Idiocy. It's Not Just For Blogs Anymore.

An actual email exchange follows. It's a miracle I have friends, much less a family.

Characters:
E: The father of the birthday party guest of honor. Also my son's basketball coach.

V.: The mother of the birthday party guest of honor.

H.: The mother of one of the attendees. Her son has gotten violently ill the last two years. After last year, we concluded was due to an allergy to the hair paint.

O: The mother of another attendee.

Snag: Yours truly.

Setting: E. and V. youngest son's birthday party traditionally includes attending the homecoming game on Friday night.
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From: H.

Hi,

My son was sent home from school today with a bad chest cold. (I thought it was just a cough and sent him to school with cough medicine, my husband thought he had bronchitis, go figure-he was somewhere in the middle) As much fun as it would be to see if would be the third year that he tried to get sick on E.'s shoes, the doc said he needs to stay home tomorrow and will unfortunately miss the party. We will drop off his card and gift at a later time. Thanks for inviting him!!!! He does enjoy the parties (up until the headache and puking)

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From: E.

I'll be over later tonight to spray his hair with paint just in case he doesn't throw up enough.

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From: Snag

Or I can throw up on you.

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From: V.

I will take your son and you can spend the evening with the Wacko team of E. and Snag... It will be as much fun as cleaning up after a sick kid. Tell your son we hope he gets better soon and we will do something fun together when he gets better.

E. and Snag:

What the hell is wrong with the 2 of you?

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From: Snag

We should get the kids' teachers copied on these emails. They think E. and I are hilarious.

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From: E.

We even have our pictures at the post office and have been to the principal's office many times.

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From: Snag

I wonder what O.'s up to today?

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From: E.

Let's invite her into our little group.

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From: V.

E.:

Don’t you have things to take care of that I ask you to do every day and you tell me you were to busy at work to get to them?

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From: Snag

I had a busy day too until I ran out of Cheetos.

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From: E.

Do you happen to be wearing "swim fins"? That's just hot.

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From: Snag

I am. And I'm dancing the tarantella.

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From: E.

Pork snorkels, swim fins, and thong underwear...

O., care to comment today?

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From: Snag

Or I can comment for her. I'm an email ventriloquist.

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From: E.

I saw the way you were controlling your youngest son’s flapping jaws last night. Your lips didn't even move. Impressive.

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From: Snag

I wish I could keep his jaws from flapping. Or I could program him to make relaxing seashore noises or something.

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From: E.

I'll teach him how to make whale mating noises during basketball practice.

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From: Snag

You could design a play around it. He makes a series of high-pitched squeaks, prompting the others to spread out like a school of dolphins around the basket.

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From: E.

Maybe have a couple of parents throw a gill net over some of the bigger kids from the other team.

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From: Snag

Meanwhile, you and I can honk like seagulls, as we did in St. Louis.

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From: E.

Where the hell are the women? I was they could multi-task as much as you and I do.

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From: V.

Will you leave me alone, I am busy reading knitting blogs.

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From: E.

I thought you were picking out your cheerleading outfits for tomorrow's game. I know Snag is.

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From: Snag

It's going to be a Very Special Homecoming. Soon to be a Lifetime Channel special event.

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From: H.

Do you two get some sort of e-mail commission written into your compensation plan? I turn the computer back on and I have 30+ e-mails for you two clowns . . and to make matters worse I have a visual of both of you in cheerleading outfits honking like geese-- like I need scary images.

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From: V.

Oh no H. you have just made a fatal mistake, it called responding to the 2 idiots.

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Repeat indefinitely.

Update: Edited for pedantry.

Homecoming

I did not expect my life to be like this. I did not think my Friday nights would be spent at homecoming parades, football games, pizza parties with a dozen kids and a handful of frazzled parents. Every year, though, here I am.

My youngest son's friend's birthday is this weekend and this weekend is homecoming. It's somehow become a tradition that his dad E. and I take the boys to the parade and the game.

The parade starts at the high school immediately after the elementary school lets out, so E. and I have to pick up the kids as soon as class ends. It's a neighborhood school and we know many of the people waiting there with us for the bell. When our group lines up, they laugh at us, shake their heads, wish us luck. I offer my keys to a first grade teacher, tell her she can keep the van if she'll take the kids while I go to the bar.

"Not a chance," she says. "I know these boys."

God forbid one of my children does something the others don't, so I end up with all three of mine, plus another three or four boys seemingly picked at random. We park and walk the last block to the high school.

The parade's not too bad. My oldest immediately ditches us to go find his friends. The other boys line up to watch the band and the fire trucks, and to try to snatch candy thrown by the marchers.

Then it's back to E.'s house for dinner, pizza and pop. Another mom calls asking if she should bring over some Hawaiian for the sugar bong. Hilarious, except the kids are starting to twitch and it's not even game time.

While we're waiting for the delivery guy, the kids go outside to play. All is well until one of them comes in crying. My middle son's hit him in the eye with a football.

I open the door. "Get inside." He stalks by me, sullen and defensive.

"It was an accident," he says.

"It's always an accident. I don't care. Accidents happen when people are careless. Sit down on the couch and wait for dinner." We glare at each other for a few seconds, then I go over and tend to the injured kid. Actually, E.'s wife tends to him while I act like a buffoon as a way to make him forget about it. It doesn't seem to work. In fact, it appears to creep him out.

I finally forgive my kid. Everyone finishes eating and we head back to the high school. Again, my oldest abandons us as quickly as possible. He's going to the homecoming dance tomorrow night with a group of friends and is terrified I'll do something to embarrass him. Go figure.

The rest of us find our seats. At least E. and I do. It's a perfect evening for football, clear and crisp. By game time, the sun is setting and the lights are coming on. The team comes out, the band plays the national anthem, and the crowd settles in.

We see people we know, friends, city council members, school board members, the superintendent. We talk, catch up, ask how the school year's going, about families, about the team's chances tonight. The stands are full of people who are hoping for a win, but for most of us, this is really a chance to show our students and each other that community matters.

It's not utopia, of course. There are drugs and crime and problems here, like everywhere. The mayor and I spend half an hour discussing the importance of community policing, getting the officers out of their cars and into the schools and businesses. I talk to people who have divorced, been arrested, had deaths in the family since last year's game. Still, it's a nice night and those things don't seem as pressing for a few hours.

While we're talking, the children cluster along the fence lining the field shouting at the best friend of E.'s oldest son. He's on the team this year and he hears his name, turns, and nods.

Tonight turned out to be his. Eighty or ninety yards rushing, a touchdown, and a heads-up play, grabbing a pass that deflected off one of his teammates. Our school wins, the first victory of the season and he's the hero. He's a good kid, funny and modest, and it's nice to see him do well.

After the game, it's back to E.'s house for cake and presents. The adults have a glass of wine, it gets late, and people start to leave. My son's sleeping over so I stay a little later, watch some television, finally get up and get home.

I did not expect my life to be like this. I did not think my Friday nights would be spent at homecoming parades, football games, pizza parties with a dozen kids and a handful of frazzled parents. Every year, though, here I am.

Snag's List

I don't have any practical use for a personals ad, having already inflicted my Lovely Bride with a vow of lifetime misery. AG's obsession with Craig's List, however, got me thinking about what kind of ad I'd post if I was back on the market. In other words: What type ad would a Snag boy post if a Snag boy would post ads?

Hey, Hey Mama, Like the Way You Move

Reply to: befouled@comcast.net
Stardate: -315260.42941400304

If I had a nickel for every time I've been slapped, I'd buy a chunk of malachite big enough to choke a hamster. Because that's who I am. Thoughtful, yet profligate. Meaty, yet angular. An American with a Third World smile.

So who are you, m'lady? Do you love Wikipedia's chocolate mousse? Have you ever played Twister in a smock? Can you go from Superhero to Superfox in the time it takes to disrobe in a phone booth? If so, let's groove.

And groove we will. When you hang with me, you hang in style. My tikis are going 24/7. There's a hot tub full of flavored gelatin shots out back and Sade playing in quadraphonic sound. Later, we can go for a ride in my sound-proofed panel van, shoot at some road signs with my homemade paintball gun.

Picture yourself massaging my goiter. Then picture me rubbing yours. Pure pleasure, the Snag way.

I'm short, squat, and clinically depressed. You're a Brazilian wax model, Ph.D. preferred, trilingual skills essential (German, Tagalog, and Sioux). Please, no fatties, phonies, philatelists, or focus groups.

DNA samples gladly exchanged.

Soundonsound

While Blue Girl and Billy Pilgrim may be gaga over the Genesis tour (far be it from me to say anything about the extremely noticeable absence of Peter Gabriel), I did my own shopping today, tickets to this fall's Neil Young show. I've seen him before as part of CSN&Y, a good enough concert in its own right, but it's Neil as a soloist I've been wanting to see, and now's my chance.

I don't get to concerts very often now. The Lovely Bride's back in school, the kids are busy with their own things, and holy God, they're expensive. Buying the tickets, though, got me thinking about bands I've seen.

1. Talking Heads. Part of radio station KGON FM 92's "Catch A Rising Star" promotion, they played the Paramount, a 3,000 seat theater. Admission was 92 cents. Seeing David Byrne sing "Psycho Killer" would have been a bargain at twice the price.

2. Bruce Springsteen. Again at the Paramount. "Candy's Room," "Spirit in the Night," "The Promised Land," all great songs, but I've never seen a band play with as much pure glee as the E Street Band displayed on "Santa Claus is Coming to Town."

3. Lynyrd Skynyrd. The plane hadn't crashed yet and it was one of my first concerts. I yelled "Free Bird" before it was a cliché. My parents couldn't figure out why I was so excited when I got home and I couldn't explain it.

4. Hüsker Dü. It was just a bar band playing to a small crowd. They hadn't been signed yet and people were there mostly for the cheap beer. After a while we gave up trying to talk, got a drink, and listened.

5. Grateful Dead. I'd seen them before and would see them again, but not like this. Outside in the Texas sun, there was barbecue and a skydiver beforehand and camping and parties after. I remember "Terrapin Station" going on for what seemed like hours or at least I remember my memory of it. The next morning we got up in time to run into town for breakfast at a diner, sitting in all our post-concert glory among the families on their way from church. It was everything a Dead concert should be.

6. Patti Smith. I was still trying to decide about this thing called punk. Patti sang "Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine" and I knew.

7. The Kinks. The opening chords to "Lola" started playing on a darkened stage, the crowd started chanting, Ray Davies walked on stage, paused, and said, "No. I don't think you're ready." Then he launched into another song. Every half hour or so the band would offer just the first few notes again, Ray would say, "Not yet," and off they'd go in another direction. Smarmy, maybe, but he pulled it off. When they finally played it as the encore, everyone was ready.

8. Green Day. My oldest son's first concert. He liked it just fine. Great songs, great showmanship, great fun. A perfect introduction to rock and roll.

9. U2. Eight days after taking him to Green Day, I took the boy to U2. Lucky kid. Bono takes himself a little seriously, but what the hell, he's Bono. Besides, hearing "Sunday Bloody Sunday" and "Pride (In the Name of Love") live is its own form of moral instruction.

10. R.E.M./Bruce Springsteen/John Fogerty. It was exhilarating to sit in an arena with thousands of other people ready to vote for anyone but George W. Bush. It was indescribable to hear Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, R.E.M., John Fogerty, Bright Eyes, and surprise guest Neil Young blast through a version of "Rockin' in the Free World" that the Devil himself would have sold his soul to play, repeating the line over and over, "We've got a kinder, gentler machine gun hand" with rage and fury and despair. The greatest show I've ever seen. The greatest show I ever expect to see.

Death Pool

Last night at dinner with my children, the conversation turned, as it so often does, to my death. I don't think they're actually hoping for my demise. Instead, I'm inclined to believe they know my life is like a slow-motion car wreck, one with little hope for a happy outcome. In any event, as my offspring were guessing at the possible causes of my death ("I bet he has an aneurysm while he's yelling at us!" "I bet he has a heart attack from eating bacon!" "I bet Mom kills him for snoring!"), they were reminded of their path to riches, namely my life insurance.

It's quite unlikely those dreams will come to pass. Oh, I'll die of course, probably after suffering for years from an excruciating and disfiguring illness, one that requires me to wear support hose and a helmet. This should be of only academic interest for the boys, however. It's a virtual certainty that my Lovely Bride will outlive me. She's younger, in better shape, and spends less time with the kids. She'll get the proceeds to do with as she wishes, probably something dull like pay off the mortgage and send the kids to college.

But children need to dream and mine are no different than any others, at least in this regard. Perhaps they'd get a check for their share? You never know - it could happen! With visions of seven-figure payouts dancing in their heads, they started talking about what they could do with the loot.

My oldest, the ant, thought he'd invest some of it in Treasuries and short-term corporate paper. Some would be converted to gold and buried in coffee cans in the back yard, which would give him the ability to turn away his brothers' requests for help in the post-apocalyptic society sure to follow economic collapse. The remainder would be set aside to buy treats for our dog, Katie.

My middle child, the grasshopper, had a slightly different philosophy. He knows, from having been kicked off a casino floor last year, that he's too young to gamble. Instead, he decided to settle for next best, which is to become a freelance soccer player whose entire diet consists of Mountain Dew and Pixie Stix. This prompted jeers from his older brother along the lines of, "See, I said you're all going to be fat and lazy, just like Dad" but not even a detailed and gruesome description of diabetes-related amputations shook his certainty. Like his brother, he also intended a portion to be used for dog treats.

Last, my youngest chimed in. He's neither ant nor grasshopper. Frankly, I don't know what he is. A magpie, perhaps. Anyway, he had evidently given quite a bit of thought to this, as he went on at some length about the luxury boxes he planned to purchase at sporting venues around the country, including estimated costs and specific locations within each stadium. His childish delight would have been a wonder indeed, had it not been predicated on me dying. He too set aside money for Katie's benefit.

Throughout, I remained mostly silent. Occasionally I'd look down at Katie, in her customary place under the table, and ask her if she knew what the hell is wrong with my family. She ignored me. She's no Einstein but she knows which side of her bread is buttered. Three kids promising to buy her treats? It'll be a miracle if she doesn't kill me herself.

Playtime

The results of this week's basketball tryouts got posted tonight. The middle boy ended up on a team with some kids he knows, so he's happy. I know and like some of the parents, so I'm happy too.

The youngest is making the transition from in-house to a traveling team this year, also playing with some friends. His fancy new shoes presumably made the difference. In any event, traveling basketball it will be for him as well.

What this means for me (the Lovely Bride is in class on weekends, so I use "me" advisedly), is approximately 60 basketball games between the middle of November and the end of March, with another, I don't know, let's call it 70 practices. Throw in driving time and it's better than 200 hours of basketball-related activities over these five months. I like basketball well enough, but still.

Of course, this is self-inflicted. I could refuse to let them play, or at least make them play at less competitive and less time-consuming levels. I don't, though, something that's prompted me to consider my motivations.

If my boys stay with their favorite sports and don't get hurt, they can all probably play competitively through high school. It helps that many of our school district's teams have inclusive rostering policies and try to find a way to let as many kids participate as possible. That's a good thing. If sports really are the character building, we should build as many characters as we can.

At the same time, I don't expect any of them to get athletic scholarships to college, much less play professionally, notwithstanding any idle fantasies I may have in my more desperate moments. I know some parents of an elementary school child who fully anticipate a free ride at a Division I school followed by a lucrative professional career. Why? Because they're crazy. So that's not my reason for letting my kids play.

I do believe sports can build character, whatever that means. That's not a necessary outcome of playing, of course, as evidenced by the behavior of far too many pro athletes. With good coaches and good teammates, on the other hand, sports can provide opportunities to learn how to win gracefully, and how to lose gracefully. They can teach the importance of practice and hard work and perseverance. They can do all that, however, with far less playing time than my kids are getting. So that's not my reason either.

I guess the reason I let them play so much is because they want to. When my kids were little, I would come home from work and horse around with them, peek-a-boo and hide-and-seek and everything else I could think of or invent, not because I liked the games but because I loved watching them play. Now, instead of those games, they make lay-ups and serve aces and score goals and get hits. Before I know it they'll be grown and gone, and then these hours and hours of basketball, of sports, will be hours I will have spent doing what I love most, watching my children play.

I've Got Your Maple Leaf Right Here

Hey everybody, I'm back! Things seem to have been quiet, no broken furniture, no missing jewelry. . . . . Hey, wait a second! Who broke my Romantics CD? And where'd these entrails come from? Billy! Billy Pilgrim, get down here right now! Damn kids. You'd think at least Jennifer and Kathleen would know better.

It seems I won't be playing with SpiralFrog after I'm done cleaning up this mess, since, as Fish points out, I would be required to buy a new MP3 player, which would be stupid, even for me. So be it. Art is a waste of time, a conclusion I reached during the 72 hours I recently spent in monk-like isolation. Except for the other people. And the liquor. And the møøse.

Having traveled hundreds of miles by autocar and flotilla, only to pass through the walleye curtain that is the Canuckistan border, I found myself marooned on an island, with not even a Mrs. Howell to break the monotony. I had no survival gear besides my wits, several changes of clothes, a comfortable queen-size bed, a decent if not great novel, and a lodge with a well-stocked bar.

At times, it was touch-and-go. Should we have another beer or switch to bourbon? Fish for breakfast; what sort of madness lives here? But survive we did, somehow, miraculously. It wasn't pretty, and there are many men who would have run screaming for home long before I did, but they have neither my fortitude nor my children. We managed. Nay, we thrived!

Or so I thought. This morning, returning home through the vast tundra that makes up the "country" (i.e. suburb) to our north, I saw two men walking (or were they lurking?) in a field. Were they farmers? Møøse hunters? Terrorists? We will never know, for when this darkening cloudy threat to national security was brought to the attention of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the only response was a puzzled expression and a rude inquisition regarding our treatment history. Is it any surprise we celebrated with a resounding chorus of, "Suck it, Canada!" when we finally escaped?

God bless the U S of A!!!

UPDATE: Hell hath no fury.