Hello Sluggo:

Kei: “Daddy, how did you put me in Mommy’s belly?”

Me: “Uh, I just rared back and put you in there.”

Kei: “What did you use?”

Sharon: “Ahhhhhhahahah…”

Kei: “What did you use, Daddy?”

Me: “Well, I um…”

Sharon: “Uh, he used his, uhhh, his magic!”

Me: “Yeah, I used my Daddy Magic!”

Kei: “Magic?”

(I have to mention here that “magic,” as it is called in our house, is whipped cream, specifically from a can, like Redi Whip. That was not the magic we were referring to.)

Sharon (laughing hysterically at this point): Hahahaha yeah, “Daddy Magic!” Hahahaha!

Kei: “Did you use your magic wand? Like my magic wand??”

Me: “Well, kind of, but, no, not really like yours…”

Kei: “Where is it? Where do you keep it?”

Me (Worried about painting myself into a corner): “I put it away, honey… I put it away…”

Sharon: “Hohohooooheeehaaaa…!!”

She’s three-and-a-half years old. I ain’t having that talk yet.

To make a very long story short, I know a guy who has recently become homeless. He has a group of friends who have been doing all they can to help him, but because of many personal issues, it is now on his shoulders to pull himself up, and he has entered a program to facilitate this.

That being said, we exchange text messages from time to time which can range from hilarious to downright scary. Here are a few choice examples, presented without explanation as I have received them. Make of them what you will. References to his program and location have been changed to protect his identity.

I am now being inducted into *** on Drs orders

Good squalor Fartjeans

Apd crack killah wassup

I stank erected

I got a rash & u dont want any

Celeb lookalikes @ *** : tom hanks. Stalin. Avery Schreiber. Chas Bronson. Wm Finley. Sam Jackson. Steven Speilberg. J Leguizamo

Bruce willis. The meatball from aqua teen hunger kids with a body. Andre the giant. Aiden brophy. De niro as scarface. Vannessa williams?

Tom baker. Johnny legend. David carradine.

John turturro. Paul mooney. Jimmy dean. Lou gosset jr. Al sharpton. Art carney. Bobby orlando.

Gary sinese. Herbert lom. Jay from Clerks.

Conan obrien. Levar burton.

G-zuz!

Best ho-made tshirt of the morning: ‘i dont bite just!!! hungry’.

*** is wireless. If-when i get an indoor locker i need my laptop here.

Yeah there’s a bro here who blames me 4 ALL his problems. More on that later.

EMS is here - the guy 2 bunks down is dying. Full blown HIV

Good news- the guy that appeared to have died last night made it to the hospital on time & is doing better

I’m at the clinic - constant interruptions but @ least i’m being seen. Hour behind as usual. Man the shit i have seen lately…

I have been shuffled around so much i’m not certain which msgs made it 2 u

Saw a guy shit on ***** street in the bright sunny traffic. A big dark fat turd in 2 chunks.

I have made a couple friends- there really are some decent struggling ppl there.

I have met some incredibly cool black folks & some real definitive moronic shit-ass niggers. Being homeless illuminates pain like LSD

I’m in the *** prog & that is going 2 save my ass provided i work hard @ it, like 2day.

4.75 hours wait for 6 minutes of doctor. These poor bastids are clearly not in it for the money

Crazy, truely scary shit.

Aside from the requisite 24-7 hustle there are a few noteworthy to be avoided @ all costs. I shall elaborate in person.

Bingo. The money some of these fools waste on crack, weed & cigs could house & feed them independently

Possibly more later…

This idea was put forth back in August by Andrew Wheeler, author of Eat Britain. I might be a little late on the draw, but I think I’m up to the challenge. Let’s see…

The instructions:

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

(PS: The list has generated a lot of questions, so Andrew created an FAQ for it over here!)

Okay, so my score is 69/100. Not bad, but I would have done even better had he included a few other oddball things in the mix, like Whale, Natto, Shirako (fish milt, or seminal fluid sacs—yeah, fish jizz, raw even), pig’s ear, tequila con gusano, steamed pork blood, chicken feet, fish’s eyes, thousand-year-old egg and maybe a half dozen other things I’ve consumed before.

And after all that, the only thing I crossed off the list was “a fat cigar.” Sorry, tobacco products just gross me out.

The remaining 31 items on the list better be pretty damned good, or I’m gonna feel kinda ripped off by the time it’s all said and done.

I received a text from my wife yesterday that signaled the passing of a great man.

“Have you read the news that Dolemite died?”

I hadn’t. Jumping over to Dolemite.com, I read the mounting news reports of his death and remembered the couple of times I met him. Onstage, he was Dolemite, Shine, Petey Wheatstraw the Devil’s Son-in-Law and more, all rolled up in one big nasty package, but offstage, he was kind, thoughful, even going-out-of-his-way courteous to a crowd of people he didn’t know as they lined up for autographs and souvenir photos.

The first time I saw him perform in 1993 at the See You Later Lounge over on Montopolis Drive, he seemed to just be starting his “revival” after languishing in obscurity during most of the previous decade. A small crowd of Emo’s regulars (all white, of course) had come to the show, and RRM took enormous pleasure including a bit of friendly harrassment in his act that night, at one point asking if anyone would “eat a chitlin cleaned by this white bitch over here” (my future sister-in-law, Mary Ann) and even getting me up before the crowd to exclaim, “This big motherfucker look just like Pee Wee Herman, just fatter.You jack off alot don’t you, man?” And what could I say but, “Yes, Mr. Dolemite, yes I do!” For my good sportsmanship, I was rewarded with a copy of a porn movie entitled “Willy Jackoff’s Chocolate and Cream Factory: Black Thunder.” The crowd loved it. As I left the stage with my prize, he sent me off with “Here, take this… It’s horrible.”

In order to pay his way back to LA, he was selling posters and other Dolemite merch, plus some dubious non-RRM junk such as framed prints of huge stacks of cash and cheap VHS porn tapes and other junk, most of which he had nothing to do with. Upon asking him to sign the movie I had proudly won, he replied, “Man, I ain’t in that movie, I can’t sign my name to it.” He did, however, finally signing the box, “To John, You Pee Wee Herman Motherfucker.”

The second time I saw him was in 1997 at Catfish Station on Sixth Street. By then he was enjoying a rebounding career that brought high praise from the movers and shakers of the comedy and hip hop worlds. His act, as well as his gracious personality, was basically the same though, but this time I noticed his advanced age was surely catching up with him. I picked up a “Dolemite for President” t-shirt and some other memorabilia, and as he was signing the merch and chatting with me, he seemed to be looking right through me—he was probably already suffering vision problems from the diabetes that had plagued him for so long. He remembered the Pee Wee Herman comparison from years earlier, and thanked me “for being such a good sport up there.”

The lasting impression left on me by RRM, besides the fact that he was a funny motherfucker, was that he was the antithesis of the “take the money and run” stereotype of his contemporaries. If anyone deserved attention and respect for all that he pioneered in the entertainment world, it was him.

I was in Philadelphia recently for the School of Rock Festival which DEVO headlined on Saturday night. Through my devious Godfather-esque connections with the Austin chapter of The Paul Green School of Rock, I was able to secure a backstage pass for DEVO’s set on Saturday night, and got some great photos of their performance. After the show—and I mean right after the show—the sky opened up and unloaded a 15-minute downpour that had spuds scrambling for cover. Luckily, someone had discarded some strange yellow pants on a backstage couch which, with a hastily tied-off leg, served as a fashionable camera bag to shield my gear from the rain.

I hung around the dressing rooms with the rest of the meltable devotees until the spudboys themselves came out to sign a few autographs, and luckily got my new camera bag signed by Mark Mothersbaugh, Gerald V. Casale and Josh Freese. I would have gotten Bob2, but he was hustled away pretty quickly, so I lined up for Bob1, but he was busy talking to a woman who explained that he was her first kiss—an act I was not even going to try to follow…

I then recognized Michael Pilmer, DEVO’s webmaster and archivist, and asked if he needed photos for the show. He said he was worried that his photos that night were shit, so I got his contact info and sent him nearly all my shots from the show, some good, more awful… He’s since updated the DEVO live archive and used some of mine plus a shitload of other shots from that evening. I also posted the better shots over at Flickr, so check it out.

Santa Claus made it to our house rather early this year at 11:52pm. I was still awake, so I grabbed my camera and got this shot of him just as he was laying his finger aside his nose and giving the proverbial nod, etc.

He didn’t think it was funny when I told him he looked like a black Rip Taylor, so he pegged me in the eye with a lump of coal. Asshole.

…and a Goatse® Brand birthday cake. Rock. On.

I learned recently that Bert Brooks, the son of my cousin, Ozella (making him my second cousin, I suppose), died on 7 September in a BASE jumping accident at Lauterbrunnen, Bern, Switzerland. I can’t say I knew him—I only remember meeting him a few times when I was very young. As can be assumed about most of those involved in the BASE jumping scene, I guess he must have been an intense guy and presumably died doing what he loved. Any one of us can only hope to go out like that…

Condolences go out to his fiancee who was on the scene and had apparently made the jump just before him.

UPDATE: More information was posted recently to the BASE Fatality List:

“Bert was with his girlfriend Michelle on a BASE vacation in Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland. Conditions were good, and this particular jump occurred a bit after 2pm local time. Michelle jumped first, landed, and turned to watch Bert’s jump. He was using a 34″ pilot chute expecting to get full terminal airspeed but had to pitch between 5 and 7 seconds. It is unclear why, but he was too close to the wall to continue freefall. Bert pitched and opened with a 180 facing the wall. Bert struck the wall multiple times and was reported to be unresponsive after the first strike. Bert made it a point to never wear a helmet. Had he chose otherwise it could have given him a chance to fight and turn after that first strike. We will never know but hopefully will think twice ourselves about protective gear.”

If you’ve visited my blog before, you may now notice the absence of pregnancy-related stuff that was here before… Just so you know, we lost that one. A miscarriage that our obstetrician says was probably due to chromosome issues, so we’re not out of the game. Nature rights itself, and in this case it was probably better this way than to give birth to a troglodyte child with a hand growing from the bottom of his or her left foot or something like that. Still, it stings.

My wife had a manual vacuum aspiration performed on Monday. Though she said it was more painful than she expected, even more painful than giving birth to our daughter two years ago even, she seems to be doing very well.

Perhaps the pain was closure for her, and for that I’m glad. But being that this is my blog, and my space to blow off steam, I’m going to totter off on the proverbial limb and confess here that I don’t think I’ve had my closure yet.

I can’t stop thinking about it: The month I spent thinking I would be a new father again. The moment that the doctor said “Well, I have bad news…” The whole experience of shifting gears from trying to hire a landscaper to fix our current shitty backyard for one child to looking into buying a new house with an extra bedroom and larger space for two children, and now back again…

I feel like I have all this shit on my shoulders and I don’t know now what to do with any of it. Last night and this morning things just kind of fell into place. All the little things were climbing up my ass at once to become one festering sore… Holding a coworker’s week-old son… An unintentionally somewhat cruel comment by a relative… Selling a piece of baby furniture we no longer use… Kei’s post-birthday spoils littering the house… I don’t know what I’m leading up to, I just know that shit still stings. Maybe I’m angry, but I don’t know who I’m angry at. Maybe I’m just sad.

I’ve been avoiding writing about the experience, just hoping that I could simply delete those previous posts and move on. I haven’t wanted to write about it because I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to feel it again. But it seems that this is the only true outlet I have. Someone will read this and think I’m whining, maybe someone else will say they’ve been here too. I can’t concern myself with that. Don’t like whining? Turn the fucking channel.

Now I wish I had left everything up… Or at least saved the posts for a later decision as to whether I should delete them, but I didn’t. They’re gone,  like the prospect of seeing that child grow and prosper. Blah, blah, blah. Turn the channel.

Fuck a whole bunch of this rain in Texas. I just thought I’d get that off my chest.

While Sharon made dinner tonight, Kei sat in my lap and I indulged her in fireworks videos from YouTube. Ever since Austin’s July 4th fireworks display in Zilker Park, she’s been running around yelling “Fires, fires, fires!” Like, all the time. I thought that if I let her watch a few fireworks videos, she might get it out of her system, but noooooo… Now she’s interjecting it into everything, from the ABC song (”A B C D E F G… fires! fires! …) to This Old Man (”This old man, he played one… fires! fires! fires!)…

I have created a pyromaniacal monster.

On the other hand, she really enjoyed the kittens and puppies… Let’s just hope she doesn’t set fire to them.

Meet my arch nemesis, The God Damned Owl.

Early in her life, my daughter, Kei, developed a fondness for owls. I think we first noticed it at my parents’ house in Missouri, where there is a macramé owl hanging on the dining room wall. She would run in the room and point at it, shouting, “Hoo hoooo! Hooo hoooooo!” Over and over, she would invite everyone into the room to announce Mr. Owl, as if she had discovered his presence all on her own. A big accomplishment for a 16-month-old.

My wife saw The God Damned Owl at Wal-Mart while very uncharacteristically shopping there one Sunday. I say uncharacteristically because she worked for Wal-Mart for a few years while in college. As a result, she loathes Wal-Mart. I figure she has a better reason than most to feel this way, so I wholeheartedly support her in this venture. It’s just that… When you have children, you become susceptible to “Every Day Low Prices,” even if those $3 chanklas do burn holes in your skin. You just learn to be careful and save money… Maybe that should be Wal-Mart’s new slogan: Save At Your Own Risk!

Anyway, Sharon thought it would be cute to bring The God Damned Owl into our home and see how Kei would react to it. You know, maybe put it up on some high shelf, or outside a window far from the reach of her little hands. No, Kei had other ideas. She glommed onto The God Damned Owl as soon as it was placed in the shopping cart.

The God Damned Owl is a hard plastic molding with a few sharp edges; The God Damned Owl stands about 18″ tall. So you can see, this could lead to a few issues. Even if I were to file down the points, the The God Damned Owl’s ears alone are wee deadly weapons, seemingly designed to poke out the eyes of a two-year-old, or, alternately, her 42-year-old dad, which is exactly what has happened on at least one occasion of trying to wrestle The God Damned Owl from the hands of my child. Kei walked away unscathed; Daddy lost that battle with The God Damned Owl.

At times, Kei will show a waning interest in The God Damned Owl. It’s then that we try to hide it, hoping she will somehow forget about it, but she always finds The God Damned Owl and picks it up, carrying it like a dolly around the house, hugging it, sometimes even giving it a little kiss at bedtime. We have, however been successful at keeping The God Damned Owl out of her bed at night, though we have no idea if she’s made any middle-of-the-night reconnaissance to rescue The God Damned Owl or not… She has been found sleeping on the floor by her bed a few times early in the morning, and we can only surmise that she may have been trying to locate The God Damned Owl by cover of nightfall.

We’ve purchased a couple of large plush owls for her upcoming birthday in the hopes that we can swap out a far softer companion in place of The God Damned Owl, but only time will tell… The God Damned Owl might yet find his true place at our house, outside, keeping squirrels, possums and other undesirables away. We’ll see…

Had an impromptu video conference with GinJ Mike this morning. His wife apparently busted him sneaking a beer from the fridge in the middle of the call… Anyway, he took some incriminating screenshots of me shaking a baby doll during my rant. How very Alice Cooper.

For those of you in the younger set, Alice Cooper could kick Marilyn Manson’s skinny ass. Afterward, MM would shake his hand and say, “Thank you.”

I was explaining to him about the anti-baby shaking billboard campaign seen around Texas (I guess it’s all over the US, I dunno), and how the text layout makes it read (to me, anyway), “Never, Never, Never (line break) Never Shake a Baby,” like, “Never don’t shake a baby.” Like, “Shake the shit out of a baby.” Like someone subliminally trying to thin the herd.

But don’t let me get off on a conspiracy rant, ‘cos I’m just not into that shit. Leave that to Alex Jones. Or this tall skinny white Jesus-is-a-Holy-Space-Alien guy I used to work with. Nothing worse than a white guy with dreads wearing a stinky rasta bag and a Bob Marley t-shirt. Oh, and crocs. With dirt in them. No socks.