at the woman and said...
I think that I'm going to start dating Mandy Moore.
Now, don't for a minute think that this is a decision that I arrived at easily. You see, Mandy, as it turns out, is a couple of years younger than I realized.
It gave me pause. It did.
But, at the end of the day, or any time really, it just isn't fair for me to deny her the chance to date me just because of when she was born.
I can't be that guy.
I can't.
I won't.
Nobody knows better than I, that love has it's ups and downs. Well, actually, I am sure that lots of people know better than I do. Possibly most people. Either way...
Love has its ups and downs. It has its sideways drunken stumbles. It has its confused turns. It has its hesitant back steps. It has its "I stubbed my damn toe because some jerkass moved that chair" one foot hops. I think you get the idea.
So, I'm going to date Mandy Moore. But, until I get to know her better, I am not sure how seriously I'll date her, you know?
Plus, I'll need The ACN and The Monkey to check her out first.
If The ACN is willing to give her cheek kissies, I'll know she's OK.
The Monkey will probably want a little extra time. She'll want to sing songs with Mandy. They'll likely have conversations like this one:
The Monkey:I'll never smoke weed with Willie again.
Mandy: Uhm... what are you singing?
The Monkey: It is my Daddy's cellphone ring tone.
Mandy: Oh my...
The Monkey:My party's all over before it begins. You can pour me some Old Whiskey River my friend. But I'll never smoke weed with Willie again.
[Yes. This conversation did actually happen, with me playing the Mandy Moore role.]
So, if both little chicks agree, Mandy is in.
I'm pretty excited about this.
Now, I haven't seen all of Mandy's movies. But, I did love SAVED. And the one where she is the president's daughter and running around someplace with a young secret service agent dude was kind of cute. (It was!) And it shouldn't be confused with the movie where Katie Holmes is the president's daughter and running around someplace... with a young secret service agent dude.
And I don't really know Mandy's music. (Though I like this cover.) I'll make sure to bone up on her other songs.
Yes, I said "bone up." Grow up.
SO immature.
"Bone up."
Tee hee.
Because I am the least shallow guy ever (in this room... right now... typing) this shouldn't matter to me, but...
Girl is 5'10".
5'10"!!!!
I haven't really figured out how to meet Mandy Moore yet. So, if she is in your book club, or is your Facebook friend, help a dude out?
I just need an intro.
I figure all I need is about 20-25 minutes of talking to her and I am golden.
I'd ask you to wish me luck, but... Come on.
If she and I got trapped in an elevator for a couple hours, we'd come out engaged.
"Do you ever read writing and wish that it was about you? That you caused the epic fucking swell of emotions? That you were the only one capable of the rescue?
Do you ever read writing and feel it so intensely? Like every word is an angry and desperate misfiring neuron? Like every line break is a welcomed necessary reprieve?
Do you ever read writing that you just don't want to end? With sentences spilling like sand through your fingers? With images appearing and then dissipating like sea smoke as temperatures inch upwards?
Do you ever read writing and realize that it is yours? And wonder if you can ever achieve it again? And wonder..."
Then she put down her pen, put her journal in her night table and tried, once more, to get some sleep.
Ladies, sometimes I am reading your blog posts about your boyfriends, or about dates you went on, and thinking, "Holy sweet crap. I'm glad that I'm not that guy." Not because you aren't collectively lovely.
It's just that I'm a pretty private dude.
And some of you chicks talk about some shit.
True story.
I don't think that I could date a female blogger who writes (literal) posts about her relationships.
I don't need a girlfriend writing:
"Dear blog, It is 9 am on a Saturday and Peter is on the couch, in his boxers, eating cereal, watching English soccer and woohoo-ing whenever Liverpool scores. I'm going to beat him."
Or
"Dear blog, Peter once again floated the idea of buying a new one when I asked him to scrub the toilet. I'm going to beat him."
Or
"Dear blog, Motherfucker brings that French maid uniform into the bedroom again and I am going to cut him. He just doesn't look good in it!"
It would be totally different if I wasn't a blogger and didn't "know" so many of you people. I just don't want you nosy bastards knowing my business.
No offense.
If I wasn't a blogger and a girlfriend wanted to tell me about a post she wrote about me, I'd probably react like this...
"I don't give a shit. Now get in that kitchen and make me a GODDAMN sammich!!!"
Wait. That doesn't really sound like me at all. What about this one...
"That's super. You are so cute when you get excited about your little stories. Now why don't you go to the mall and buy yourself something pretty while I watch "The Wire?" *slap on the ass* Go on. Git!"
Hmm. That's not me either. (IS NOT!)
Maybe...
"I love you, sweetie. I really do. But, I'll love you just *that* much more, if you can tell me about how you shared our dirty laundry, with everyone on the planet with internet access, at half time. Cool? Cool."
Thaaaat's the right ballpark.
Also, what if you are dating a blogger and things end badly? As delightful as I am, it has happened in a relationship or two of mine. (No, really!) Granted it was always their fault, but whatever.
"No, Peter, I am not really interested in a polygamous lifestyle."
I don't need a jilted ex writing a "So, we broke up, now let me tell you about Peter's Rainbow Brite tattoo on his ass and his strange Oprah fetish" post.
Hypothetically speaking.
Maybe if I had nude photos to bust out for some Mutually Assured Destruction action. I dunno.
So, yeah, I could probably never date a female blogger that talks about her personal life.
Do you ever feel like the whole thing has been co-opted into some distasteful competition for comments and higher traffic numbers?
Like blogrolling is done for status as opposed to fandom or true friendship?
Like some bloggers would put out for a higher technorati rating?
Like the whole 'verse is about to implode due to it's own (undeserved) self-satisfaction?
Like the blog world reeks of the exact wrong way to try to bolster self-esteem?
Like people care too much, while not caring nearly enough?
Like it isn't what it once was?
(Or maybe it's just that you're not?)
Like even the occasional brilliants post, or amazing acts, are being lost in the cacophony of "I NEVER have sex on the first date, but I was drunk"ness?
Do you ever feel like nobody fucking writes anymore?
I mean really writes.
Or at least makes an effort.
Do you ever feel like the post you are about to publish is going to burn bridges and lose you some traffic?
This photo was taken, like, two minutes after The Monkey and I finished brawling.
It all began when she took the remote control out of my hand.
No. SERIOUSLY.
Peter: Gimme that!
Monkey: I want to see what's on.
Peter: I am watching football.
Monkey: I just want to check.
Peter: I don't care if you find a show starring you. You're not watching it. Give me the remote.
Monkey: No!
I decided that I was taking the remote back. And, I'm not gonna lie to you, it took more effort than it should have. She's a scrappy little shit.
But, I wrestled it away from her, and got back into a comfy seat.
I should have known that wouldn't have been the end of it.
I should have known.
She flew across the couch and was grabbing for the remote. I held it away and told her to get lost.
Then she realized that bugging me was more fun than the remote itself. So she started hitting me. Pinching me.
I threatened to kick her in the ass.
"Ooooooooh, Peter. I am sooooo scaaaaaared."
At one point I was holding her two wrists in my hand.
She growled, "Let... me... GO."
I said, "Truce?"
"Let.. me.. GO!!!"
I let her go and went back to my comfy seat.
The ACN howled with laughter, wearing her Tinker Bell jammies, and sitting in Chairy nearby.
And then The Monkey remembered that I am not big on people invading my personal space. So, she skooched up right against me.
"Hiii Peter. I looooooooooooooooove you." And tried to kiss my cheek.
"Get off me, you little loon" I replied as I moved her down the couch away from me.
I tried to draw a "border" down the centre of the couch. She just looked at me. The ACN giggled some more.
I went back to my side. And she jumped up against me again.
I tossed her back down the couch.
I should mention that The Monkey has an uncle too. He is my size, but meaner than me. And they actually fight. He hits her back. She LOVES it. But, it means that she is not at all intimidated by me.
I picked her up and put her back on her side of the couch. Seconds later, she was back.
Finally I gave up.
She put her legs over my legs, put her head on my shoulder and giggled.
I got to watch the end of the Packers game though.
Two minutes after this picture was taken, The ACN joined us on the couch. Her head on The Monkey's Shoulder. The Monkey's head on mine. All three of us sat on the same side of the border!!
My blog went down Friday morning. (!!!!!) So, I had to contact my web host. After 25 minutes on hold (grrring at sitar music), I began checking the website and finally got to "talk" to a "live" operator online. I copied our chat and will now share it with you.
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We are currently experiencing an issue with one of our shared storage devices, this may result in you having problems accessing your website or e-mail. We apologize for this unplanned outage, Our team is currently working to resolve the issue, we will update this message with new information as it becomes available.
You are now chatting with 'Nancy Smith' Peter DeWolf: hi nancy Peter DeWolf: was checking if there were any updates Nancy Smith: Hi Peter. My name is Nancy, how are you today? Peter DeWolf: i'm a little stressed, nancy Nancy Smith: How can I help you today? Peter DeWolf: but, i am listening to regina spektor, so i am maintaining Peter DeWolf: was wondering if there was any news on when my site might be back up Nancy Smith: I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you. Nancy Smith: Currently we are experiencing the issue with our internal tools. Nancy Smith: Please try to contact us after 1 hour. Peter DeWolf: it's not me, nancy. i have a blog. my readers depend on me. i am like a god to those people Peter DeWolf: ok, nancy. Nancy Smith: Thank you for chatting with us. Please feel free to contact us at any time. We are available 24x7. Peter DeWolf: Rock on.
Here at PeterDeWolf.com I like to make you laugh. I like to make you think. I like to entertain. I like to show that despite being a grown-ass man, I am a bit girly at times, apparently.
And I like to educate.
I did a lot of research before starting this post.
A LOT.
I take these things very seriously.
There's a little known annual tradition. And I hope that by explaining it's origins to you, you'll be more likely to take part in it next year, and for many years to come.
It began back when buffaloes roamed the plains. Or maybe it was bison. Probably both. And possibly some wild horses.
[Have you ever wondered where that "wild horses couldn't drag me" saying comes from? I mean, how do they think they are going to get all these horses pulling in the same direction at the same time? THEY ARE WILD.]
A little known tribe of Native Americans was living and raising their children in Missoura.
Or, what we now call...
Kansas.
Like many other tribes, they had numerous nature-based gods.
They also warred with other tribes. Sometimes over petty reasons. For example, there was one bloody battle that began when a young man causally remarked, "That chick puts the "ass" in Assiniboine."
It really was quite lovely. Like a ripe peach. I've seen paintings.
Every autumn, they had a feast and all-night celebration to pay tribute to the god of the forest -- who they called... "Gordon."
It started by finding the most attractive of all the tribe virgins.
At first they'd normally spot, and rule out, non-virgins by their overly tight deerskin outifts and the fact that they were smoking by the poop tree and wearing too much eagle-droppings mascara.
But, after a few class-action discrimination lawsuits, they decided that they should have a more scientific standard.
They began to use a young single warrior. He would have the sex with the woman. He was trained to feel if they were a virgin or not. If they felt a certain way, then they were a virgin. If they didn't, then they weren't. There wasn't a high turnover rate for his job.
In either event, things would get a little awkward on the buffalo hunt afterward. She'd keep waiting for him to send her a smoke signal. He'd tell her he'd been busy planning a new face paint design for battle. "The white man is sending us some blankets. The chief wants me to go pick them up. I'm just trying to get ahead, you know. Focus on my career."
Once a virgin was found, she was brought to the edge of the forest. She was given a parchment with a message to Gordon on it.
Since they had no written language of their own -- and only knew English, French and a smattering of German, for some reason -- their written communication was based on crude drawings.
On her parchment were illustrations of the following...
"Show yourself! Stop hiding in the woods and listening to us tell our stories about getting hopped up on tea made from strange roots and making out with any fur trader with kind eyes."
And, of course, this annual tradition is what we now call...
(Yes, it was yesterday. I just don't like following rules.)
So, hey, delurk!
But, I know it is awkward to comment without something to say. So....
I want to know two things:
1) What is the most embarrassing song on your current playlist? (Me -- Wham's "Careless Whisper.")
2) What article of clothing do you love, but never want anyone to see you wearing in public? (Me -- a purplish Club Monaco sweatshirt that is over a decade old. The collar and cuffs are full of holes and barely hanging on, and the tensile strength of the shirt itself is only slightly greater than that of a wet Kleenex.)
Today, dumplings, I am going to tell you three facts about me.
And here they are:
1) Despite what the picture in the header (look up) seems to indicate, I totally have an upper lip. And, while I'm no lipologist, I think it is a fairly standard upper lip. You can't see it, but I am making faces now to prove it is there.
*Pouty face*
*Kissy face*
*Elvis face*
2) You are never going to receive a text from me in text speak. I just can't do it. If I want to know how you are doing, I am going to type out "How are you?" I even use commas. Of course, I don't mind if you do it. I probably won't even notice. I am not sure what my deal is with it. It's not like I feel too mature to do it -- says the guy currently listening to Dashboard Confessional's MTV Unplugged album. I have strange rules.
3) The universe likes to mess with me when it comes to receiving gifts. No matter who is giving them, or what the occasion, usually at least one gift just doesn't work out -- through no fault of the gifter. From this Christmas alone...
a) Despite their willingness to ship Lids.com gift cards to Canada, you can't actually order hats with them to be delivered to Canada. Gah? I'm no Alex P. Keaton, but that seems like an odd business practice to me. Now I am going to have to charm a dirty American friend or family member into acting as a baseball cap mule.
b) I received three shirts that don't fit.
My sister: You don't look like an XXL.
Peter stretches arms forward and sleeves end up halfway up his forearms.
My sister: Hmm. Oh well.
(They'll just be swapped. No biggie.)
c) Remember how I was looking for "Her" for Christmas? Well, my family didn't find her. I'm not sure how hard they really looked, but whatever. Instead, they went out to get the iPod Nano dealie. However, after doing some research they settled on this little dude instead. And I actually was more pleased with it than I would have been with the iPod. I was charging it up on Christmas Day when it konked out. Seemed odd, but I left it charging. The next day I went to check it and it was completely dead. Nothing. Sometimes consumer electronics are duds out of the box. It happens.
I mentioned it to my sister. My mother jumped in and demanded it back. The next day she forced my father to drive her to a store an hour and a half away -- in a snow storm -- to swap it for a new one. That night I plugged it in.
The next day it was also dead. I fielded many questions about whether I was doing it right -- "Uhm... I think I can manage to plug it into a USB port."
I got two duds in a row, from two different stores. What are the odds?
[My mother again reclaimed the broken machine. And when the dust settled this time, this gorgeous beast ended up in my greedy little hands. I love it. I've already put a bunch of music, a David Sedaris audio book, an episode of Oz and a bunch of pics of the ACN on it.]
So, yeah, presents often don't work out for me. I'd be afraid if a girlfriend gave me a gift certificate for free hugs. The next day I'd wake up and she'd have lost her arms in a trasher accident. Where am I meeting girls that run thrashers, you wonder. Don't ask me about my business, nosy.
Enough about me. (As if that is even possible. Sheesh.) Tell us one thing about you. And it has to be about YOU. Don't try to pull any "Despite not having hips or legs, whales have both hip bones and leg bones"* business. And it can't be something you yoinked from your "100 Things..." post. Tell us the first thing that pops into your head.
My creative energies are being focused elsewhere AND I am guest posting for Molly on Thursday and want to come up with something fun for her, so I am half-assing it here again today.
I got a new journally type deal for Xmas, and decided to jot something down last night after watching the awesomeness that is "The Wire."
This is it, in all of it's unedited glory. (Also, I have no idea what the title means either.)
(a) muse / (be) muse
There have been others before. Some have inspired. Few. Very few. The rest were trusses on a bridge to nowhere.
Maybe if you knew I was watching, It might diminish your power in some way. Though probably not. Fuck you, Heisenberg.
Like Irving Layton, offering "a crown made from the choicest words," A muse must be wooed continuously. Unabashedly. Almost feverishly.
Maybe if you knew I was watching, You'd want to abdicate your pedestal. I certainly hope not. Fuck you, crippling self-doubt.
A primal proving of being deserving. Even when you believe know that you aren't. Hoping that aspiring to it, Will eventually get you there.
Maybe if you knew I was watching... Well, perhaps you do.
Not many of you know that I am a world-renown lyricist.
True story.
A few of the things I've written include:
Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4." O-Town's "Liquid Dreams." The Armenian national anthem. (Mer Hayrenik like a mother fucker!)
I haven't written any songs in a while. But, that is about the change.
Today.
The Britney Spears story... I had to say something. And I think I say things best with my lyrics, you know? So, I woke up early this morning and wrote this. I hope it means as much to you to read it as it did for me to write it.
(Please note: The spoken sections are italicized.)
Oh Britney
You know I love you, Britney. Our time together was magic. But, girl... what happened?
Baby, where did it all go wrong. Once you had my heart. And now I'm writing a song, About how you tore it all apart.
I knew that things were bad, When I saw you in your car. Camera flashes illuminating, The jagged c-section scar.
C-section scaaaaar across my heart.
And the way you dress, girl. You used to have a knack. Now it's like you're sticking ten pounds of shit, Into a five pound sack.
And not a pretty sack. Noooooo not a pretty sack.
You once made me laugh, calling people from Maine "exotic." Look at you now, Bitch, what was up with "Chaotic?"
Shaky cameraaaaaaaaaas.
If we got back together, I know your heart would sing. I miss looking into my boxers, And seeing an orange Cheetohs ring.
[Guitar solo.]
I offered you my ring. I offered you it all. You replied with, "Rhubarb, Rhubarb, purple lampshade, y'all." And I didn't understand. That shit was indecipherable.
Indecipherable with loooove.
Ohhhhh Britney.
Where the fuck you get those wigs at?
Ohhhhh Britney.
I was the one that knocked up your sister.
Ohhhhh Britney.
I only dated you because Mandy Moore wouldn't put out.
Ohhhhh Britney.
I send you... my love.
- Copyright 2008 El Lobo Grande Musical Publishing
Before I get to your questions, I have a cute ACN story.
When I called The ACN last night, her Mommy told me all about how excited The ACN got yesterday to select, and help pack up, a bunch of her toys to give to the Salvation Army. She loved the idea of giving toys to little boys and girls who didn't have many toys.
Her Daddy went to drop the stuff off and ran into a buddy of his. His buddy has three kids, and they just lost everything in a house fire. The Daddy went home and told the Mommy and the ACN about this. They asked the ACN and she wanted to do more. She got SO excited to give more stuff, including a bunch of gift cards she got for Xmas.
She was still excited last night when I was asking her about it.
OK. The questions...
123valerie asked, "If you had to cut off either both of your arms OR your penis, which would you do?"
Well, that one is actually quite simple to answer. Since I am pretty confident that I could still operate my remote control with my penis, I would pick my arms. Plus, they grow back, right? Right?
Princess of the Universe wants to know if she can have Taye Diggs.
Uhm, sure. Fill your boots.
Mindy went all loco with questions...
1) I've lost my mojo too. Maybe it's the weather?
These questions are supposed to be about me.
2) I tried to do this Q&A thing too, and everyone was like "yeah, we'll totally ask you questions", but I have gotten zero questions. WTF?!
Seriously. Don't you have your own damn blog?
3) Would you rather eat a pound of raw bacon or drink a cup of your own urine, and why?
Are you kidding me? I'd rather eat a pound of raw bacon than drink tomato juice. Raw bacon looks awesome. Smells all mapley. And you get that satisfying feeling of peeling off one strip at a time. This one is no contest.
Michelle was wondering, "if you could go back in time what year would you go back to, why, and what would you do?"
The year: 1960. What I would do: Angie Dickinson.
You would not believe how much time I spent debating between that reply and "1964. Bewitched's Elizabeth Montgomery." Seriously. Way too long.
Katie asked, "If a movie was made about your life, who would you want to play you? Why?"
Good one! I would have to say Vince Vaughan. Same height. Sadly, similar foreheads. (Though his is bigger!) And I think he could capture the essence of my innate sense of whimsy, combined with a touch of crankiness and impatience.
Airam wanted to know, "When are you going to do another youtube video?"
I am actually thinking about doing another one soon. Mostly because blogging is boring the hell out of me lately. The videos are usually spur of the moment decisions and based, at least a little, on being too lazy to type that day.
The last time I did one, some creepy chick e-mailed me to ask me to do my next one shirtless. That pretty much turned me off the entire process. I could barely make the video and send it to her.
I'm kidding.
As far as you know.
tiff sneakily tried to out me with, "So if romancing Taye Diggs isn't up your alley, what male actor wouldn't you mind romancing? In a totally hetero-way of course?"
It is a little disconcerting that I came up with this answer so quickly. Josh Duhamel. That dude is pretty.
Mel got greedy and asked two questions:
1) So which product can you not live without?
DVR. Seriously. How did we watch TV before them? We were practically Amish.
2) If you didn't live in Canada, where in the United States would you live and why?
OK. This is the question that I gave the most thought too.
I started with a large list of American cities. I looked at average temperatures and precipitation. I looked at the number of disasters (natural and otherwise) over the past century. I looked at employment stats. I looked at housing costs. I looked at the number of professional and major college sports teams I could watch live in the area. I made lists and charts and graphs.
And then I said, "Fuck it. Charleston, South Carolina."
Hot women with amaaaaaazing accents.
jenbun1 wants to know, "If you had to pick a song as a "theme song" for your life, what would it be?"
I think about this quite often. No, really. And even though it represents a level of badassnicity that exists only in my head...
lateformyfuneral wonders, "If you could take credit for someone else's blog, which one and why?"
Ooooh. Intriguing. But, it is more about individual posts with me.
Clink sometimes will write a post that makes me say, "YES! Exactly!" Out loud. And then I'll e-mail her with "YES! Exactly!" I'm creative like that.
It is awesome when Molly writes with such love about her family. You feel it.
Meg makes me laugh out loud two or three times per post. I don't laugh out loud often. (And following her blog by reading Mindy and Jamelah is sure to improve your mood.)
Hellafied can take a "simple" emotion and write about it in a way that gives it such depth and life that you wonder if you've ever felt it that strongly.
sidewaysrain writes posts about visiting various places on the globe that somehow make you feel like you are both part of the scene, as well as sitting back and taking it in. It's a gift.
I could go on and on about how all of you write certain types of posts that affect me in some way. But, I am very, very lazy. And this post is getting long. Don't be offended if I didn't mention you!
Crap. I feel guilty now.
brazilian girls asked a whole mess of questions:
1) if were to sleep with one famous celebrity lesbian, who would it be?
Hmmm. I can't really think of any hot celeb lesbians. If I tell you that Eva Mendes is a lesbian, will you believe me? Because I'd throw you all down a flight of stairs just to get to hold her hand.
2) if you were to magically become a Simpsons character for a day, which one would it be?
Disco Stu. ALWAYS Disco Stu.
3) would you ever pierce your nipples?
Definitely not. Not a fan. On anyone. Ever. Plus, my ears (back in tha day) were enough.
4) favourite politician. must pick one. can be anyone in world.
Ever? Pierre Trudeau.
Fictional? Jed Bartlett.
Living? Probably Obama.
5) what did you want to be when you grew up, when you were a kid? have you ever thought about heaving everything now, for that? or are you doing it?
I wanted to be a writer when I was a kid. If it had been "writer of a half-assed blog," I'd be living the dream right now!
6) favourite Breakfast Club character and why.
Ferris Bueller.
tia the explorer is wondering "is there really a town of avonlea?"
Steph asking about sex? I am shocked. SHOCKED! "What is your number 1 sexual turn off?"
A penis.
mr. ska also had a similar wondering, "What singular turn-off about future wife do you consider "fixable", and why?
I think it would be cheering for the wrong sports teams. (Such as the New England Patriots or NewYork Knicks.) It would be very disturbing at first. It really would. But, I think I could bring her over to the side of good. Whispering "The Colts are goooood!" in her ear while she sleeps. Or dropping hints about how "Jimmy Choo is a big Toronto Raptors fan."
On the other hand, she could just put on a Patriots apron and I'd be all types of screwed. And there you have it. You know so much more about me now. In some countries, we'd be married. Thank crap we don't live in those countries, eh?
You feel sort of broken. With leftover pieces that don't seem to fit back together. No matter how hard you try. And you try hard. We all feel like that sometimes. You feel like you are unworthy of love. Like it is happening for everyone else. Why not you? We all feel like that sometimes. You are amazing in ways that you are not yet aware of. Someday you'll see. What we all see. The blinders will come off. You deserve love. You'll get it. You deserve goodness. You'll get it. You deserve respect. And I respect you a lot. Though not nearly enough to keep my hands off of your butt. I mean... Come on.
posted by Peter at 9:47 AM
