A Day In The Life

My day as a thought experiment:

7:42 a.m. - Please God, let me die.

8:38 a.m. - Doesn't this kid ever stop talking?

9:23 a.m. - If you cut me off again, I will drive you into the fucking ditch, you stupid cow.

9:24 a.m. - Die assholes.

9:25 a.m. - I don't think all this rage is healthy for me.

9:26 a.m. - Fuckers!!

10:02 a.m. - I like my chair. Hey, why is an actuary calling me?

10:07 a.m. - Goddamnit! Someone's going to pay.

11:16 a.m. - Walking through the office. Pretend to be nice.

11:47 a.m. - Cold red beans and rice. Yum.

12:32 p.m. - Asshole printer. Will I get fired if I throw it out the window?

1:22 p.m. - How hard can it be to collate something? Fucking impossible, apparently.

2:17 p.m. - AAAARGH!! I forgot to call him back!

3:15 p.m. - This guy talks more than my kid.

3:35 p.m. - Shit, I'm late!!

3:42 p.m. - If you cut me off again, I will drive you into the fucking ditch, you stupid cow.

3:57 p.m. - Don't look at me like that, I'm three minutes early.

4:49 p.m. - If you cut me off again, I will drive you into the fucking ditch, you stupid cow.

5:22 p.m. - Reheated porksicles. Yum.

5:25 p.m. - Nothing would give me more pleasure than driving across town to pick you up, son.

5:28 p.m. - If you cut me off again, I will drive you into the fucking ditch, you stupid cow.

7:00 p.m. - My boss is stopping by for a drink?

7:01 p.m. - I wonder how much insurance I'd get if the house burned down.

7:02 p.m. - I wonder if there's enough liquor in the house.

9:45 p.m. - That went better than expected.

9:59 p.m. - Damn kids, where'd they leave the damn remote?

10:15 p.m. - Please God, let me die.

Eating Good In The Neighborhood

Jennifer's recent post about the Dog n' Suds chili dog and root beer emporium got me thinking, as most things to, about food. Specifically, about ways to combine my love for money and my love for food in a free market testament to übergluttony. So far I've found these potential franchise opportunities.

1. The Moose and Matzoh
Combining the ancient Jewish passover traditions of unleavened bread and ungulates, this dine-in favorite screams "fun" like an old lady with a shopping cart full of recyclables. The famous "Moss Malt" (a secret combination of kelp and Jägermeister) keeps Dad coming back for more. Mom's just happy to drop the kids in the attached PlayCenter, complete with ammunition reloaded on the premises. Souvenir yarmulkes, complete with realistic looking antlers, are available with an order of the Rat Bastard Meal off the kid's menu.

2. The Licorice Leech
When scientists finally learned how to raise these tasty bloodsuckers on a diet of ouzo and taffy, they created a marketing monster. With outlets already located throughout the Muscle Shoals area, this business opportunity is just waiting to be taken north. FDA approval pending.

3. The Chancre
All the rage with Midwestern teenagers desperate to prove they're popular. The drive-thru swabbing station is open until 2 a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays. Got a Hankering for some Hep C? We've got you covered.

4. Taco Bell
Melty. Give me a freaking break.

5. Der Fooden Housen
An award winning German-themed truck stop. Its menu offers a wide range of delicacies, ranging from "Meat Covered With Gravy" to "Gravy With Meat in It." Cashiers wear jodhpurs. Youngsters get complimentary hammers with orders of $23 or more. Currently located in seventeen Caribbean cities.

Who's in?

It Beats A Poke In The Eye With A Sharp Stick

We made it to the cabin by Thursday afternoon. I had a meeting not too far from there earlier in the day. My friend R. dropped me off at the meeting, went to his place to unload the car, and then picked me up as soon as I finished my incredibly interesting and witty presentation.

R. and I have been friends since 7th grade. We've traveled a lot together too. He's got three boys about the same age as mine, our wives are friends, and he's as bad a parent as I am. Over the years we've collectively dragged our families to Maine, to California, and to most places in between. That makes these kinds of trips, without the kids, delightfully quiet experiences. That's true even on this weekend, where hunting and gathering included drinking whiskey and playing guitar.

Thursday night was uneventful. After a little unsuccessful fishing and a trip into town for a hamburger and a beer, it was just R., one of his relatives, and me sitting out back, looking at the lake and pouring gasoline in the fire pit. By 11:00 I was in bed, dreaming the dreams of the innocent.

Friday the other two guests arrived. They're both in advertising, which is to say they've committed their artistic talents to Mammon. That's not a criticism (I'm hardly in a position to throw stones), just acknowledgement they actually have artistic talents. In any event, their particular talents include, in the case of one, being a retired guitarist for a pretty decent band, and in the case of both, being funny as shit.

Their arrival was greeted with appropriate amounts of bottle opening and a hastening to the boats. On a drizzly fall weekday there aren't many other people around and we had some 1,000 acres of water to ourselves.

The fishing wasn't much to write home about, but it was nice being on the water. After a few hours we made our way back to the cabin. One of the neighbors had stopped by, a nice guy. One thing led to another, soon it was dinner, heaping mounds of pasta and homemade marinara, then the whiskey came out, then the guitars.

R.'s guitar had a dent in it. "What happened?" someone asked.

"My kids pissed me off and I smashed it on a railing," he said.

He really is as volatile as I am.

I said, "The Broken Guitar, a Very Special Episode of the R.'s."

Someone else said, "Next on the R.'s, Daddy Buys a Handgun."

R. said, "Fuck you guys."

In the meantime, I had found some toy instruments. Quickly realizing my limitations as a harmonica player, I instead spent the next several hours happily shaking a musical egg in approximate time to the music. Finally my liver shrieked in horror and I retired, cautiously, to the top bunk to which I had been assigned.

As so often happens, laughter turned to tears. Saturday morning arrived warm, sunny, and far too soon. A delicious sausage, egg, and aspirin omelet, washed down with a gallon of coffee and the restorative electrolytes of Gatorade helped staunch the bleeding, however, and it was soon back in the boats for another run at the demons lurking beneath the lake's placid surface. It was another slow day of fishing, but at least I was away from my children, and that's what counts.

Or so I thought. For some inexplicable engineering reason, the lake is one of the few places around there where there's cell phone reception and around noon I started getting text messages from my oldest son.

"My brothers should go die in a hole."

It never ends. "Why in a hole?" I responded.

"That way we don't have to pay to bury them," he answered.

Well, he's practical if nothing else. I put the phone back in my pocket. Those animals were my Lovely Bride's problem for the next couple of days.

Besides, the fishing was picking up a little. Soon I'd landed a nice bass and R. had pulled in an impressive northern and we just kept drifting up and down the shoreline, idly casting, talking about nothing much in particular, and in general having a fine old time.

Saturday night was a quiet one, all of us weary from a day on the lake and the punishment we'd self-inflicted the night before. Dinner at a local restaurant, a little more fun with fire and gasoline, and bedtime by 10:00. When Sunday morning arrived it was rainy, incentive enough to leave in time to make it home for dinner. My youngest met me at the door, demanding a souvenir.

"I was at R.'s cabin for God's sake. You've been there. What did you expect?"

"A fish."

"I didn't bring home a fish. I brought home fish pictures though."

And I did.

SNAG HUNTING




















R. GATHERING

I Said I'm Hunting and Gathering, Damnit!

Tomorrow I leave again for a long weekend, out of communication with family and blog. God willing and the creek don't rise, I'll haul a behemoth from the deep. Otherwise, well, I'll still have a good time.

I'm driving up with my best friend, whose musical tastes run toward classic rock. Out of spite, I've chosen these to begin our journey.

1. The Killers - Robert Pollard

2. Cold Hands - The Black Lips

3. How it Ends - Devotchka

4. Do the Whirlwind - Architecture in Helsinki

5. The Past is a Grotesque Animal - Of Montreal (as surreal as anything 3Bulls! has to offer)

6. Light up Your Lighter - Michael Franti and Spearhead

7. Dickie Chalkie and Nobby - The Mekons (I'm not completely square, BP)

8. Sunday Morning - The Velvet Underground

9. California Stars - Billy Bragg and Wilco

10. Curly Locks - Junior Byles (Kathleen, it'll cure what ails you)

Back in a few.

No Good Deed

Last night, concerned I wasn't spending enough on my children's sporting activities, I did some research on hitting and pitching clinics offered in our area. Several of my youngest son's friends are also interested and we're trying to find a group rate.

Things never go as planned in the Snag household. Having tucked myself away in what I thought was the relative safety of my basement office, I was soon joined by my youngest.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Trying to sell you. No takers yet but I'm lowering the price."

He ignored me. "Hey, you're looking at hitting clinics. Is that for me?"

"Maybe," I answered. "It depends how irritated I am when it's time to write a check."

"How much does it cost?" he asked.

I told him. "Holy crap!" he said. "We could buy a Wii for that!"

"Yes," I said. "Or I could buy something I want."

He shook his head at my stupidity. "Are there any major leaguers who teach there?"

"Yes. One guy who used to play in the majors."

"Would I get him?"

"I don't know," I answered. "Maybe."

"If I don't get him I want the Wii instead." As usual, he thought the point was simply to spend as much of my money as possible.

"No," I said. "We already have an xBox and a bunch of xBox games and I'm not buying another stupid game system for you to fight over with your brothers. If you don't want to go to the hitting clinic I'll skip it."

He started backtracking. "No, no, I want to go."

At this point my middle son walked in. "Where's he going?" he demanded.

"Dad's sending me to a hitting clinic."

His brother shrieked. "WHAT?! That' s so unfair, I never get anything. I'm going to a basketball clinic then."

The younger one nodded. "Okay."

"Wait a second," I interjected. "This is my money. Besides, you," pointing at the middle one, "are already playing seventy-five hours of coached basketball in the next few months. Plus, your soccer team has a professional coach run clinics for you. That's plenty."

The middle one sneered and pointed at his brother. "He always gets everything. He's a spoiled, stupid baby."

"I'm not a baby!" howled the youngest, apparently conceding on spoiled and stupid.

I stood up and moved between them before it escalated. "Both of you get the hell out of here. Jesus, I even think about doing something nice and this is the kind of nonsense I have to deal with."

Snarling and snapping at each other, they retreated upstairs where they quickly moved on to the more pressing question of who the dog loves most. I clicked idly through some tropical resort websites, one for a Canadian fishing lodge, another that displayed Italian villas for rent. Not anytime soon, I thought, turning off the computer. Maybe they'll at least put me in a decent nursing home someday. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and headed upstairs to rejoin the family.

An Edible Centerpiece

Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty puppies baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened their tails began to wag,
Oh wasn't that a dainty dish to set before old Snag?
Snag was in his kitchen yelling at his boys,
The dog was in the basement hiding from the noise
His Bride was in the garden weeping at her fate,
Wishing she could afford to move out of state.

Goaaal!

AG's got this goal thing going on over at her place, a revealing look at what she hopes to accomplish in the coming years. "What are your goals?" she asks, not having thought through the implications of directing a question like that to a general public that includes me.

Without further ado, what I hope to accomplish before I turn 59:

1. Turn 58.

2. Discover a new femur.

3. Have my record expunged.

4. Meet an ornithologist.

5. Become the second-best jai alai player in my zip code.

6. Teach a møøse to yodel.

7. Knit a blintz.

8. Adopt a nomenclature.

9. Develop a broader market for my home-based genetic splicing business.

10. Remain the envy of all who know me.

I better get cracking.