Archive for the ‘Anthony Nude and/or Screwing Inanimate Objects’ Category
This is where Cinderella lives and beasts are slain. This is where friends and co-workers draw names and fill brackets for money and bragging rights.
I’ve always been the guy in the office that runs the pool. It’s weird this year, working from home, sure I can watch all the games and start drinking much earlier, but I’ve no one to laugh at or avoid. It’s a hollow feeling. Luckily, Anthony and Chag both started online pools, meaning that any bragging will be done in front of you, the reader.
I went to Arizona, which is about as storied a college basketball program as you’ll find, however, the team this year worries me. They are the kind of team that could lose in the first round or go to the Final Four, depending on which version of themselves shows up. It has made for a frustrating season. I don’t have them going very far.
My pick? I kept it in the Pac-10 and went with Stanford. If the twins play their game they can’t be stopped.
The bragging starts now.
- Speaking of bragging, I’ve been lucky enough to be among the first group of “Daddybloggers” to be added to the new site Alltop which is a great way to track blogs by genre. If you want to see others in your pigeonhole then check them out. If you ask nicely (i.e., $$) they may even add you.
- This is why I would make the big bucks if I actually made big bucks, Babble has been nominated for an ASME (the Oscars of the magazine world) for General Excellence (online). We are up against Chow, the NewYorker, Slate and RunnersWorld. That’s pretty freaking cool. The award ceremony will be held at Lincoln Center. Hey, Babble, how about flying my broke ass out there? I’m a lot of fun at after parties!
- There is a survey on the left in the BlogHer box. Take it and learn about yourself.
- You look great today. Go get ‘em, Tiger.
My phone cost too much. It has bells and whistles and it brings me happiness through buttons and slight of hand, but it is quiet where a phone should be loud. It is stoic where I miss emotion. It sits still and ignored. My phone no longer rings.
When Anthony left he took a part of me with him. He was my outlet, once too large a burden for one friend to carry, but in a town where only one friend cared it was just enough to lay across his shoulders. Only he thought to include me though I could rarely be included.
It has sunk in, rather suddenly, that I am alone. This isn’t about my wife and my children. This is about me. Their love and support is not in question. My happiness with them is not in doubt. I have a situation that many would envy and I appreciate it as such. Yet, I am a man of social means and I have found that they are no longer met.
I do not go to work with other people and talk about football and politics. I do not shake hands or kiss cheeks or read too much into a pretty girl’s smile. I do not owe money in office pools or buy crap to send a kid to camp. My water cooler is a Brita pitcher and my Happy Hour is broken down into fractions and tangents while drowning in a bittersweet sea of children laughing and the floating jetsam of trying to forget that I am forgotten.
My children appreciate a different level of my humor. Jokes that don’t revolve around farts and cartoons are lost on them. Their conversation, while charming, is not always engaging. They want food, shelter and love, which I am only too happy to provide, but they do not understand that I too need, and while a single hug from one of my children can mend me for hours at a time, the wounds run deep and tender little stitches find a way of unraveling during bouts with scream and sleep.
I want to look into a face and share beers and stories. Writing this, it is a release of sorts, but I cannot share my best fodder here. I cannot see envy in the eyes of a reader or feel their slap of disgust across my cheek. There is no play and no shame. There is no understanding or immediate sense of regret. I cannot hear the instant banter or segue into the secrets they cherish and the demons they battle. I talk to screens and walls and whisper ‘I love you’ into tiny ears on heads that nod on feet that are too quick to run away.
I am missing a friend, and in doing so I am missing myself. I am selfish like that.
My wife and I did the vegetarian thing for awhile. We are starting it up again. It wasn’t a resolution. In fact, we had steak for dinner last night, and frankly it was gross. We also had steak for dinner the night before and it had been fantastic. Apparently the seasoned steaks at Trader Joe’s are hit and miss.
We sat on the couch last night and watched a movie called Year of the Dog which is NOT the feel good, quirky comedy I had been led to believe, but rather a feel sad, quirky piece of left-wing propaganda.
Luckily, I live in the left-wing so I wasn’t as nauseated as say a group of young republicans watching Happy Feet, but still, it was clear that there was a message and if you didn’t agree with it you were a douche.
Somewhere in the middle of the movie we decided that we could give the vegetarian lifestyle another chance. The movie wants you to go vegan, so we met them partway.
In the words of my good friend Anthony, who went veggie the same time we did- the first time around, but actually stuck it out, eating an egg is the equivalent of swallowing (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). This is his argument for eating them.
Works for me.
The decision that we are faced with, again, is whether or not we should follow suit with our children. Should we force our views upon them? Arguments can be made for both sides.
On one hand, we are the parents and it is our house, so raising them as vegetarians would be easy enough. They can get their protein from peanut butter. The other thought is that we should let them develop their own sense of direction on something big enough to be considered a lifestyle. We don’t force God on them and I’m not sure we should force tofu. If I’m going to start forcing everything I stand for at them they’ll be drunk in an hour. We need to make decisions.
The biggest factor is that I don’t see going veggie as a forever thing. We did it for 6 months last time and I don’t know that I’ll even do it as long this time around. Basically, I’m not going to eat meat in my house or at a restaurant, but if you invite me to dinner and serve turkey, I’ll eat the damn thing. Then I’ll go in your closet and throw paint on your furs- you know, for balance.
These images had nothing to do with our decision:
The man came around sometime after 8pm. He was dressed all in black and he was on foot. His truck had cheated on him a mile down the road. His stomach was full of vegetables and tortillas. He climbed the fence in the dark and the hounds, having been on a constant state of release, put their cards face down on the table and attacked with the vigor of Vick laced in veal.
They caught his scent- beer, dirt and onion. They stopped and growled. He walked the line.
I turned on the light, called off the dogs and told Anthony to come inside. He sat and drank beer. I stood and continued with the labors of my domestic duties. I also drank beer.
Anthony has been an oasis for me in the desert, a wonderwall if you will, and soon his train will sail. We drank our beers, he read a text and I folded socks and sheets. The time had come to talk of many things: of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax, of cabbages and kings- and why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings.
Atticus heard his arrival and came to investigate. They bumped fists and Atticus said, “Asa lama lakum.”
He hugged Anthony and said goodnight. He bumped his fist again and said, “respect.” Then he went back to bed.
These are the teachings of Anthony. Peace be upon you.
He was gone by 10. I walked him to the gate and opened it for him. The dogs did not look up from their poker game. The laundry was folded and the boys were in bed. He had places to go and I had work to do. He walked down the drive and a car appeared to transport him someplace else. Someplace different.
I went inside and looked at my counter. Anthony was here.