Tag Archives: crying
Raisin’ The Bar
Ether you’re with me or you’re a’gin me.
So you want to swim upstream and spawn. Good for you. What business is that of mine? None, I’ll admit, unless the government decides to subsidize your reproduction of yourself with credits and tax rates and/or you ever try to bring them around me.
It turns out there’s something more trendy than microbrew, fedoras, bicycling, beards, tattoos and North Face jackets. What could it possibly be?
Oh, yeah. It’s bringing your wee young ones to restaurants or, inconceivably allowed, bars and pubs. What could possibly go wrong?
The other night my wife and I were at a BBQ trendspot in PDX. As always, any place that is half-way edible means that there will be a 45-minute wait. That’s life in the big city. But that also means we had time to be treated to the floor show.
Two women were standing around holding their drinks while three small children accompanying them ran hog wild. (It was a BBQ place, after all.) They ordered another round. Every once in a while they’d yap something at the kids which was promptly ignored, had no effect, and they returned to nursing their drinks.
Meanwhile, I wondered what it would take for a restaurant to actually ask them to leave. Maybe if they set off a small nuclear device? Maybe, I figured, but probably not.
We were seated and, of course, we were only two tables away. We watched them order two more rounds of daiquiris. Apparently they and the restaurant were teaming up for Set A Good Example night. I couldn’t help but wonder how they were all going to get home.
Earlier we went to a place on the Columbia River for happy hour but the lounge was full. We opted to sit on the deck. No doubt it was a beautiful view. On the other hand, we had to order from the dinner menu, there were no happy hour prices, and, through the lounge windows, we saw lots of wee small children. Some were sticking their tongues out at us.
What the fuck.
Grand Unification Theory of Reproduction
I stylishly removed my fedora and flung it like a frisbee. No phone booths were to be found. I was about to write something for the Daily Diatribe, a major metropolitan daily in the uber city of Grabham. And I was their intrepid reporter.
Yeah, it was something like that when I had my latest epiphany.
We all know parents are the worst people to have children. But why?
The idea came to me when watching the birth of a little baby deer. Plop! It landed on the ground. Gross. But in a few minutes it struggled to it’s feet. It was already walking!
A few more minutes and it was able to prance. And, by the very next day, it was able to beat an average University of Portland student at ping pong. But what did this mean? (Besides the fact that UP students can’t play ping pong for shit.)
Oh, yeah. Now I remember. Human babies are slow at survival and being able to fend for themselves. Our species may be the most intelligent (heh!) on this planet but it comes at a very high cost. We all start as utterly helpless lifeforms.
And therein lies the rub.
Girls Day In
There was a sense of strange foreboding. My wife had control of the remote. Boldly and apparently to no one in particular she announced, “I’m going to pretend that I’m home alone and watch whatever I want.”
Wow. So assertive.
The TV came on and the Netflix logo loomed large.
It was a cozy Saturday afternoon. The kind of day for which I live. Outside were blue skies. Inside the sunlight streamed in windows. It was quiet. We were basking in the luxuriousness of nothing to do. My wife snuggled up in her TV blanket. I did the same. Cats were lounging around and purring.
These are the moments of which dreams are made. I believe it is times like these that make life worth living. No work. No responsibilities. Safely ensconced in your castle. Nothing to do except stretch out under your blanket. The rest of the world can wait.
Where the hell is my damn cup coffee with International Delights creamer? I want to celebrate this, one of the moments of my life!
And it was all going so good, too. Perhaps a little too good.
Then she pointed that thing at the TV and pushed PLAY.
This shit just got serious.
There is Plenty of I in Ream
I got nothing and I’m not in the mood to write. Yeah! But I’m still gonna do it anyway. Boo! You lose.
Memorandum to the Mole Men in my Head: Retreat! Fall back! We’re not taking this hill, boys. Not today. Retreat and live to fight another day!
In other words, I’m going back to my roots. I’m going to stay within the friendly confines of my wheelhouse. Stick to what I know best. Not venture too far hither and yon from ye olde bailiwick.
Here’s a hint: What blog should you be reading right now? Over there! Over there!
Let’s talk about #boss for a moment.
Boss is war and war is hell. Thus the myriad of odes to military sentiment I’ve mortared in your general direction.
I’ll graciously allow you a moment to find the nearest air sickness bag. This is not a subject for the weak or the flighty of stomach. If you suffer from IBS you should probably move along.
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