Some (most) people don't get me. Had this excellent chat with our quality assurance engineer yesterday.

QA Guy: Mike, you should apply to be a manager in our company.

Me: Nah, I've got no interest in that.

QA Guy: (Astonished) Why is that, Mike? You would be very good at this job.

Me: It sounds horrible. I have no desire to manage people.

QA Guy: But Mike, it is a good job and you would be very good at it, sir.

Me: It's not for me. It's one of many jobs that I have no interest in. I don't want to be a garbage man, or the President, or a manager, or a hooker, or a...

QA Guy: (More astonished) Hooker?!?!

Me: Yeah, hooker.

QA Guy: Why do you say hooker?

Me: Well, it's a job I don't want.

QA Guy: But what would make you think of hooker?

Me: Geez, I don't know. I was listing a whole bunch of jobs that sound unappealing to me. Hooker is one of those. Manager too.

QA Guy: But Mike! When people ask me what kind of jobs I would not like, I would never think to say hooker!

Me: Do you want to be a hooker?

QA Guy: No! Ok, sir, you are right. From now on, when people ask what kind of work I would like to do, I will say that I do not want to be a hooker.

He's coming around.

Our house, which sits on a hill, only has one common room. That room is filled with audio visual equipment, chairs and couches, some cabinets, a wood burning stove, a piano, a crappy table, and a buttload of toys and games. This ain't one of those little butts either. We're talking about a really big butt.

My wife looks at this room and sees a mess. I look at the room and wonder how we'll cram more stuff into it. From these two opposing viewpoints, we have both concluded that we need more space. Thankfully, since our family room juts out from the hillside, there is actually a room-sized space underneath it that opens out onto the backyard. This space, currently filled with gardening equipment, and unfinished finishing projects, is just begging to be turned into another room.

So, months ago, we began the process of expanding our house. We enlisted the help of an architect, reviewed countless blueprints, and are now entering the crucial stage of the project known as Bureaucracy.

The city of San Francisco has a whole host of rules and regulations designed to make you regret owning a house in San Francisco. Currently there are inspectors crawling around in my ass, looking for...I don't know...termites? Polyps? Republicans? Some such hazard. Because we are expanding the footprint of our house, by a whopping 3 feet, everybody and their uncle gets to have a look up my butt.

Last weekend we had to walk around to all our neighbors' houses and deliver them an invitation to a Community Outreach meeting, hosted at our home. This was to be their opportunity to review our plans, give us feedback, conspire against us, etc. This is just one step in the unwieldy city review process.

Tonight was the meeting. It was time to reach out to the community. The wife and I furiously tidied up the house. Many of our neighbors have never been in our home, and it seemed like a bad time to let them know that we're big slobs. I wiped down all sorts of crazy surfaces while my wife put out a dazzling array of fruits and cheeses. Fed neighbors are happy neighbors. And then, once everything was set, we waited.

And we waited some more.

And no one showed! Whoooo! This was actually the best outcome. I really didn't want to deal with nosy neighbors trying to amend our unambitous plans.

Actually that's not true. One couple, that we were not required to invite, did come over to keep us company. They're our Super Impressive Neighbors. The husband is a professor of computer science at a top University, a musical virtuoso, and the director of a local community theater. The wife is an emergency room doctor who cares for orphaned baby birds in her spare time, sometimes while training for triathlons. I think they're also astronauts.

Me? I blog. Go me!

But they're super nice folks, and they had no feedback on our plans. Those are good neighbors.

So, yesterday, I went to the Serenity preview. I'll discuss the movie later, but now let's talk about the line to get into the movie. Line blogs rule.

I had been informed via email to arrive at the theater "AT LEAST 45 minutes" before the show. This sounded a bit extreme to me considering that San Francisco is filled with hipster slackers and slugabeds, but I knew my seat wasn't guaranteed, so I followed the directions dutifully. I picked up Pablo and we got to the theater nearly an hour and a quarter before show time.

The line was pretty damn long. There were easily a couple hundred people ahead of us. I guess even slugabeds can make it to a movie theater by 6:00pm.

The crowd was easily identifiable as Serenity fans. I saw lots of poorly groomed facial hair, Joss Whedon t-shirts, faces buried in comic books, and asses that said, "I love the couch!". There was even one guy in blue gloves acting out a bit part as a villian from the Firefly series. Ahhhh, I felt at home.

Pablo and I stood out in the cold for almost an hour before the line began to move. When we were about 20 people from the ticket-taker a theater employee made an announcement. My heart sank.

"The Serenity preview is now sold out. There are no more seats. This is NOT the fault of the theater. If you stay in line you can get a free pass to another movie and a Serenity poster."

GAH! I'd been standing in a cold line for an hour, excited, with my email printout patiently waiting in my back pocket. Now, I just felt like a lame sellout blogger. Also, I was pissed. I growled at Pablo and continued standing in line, determined to get something, anything, for my efforts. A few minutes later there was another announcement.

"We are now out of free passes. Thank you all for coming. We do still have some posters."

GAAAAAAH! Horrible. I growled at Pablo again and stayed in the line, eventually reaching the poster person. I thrust my email invitation at him, to which he said, "Oh, I can't give you a poster for those. You'll have to stand over there and speak to that other lady. She's in charge of those."

I blinked at him a few times, unwilling to accept that now I was going to have to jump through more hoops just to get my lame-ass poster. I stood there for a few more moments and then thrust my email at him again. He finally shrugged, took my email, and handed me the poster, which I immediately tore up.

BLAM! TAKE THAT! Oooooh! What a burn on you, Serenity-preview-affiliated-person-and-corporations! I walked away, leaving my shredded poster on top of the nearest trash can. Damn, I'm a bad-ass, Sinead O'Conner style!

I strutted over to the parking machine with Pablo and inserted my parking garage ticket to see what the damage was. $7.00. I was going to have to pay $7.00 for the privilege of standing in line for an hour. I bristled at the thought. Pablo suggested that perhaps we could get our ticket validated, so we wandered back into the fray.

As we passed through the crowd, I heard a woman say, "Ok now, bloggers, get out your printed emails."

Whaaa? But they... But I...

I popped over in front of the woman and asked if there were still seats available. She explained that there were a few seats, but they were reserved for bloggers who had brought the printed email. "That's me!" I said, "but I gave my email to the other guy for a poster." She said I should go get my email back.

I rushed over to the poster guy.

"Hey," I meekly said, "Can I have my email back"

He gave me a classic you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression and said, "No way!"

"Oh, come on. Please?"

"No! You ripped up that poster in front of me! That's totally rude! You're not getting in." He then strode over to the woman in charge, pointed at Pablo and me, and said, "Don't let those two guys in!"

Well, well, well. Isn't that a kick in the teeth? The guy I cut off on the freeway never shoves it in my face. That one kid that I teased, who was more of a social outcast than me in high school, he never retaliated. Now, poster guy makes me own up to my dickheadedness? That's not supposed to happen! How is that fair?

I had two choices before me. Either be resolute, confident that I had been jerked around, regardless of my reaction, and walk away proudly. Or, grovel and ask for my email back.

Surprise surprise, I chose the latter.

Poster guy and I spent the next few minutes launching dueling "Ok, hear me out" volleys. I expressed how my poster-ripping was a reasonable emotional reaction, and he countered by explaining that my actions were inappropriate and seemingly directed at him. We went around in circles for a bit, until the in-charge lady came by and told us to calm down. She said there were 2 crummy seats left in the front row. I looked over at poster guy imploringly, but he wouldn't budge.

I exhorted. I whined. I gestured appealingly.

Somehow, something cracked. Poster guy threw up his hands in disgust, and finally motioned for Pablo and I to be let in.

VICTORY! The sweet smell of compromised principles propelled Pablo and I into the theater where we found decent seats in the 2nd row. Ahhhhhhh.

Naturally after all that standing around, and whining, I had to pee. I trotted out to the bathroom, took my place at one of the two urinals and started my dirty business. Almost immediately another man entered the room and stood before the adjacent urinal. It was poster guy.

"Hey," he started, "I didn't mean to be a dick back there."

"Oh, it's ok. I did mean to be a dick and you called me on it! Usually I get away with that crap."

Poster guy gave me a grudging smile and told me to enjoy the film. I briefly considered kissing him, but that has a strange way of being misconstrued in this town, so I washed up and returned to the theater, just as the movie was beginning.

I saw poster guy one more time. After the movie, as Pablo and I left the theater, we passed each other in the hallway. We exchanged brief 'Hey's, but no kisses.

And that's my line story.

So, how was the movie, you ask? Bit of a letdown after all that line excitement, but still pretty darn good. Without spoiling anything, here's my mini-review.

I wouldn't recommend it to folks who have no tolerance for action movies, but if you find an occasional one you enjoy, then you might enjoy this too.

For any Firefly fan, it's a must-see. It was a joy seeing those characters again, and they were as smartly written as ever. Joss Whedon spun his usual web of action and character-driven humor, which was a pleasure to watch. Also, the characters and the ship looked good on the big screen.

The ending wrapped things up a little too neatly, but Whedon took some a couple of risks along the way, so I'll cut him some slack.

I hope he finds a way to continue this story. And I hope to be (a little) less of a dick and a whore in the future.

Dear reader(s),

Hi Hank!

Yesterday I learned that I am a big fat whore.

Ok, I exaggerate a wee bit. I'm not really very big. Mostly just a whore, and a cheap one at that. Let's go with "one-bit whore". That fits snugly.

Why am I a whore, you ask? I have taken this blog that we (ok, I) love so very much and I have polluted it with vile and clumsy marketing from the movie Serenity. I've become a corporate shill. I've sold out to the man. I've slaughtered figurative puppies and eaten them raw.

Poor figurative puppies.

Sometimes the blogosphere is like a big mirror, in which I can peer to see if my ass looks fat in these pants, or if I'm suddenly giving blowjobs for pocket change. Yesterday it was the latter.

On Saturday I posted about how I scored a chance to see the Serenity preview in exchange for writing a blog post about the flick. Then, on Sunday a fairly popular blog called gaping void linked to me, wondering if the Serenity marketing team had bungled this effort by requiring that bloggers write about the movie. He posited that perhaps a better approach would have been to give out the tickets with no strings attached.

A little later that day, a blogger at New Persuasion stated that they had also scored a pass to the preview but would be boycotting it for ethical reasons, in protest of the blogging requirements. He linked to me as an example of "another viewpoint". Tactfully put.

Then, hours later, meta-site Blogebrity weighed in with a summary of the matter. In a single paragraph they laid out the timeline of the blogosphere's relationship with Serenity, identifying me as the naive gaga blogger, smitten with Serenity's offer, and blinded by my crush. Other blogs were linked to as being more evolved.

In the blogosphere, issues are raised, summarized, and mocked all within hours. It's a good place.

Apparently I have violated the sanctity of the corporate-free blogspot domain. For that I am deeply, deeply apathetic. For all of you that have come here seeking brand-name-free philosphy and thoughtfully-considered politics, I highly recommend the "Next Blog" button. It never fails.

On the plus side, in the last 36 hours, nearly 200 people have clicked over to this site and then hurriedly clicked away in disgust. Hi there!

(NOTE: To the users who have bookmarked THIS page, I encourage you to check out the rest of my blog, starting here)

If you had asked me yesterday to list all the good things that have come out of this blog, I would have listed exactly one: it pleases me.

Today that list of good things doubles in size. We've now updated the Good Thing Color Alert level to aquamarine.

One of my favorite TV shows of all time was a short-lived sci-fi series called Firefly. In general, I'm a sucker for sci-fi, but this was something special. The characters were fun instead of cheesy and the dialog just sparkled. The show was penned by Josh Whedon, and although I never watched his Buffy or Angel shows, I'm prepared to offer him my first second-born child as a token of my appreciation. I miss this series like I miss Webvan.

Thankfully, they've made a movie out of the show. It's called "Serenity" and it will be opening at the end of this month. I've been itching to see it for an embarrassingly long period of time.

Last week I saw an Instapundit post that said that bloggers could attend preview showings of "Serenity" if they were willing to blog about it. I contemplated this for many milliseconds. Could the blogosphere withstand the replacement of a post about how I drool in my sleep for a post about "Serenity"? It was a tough decision, but I emailed my request to the powers-that-be and was rewarded with a confirmation email this morning (that had better not be a cruel joke).

As terms of this deal, I must post a synopsis of the flick:

Joss Whedon, the Oscar® - and Emmy - nominated writer/director responsible for the worldwide television phenomena of BUFFY THE VAMPIRE, ANGEL and FIREFLY, now applies his trademark compassion and wit to a small band of galactic outcasts 500 years in the future in his feature film directorial debut, Serenity. The film centers around Captain Malcolm Reynolds, a hardened veteran (on the losing side) of a galactic civil war, who now ekes out a living pulling off small crimes and transport-for-hire aboard his ship, Serenity. He leads a small, eclectic crew who are the closest thing he has left to family –squabbling, insubordinate and undyingly loyal.

Tuesday night, baby. I'm so there. Envy me.

This morning I took an online harassment training course. I learned that you're not allowed to make comments about someone in regards to any of their "Protected" attributes. Here's the list of what constitutes "Protected":

• Sexual harassment
• Race or color
• Religious creed
• National Origin or Ancestry
• Physical disability, Mental Disability, Medical Condition
• Marital or Pregnancy Status
• Sex or Gender
• Age
• Sexual Orientation
• Opposition to Unlawful Harassment

This means that I can't mock my coworkers for being sexy, or tan, or agnostic, or caucasian, or psychotic, or married, or male, or old, or straight, or...uh...opposed to unlawful harassment.

The online course did a fine job of helping me identify all these ways in which I should shut my big yapper. Sadly, since taking this course, I've had little to say. What's left? "Hey, coworker. Nice....day! It's a nice goddamn darn day."

Screw that.

So, I've scrutinized the list, trying to figure out what's left. Where are the loopholes? I think it comes down to these:

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

As long as I'm not commenting on some aspect of their appearance that is derived from a medical condition, or could be misconstrued as sexual, I'm good here. For example:

"Nice work, baldy!"

"Look out for that ceiling, tall guy! Ha ha!" (Note: this is a zinger!)

"Whoa! You are UGLY!"

As long as they aren't medically ugly, I think that's safe. Phew!


POLITICS

Why this is off the list, I don't know, but apparently it's fair game.

"Wait wait wait! Tell me again how you thought it was a good idea to vote for a crappy action movie star for governor! That NEVER gets old!"

"Your promotion is dependent upon your opinion of abortion."

This is a gold mine.


STUPIDITY

As long as the stupid person doesn't suffer from a diagnosed disability, this is acceptable territory. I'll be going for the jugular.

"Although I respect your sexual orientation, religion, and opposition to unlawful harassment, YOU ARE ONE STUPID ASSHOLE! YOU'RE LIKE A BLACK HOLE OF SMARTS, SUCKING ALL THE INTELLIGENCE OUT OF THE ROOM!" (I've used this one twice today already!)


HATRED

No rule against hating somebody.

"I hate you."

See? Sometimes the simple answer is the best one.


The list really goes on. Incompetence, societal standing, odor: these are all acceptable conversational topics. I could probably list many more.

Suddenly, I'm smiling again. Life is good.

We have returned from sunny Southern California, land of Disney and anniversary parties.

The 50th anniversary party went pretty smoothly. I learned, however, that if you take a room full of old pious people, the toasts are more likely to be rambling than clever:

"I remember this lovely couple from our college days. Oh, we had some good times. One day, after going out for ice cream sundaes, I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time. Now! To take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days, nickels had pictures of bumblebees on 'em. 'Give me five bees for a quarter,' you'd say. Now, where were we?"

Nobody rocks an anniversary party like Grandpa Simpson.

My lovely daughter Daisy took one look at the table where we were being sat, saw all the old people and said, "Can I go sit at the kids' table?" She was the lucky one. There was one couple at our table that had met the couple of honor back when they were attending Divinity school. These days the husband spends his time reading scripture to his wife while she does beading projects. They were as nice as can be, but after I made one failed evolution joke, I decided to keep my mouth shut the rest of the night.

We went to Disneyland the next day and that was more lively. My daughter, however, is still terrified of most things in that amusement park. In computer science, we have a concept called a "wildcard character". It allows you to easily search through many files, or create an expression that refers to multiple things at once. Often that character is an asterisk. This is a handy concept because it allows me to succinctly say: Daisy is afraid of *.

I knew we were in trouble within minutes of arriving at the park. We hopped on the train ride that slowly rides around the circumference of the park. It travels at around 5 miles per hour.

"Daddy? Are there going to be any tunnels?"

"Geez, I don't recall. Maybe, but not scary ones. It's just a train that gets us to the other side of the park."

Soon, the train entered a tunnel that allowed us to pass through a corner of Splash Mountain. My daughter shrieked with fear and ducked her head into my lap.

"Oh, sweet girl, this isn't a scary tunnel. Look at Splash Mountain! Look, there's dancing chickens! Look at the cute dancing chickens!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

And so it began. The dancing chickens were terrifying. The sluggish robots on the Buzz Lightyear ride were horror incarnate, and the Ursula float in the parade was a tear-inducing monstrosity.

Ahhh, the magic of Disney.

Meanwhile, the ride schedule we had constructed with RideMax was becoming less and less useful. First, we arrived at the park an hour later than I had anticipated. Then, we had to ignore nearly half of the rides on my list because they were nightmare-inducing. In the end, we just decided to wing it. We found more Daisy-friendly rides at the California Adventure park. Those rides tend to be more crappy and less thematic, and thus less scary.

Plus, they have the midway games where you can spend dozens of dollars to win cents worth of stuffed prizes. As always, my daughter dutifully launched skee balls in every possible direction, eventually garnering so much pity from the game operator, that she cheated on Daisy's behalf and gave her a prize. I could see skee balls shooting across the pavement from where I stood at the baseball-throwing game, vainly trying to knock over cardboard targets. The 4th time I plunked down my $2.00, I finally won my daughter a crappy little monkey, but by then she had already won her own prize and was not interested in my gift. I call him the $8.00 monkey. He mocks me.






My favorite Disney moment was standing in line waiting to get Pooh's autograph for my daughter. The 2 year-old girl in front of us was methodically licking the rope divider that ran along the line. She'd pounce on each new section, hoping it would be more delicious than the last, and apparently it would be. She'd eagerly wrap her lips around that rope like it was a ropecicle, while her parents obliviously stared into space. Man, she really went at it. I should be so enthusiastic. About anything!

That is all.

The family is heading to Los Angeles this weekend to help some friends celebrate a 50th wedding anniversary. 50 years is an unfathomably long time to be married. I can't even imagine what my wife and I would talk about after 5 decades of marriage:

Me: This new jet pack hurts my back.
Wife: Uh huh
Me: Did I ever tell you about the time...
Wife: YES! OF COURSE YOU DID! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST SHUT UP!!

I suppose that's not so bad.

We'll be spending Sunday at Disneyland. I know what you're all thinking. You're saying, "Mike, you're such an efficiency whore. How ever will you optimize your time at Disneyland to maximize fun? You whore, you!"

I'm not sure why you're all calling me a whore. It's hostile and inappropriate. I'm kind of weirded out now.

Anyways, back to the efficiency issue. As we all know, everything is available on the Internet: midget donkey porn, mediocre business integration software, and excruciatingly self-centered blogs. So, why not programs that allow you to schedule your day in Disneyland down to the very minute? Why the hell not.

So, I've downloaded this software called RideMax, where you enter the parameters of your trip (what day you're going, what rides you like, whether you walk fast or slow, how much of a control freak you are, etc), and then it gives you minute-by-minute instructions on how to spend your time. They have been gathering data for years, recording the length of the various ride lines at various times of day, days of the week, and seasons. This is either genius or a sign that human beings are about to become extinct. Either way, as long as the extinction thing doesn't happen before this weekend is over, it's all good.

The program produces instructions like this:

8:00am: Get in line for the goddamn Tea Cup ride
- Line duration: 8 minutes
- Ride duration: 4 minutes:

8:12am: Vomit

8:13am: Walk to Space Mountain

8:19am: Get in line for Space Mountain
- Line duration: 11 minutes
- Ride duration: 5 minutes:

8:35am: Regret decision to buy RideMax software

8:35:30am: Vomit/Urinate.

etc

So, does planning software like this maximize my fun? Or suck the last bit of joy out of a day at an amusement park. I guess we'll find out....

Some (but certainly not all) ways in which I am a bad husband:

1) Often, as I leave the house to run an errand, I will turn to my wife and say, "If I'm not back in a few hours, it's because I've left you."

2) Long ago, after I had failed to pay attention to something important my wife said, I struck a deal with her. "Hank," I said, "There's no way I can listen to you ALL the time. So, how about when you're about to say something that I actually need to hear, you can say a special code word? Like 'Zwieback'." It's been our/my system ever since. It works because she never remembers to say Zwieback.

3) I call her Hank in my blog.

My daughter enjoys cooking projects. Although she's happy to be the chef's assistant, she prefers to be in charge and make up her own recipes. Given that her palate is unsophisticated and her cooking expertise is minimal, these concoctions are usually pretty nasty. Plus, her ingredients choices are limited. Allergies prevent her from using milk, eggs, or nuts.

"Daddy, I want to make something with eggs!" she exclaimed at the supermarket this weekend. "I know I won't be able to eat what I make, but I still want to use them."

So, I bought some eggs, and yesterday afternoon she got to work. She bounded into my office midway through her project. "Daddy! It's going to be green! I used food coloring!" And then she bounded back into the kitchen. At this point I was hoping for some sort of green eggs and ham motif, but I doubted it would be that tasty.

I came downstairs at the end of my workday just as Daisy's gourmet creation was cooling from its oven baking. It looked like a lumpy greenish-grey quiche. The color was unnatural.

"Ewwwww!" I said encouragingly, "What is it?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know."

"Is it sweet?" I asked hopefully.

"Yes! It has sugar!"

"What are those brown lumps?"

"Breadcrumbs!"

"Well, I'll try a piece," I said bravely. I cut a narrow sliver of the dense spongey matter and eyed it carefully. I spotted some stringy white slivers. "Is that coconut?" I questioned.

"Yes!" she said proudly.

Well, coconut, eggs, sugar, breadcrumbs. Those aren't terrible things, I thought to myself. Dig in!

I chomped down on a piece and was overwhelmed with salt. It was oh-my-god-the-oceans-are-drying-up-so-what-should-we-do-with-all-this-salt salty. My mouth puckered. It was more horrible than I expected. My daughter was watching me, wide-eyed and eager. She was expecting me to say something.

"This is HORRIBLE!" I lovingly intoned. "WAAAAAAY too much salt. Don't ever ever ever make this again."

Next time I'm going to forbid her from making something that she's allergic to. If she wants to make it, she has to eat some too. It's only fair. I was traumatized.

Yesterday I crammed the family into the car and drove out to the suburbs for my brother-in-law's birthday. We were supposed to be there at 3:00pm, but at my urging, we had left the city plenty early.

I don't do many things well. I can't play an instrument or dance. I'm unable to cook or fix things around the house. I drool in my sleep.

I am one bad-ass mo-fo when it comes to being on time though. I elegantly slice my way through the fourth dimension like an athlete. It's marvelous to behold.

Unfortunately, another thing I'm bad at is remembering directions. I have virtually no sense of direction. So, we're cruising up and down the main boulevard in the city of San Ramon, looking for something, anything, familiar. Thankfully we're a little early, so there's plenty of time to drive around.

The minutes tick by as I slowly come to the realization that I don't know how to get where we're going. My wife asks if she should call my family and ask for directions. Not yet. Not just yet.

I simultaneously keep my eye on the clock and on the road. They're converging in a sickening way.

Then, I'm at the moment of decision. Do I continue searching for my destination, risking being late? Or do I cave and ask for directions. Do I poke out my own eye or chop off a testicle? Same question.

I mean, being on time is the ONE THING that I do really really well. When I die, people will say, "Mike was kind of a surly bastard, but goddamn he was punctual." So, do I sacrifice a piece of what I best represent in the interest of not asking for help? Or, do I do what no self-respecting man does, and acknowledge that I'm testosterone-deficient by asking for directions?

To be or not to be? Rock! Hard place!! AAAAAAAAAAH!!!

So, I sliced off my left nut and called for help. We walked up to their house at exactly 3:00pm.

Am I proud? No. Would I do it the same way all over again? Sure, I've got one more testicle.

Something about being about 1/3 of the way through September makes people want to have birthday parties. And crash airplanes into buildings. I was mostly affected by the former this particular weekend.

I went to two birthday parties for six year-olds yesterday and my brother-in-law's party today. So, let's see, 9 months before September 11th was December 11th. Why were so many people conceiving children on December 11th? Uh, it's four days after Pearl Harbor day. I guess that's kinda sexy. Sometimes Hanukkah falls in early December. Hornykkah apparently. I really have no idea.

So, yesterday, the kidlet drags me to two separate birthday parties, both of which made me feel horribly out of place. The first one was a Harry Potter themed party. The parents developed various Harry Potter themed activities, built a dragon in the backyard, turned their garage into a spooky tunnel, and assumed Happy Potter personas as they led the children through various witch and wizard activities. It looked like a ridiculous amount of creativity and effort.

I reflected upon my daughter's last birthday party which we held in a park, allowing the kids just to run around and play. Amount of creativity required: 0. Certainly my wife put in many hours of cooking and prep, but we didn't actually have to successfully perform magic. I sat at this party and watched one of the parents pull off a competetent Professor McGonagall impression while leading the kids through a Hogwarts-themed ballroom dance competition and thought, "Man! My kid oughta have parents like that!"

Better luck next time, Daisy.

The next party was held at a gymnastics studio. The kids were led through various gymnastic exercises, while the parents sat around and gabbed about their vaginas. Ok, not all of them talked about their vaginas because there were some men there, but I'm not really very good at the male bonding thing. I've always sucked at it. Now that I know something about baseball, I figured that I could at least fake a sports-themed conversation. So, when I saw that one of the guys had a SF Giants screen-saver on his phone, I brought up the most recent Giants' game.

That ploy worked for about 10 seconds before he got a good whiff o' nerd and quickly excused himself. The guys there were all just much cooler than me. They were discussing bands I had never heard of so I had a hard time inserting myself into the conversation. My only option was to try and out-cool them by making up band names.

"Dawgs, you heard the new single by the Hornikkahs? It puts the fo in the shizzle!"

Instead, I put my penis between my legs and retreated back to the women, where the conversation was about...giving birth!

One chick's baby was big, and another chick had a baby with broad shoulders, so they were all "woe is my vagina". I had little to offer although I seriously considering making up a story about the time I crapped out a bicycle tire. Uncharacteristically, I refrained.

Today's birthday party was just family, so I fit in pretty well. Just to be safe, I kept my vagina stories to myself.

Dooce does this great thing where she chronicles the development of her daughter on a monthly basis. It's done in the form of a letter to her daughter to be read at a future time. I like it. I write about my daughter all the time, but I never write to her. No time like the present. Let's make this an irregularly-scheduled, but annual-ish, tradition, starting NOW...

Dear Daisy,

First off, you're probably wondering who the hell Daisy is. It's you. Because the Internet is filled with child-stealing criminals who can magically find a child based on a name and a blogspot URL, I have constructed your first nom de web in the interest of safety. I tried to pick a name as cheerful as you are.

Now then, you're six years old and you just started the first grade last week. Somehow, despite my ignorant parenting, you're turning into a pretty damn good kid. Let's see how you're shaping up.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Well, I haven't really measured you in a while. Crap. Hang on.

....

Ok, I just checked. You come up about 2 inches above my belly-button.

Oh, wait again. Your mother just walked in and she says that you're 42.5 inches tall and you weigh about 42 pounds. At least you've got one good parent. Keep in mind, however, that this business about having a greater height (in inches) than weight (in pounds) ain't gonna last forever. Enjoy it, babe.

Your hair is pretty long, cascading a couple inches below your shoulders. In fact, as someone who helps comb your hair, it's too damn long. Either cut it or keep the ice cream, paint, and chewing gum out of it.

EMOTIONAL MATURITY

You've really matured a lot in the last year. You used to get so frustrated by all the things on the planet that you weren't good at. You'd curl up into a sobbing little ball if you didn't like the look of your lowercase Qs, or if the yoyo didn't snap back into your hand. I think now you're beginning to understand that some things take a while to learn. Although I can still hear the tearful stress in your voice when your piano practice doesn't go well, you're just as likely to laugh it off.

Also, I think you're gaining an appreciation for the other people's feelings. I know that as an only child the world often centers around you, so it's somewhat unnatural to share your toys, or let someone else pick the playtime activity. Your mother and I have seen good improvement here recently. I don't know if its the nagging that we've done, or if your concern for others is truly growing, but I'll take what I can get. Keep it up!

HUMOR

You're at a great disadvantage here. You were born to a sarcastic and geeky father and a mother who humors him. Tough knocks, babe.

You struggle to construct jokes, but the essence of finely crafted humor eludes you. Your typical joke goes like this:

You: Dad, want to hear my latest joke.
Me: Sure
You: Why is there a cow on an airplane?
Me: Geez, I don't know. A poorly thought-out airline promotion?
You: No! There are no cows on airplanes!!! Hahahahahaha! Get it? Get it?!?! See, cows don't go on airplanes.
Me: Time for bed.

Honest to god, that's your idea of a joke. I can't even diagram where exactly the humor is supposed to be.

That being said, your ability to laugh at fine humor is pretty well-developed. You've always had a refined taste for slapstick and I've successfully bullied you into enjoying fart jokes. Once we break you of your appreciation for puns, there's no stopping you.

SKILLS

Your abilities have really exploded this year. You're at the age where you have decent motor control and you can master most tasks with enough practice. Your swimming really started to develop this summer and your reading is starting to take off too.

Reading is still frustrating for you. Your mom reads you interesting stories with complex language at nighttime, but then when you read on your own, your abiliities limit you to Dr. Seuss type books. It's hard for you to stay interested in practicing your reading when the books are so far below your ability to comprehend. You're getting it though.

Recently you've started to crochet and you're also getting good at the pogo stick. This is all exciting for me to watch. Most impressive is seeing you play the piano. I love watching your focus and intensity when you practice a new song.

Of course what you do best is talk. You talk all the time, but you do it with style and charm. To this day, when we encounter some new adult, and you spiral off on one of your monologues, the adult will invariably turn to me, slightly confused, and ask, "How old is she??". Your small size combined with your large vocabulary and immense poise is surprising to strangers. It's a fun game.

PERSONALITY

Although we all have our moods, in general, you're a delightful child. I've occasionally heard harsh words come out of your mouth, and you storm into your room on a semi-regular basis, but I always understand why.

Mostly, you're a happy and spirited child. In fact, you got some sort of "Most School Spirit" award last year. Your teacher this year was thrilled to get you in her class because she had seen your enthusiasm from afar the previous year. You are cheerful and loving and it is wondrous to me that my dark demeanor has not yet polluted you.

YOUR FAVORITES

Playtime activity: Dress-up or some other imagination-based game

TV Show: House of Mouse

Food: Pasta

Dessert: Gum

Color: Pink

Parent: Mother


It's been a good year, kid. I'm digging you more and more. Quit growing soon though, otherwise I'll have to stunt your growth with cigarettes. Not that filtered crap, either.

Out of the maybe two dozen people who read this blog, I think almost none of you give a crap about baseball. That's fair. I mean, I don't care about your priapism or your latest macramé-your-own-brassiere project. We're just different that way.

So, bear with me while I discuss the San Francisco Giants for a moment.

At the moment the Giants have won 63 games and lost 73. That means that they're about 10 wins shy of true mediocrity. Additionally, baseball statheads will tell you that the Giants aren't quite as good as their record indicates. This has been a crappy team.

I knew it would be a crappy team. I mean, we all did, except you with the priapism and you with the macramé brassiere. Months before the season began, I lamented that the Giants management had stocked the roster with aging and fragile players, optimizing for an intangible quality known as "veteran savvy". There's a reason why there's no line in the box score for savvy.

As predicted, the Giants crumbled under the weight of their combined ages. Barry Bonds hasn't played an inning all season and the rest of the Giants have spent more than their fair share of time on the disabled list. Even my six year-old daughter can summarize the Giants' season. When asked her opinion of the Giants, she'll delicately wave her hand across her nose while making a what-is-that-foul-odor face. "Steeeeeeeenky!" she'll accurately proclaim.

So, why is my heart beginning to race?

Why am I checking the standings, face half-turned away in fear, each day?

Because, with 25 games to go in the season, the Giants are in 2nd place in their Division, a mere 5 games behind the San Diego Padres. 7 of those 25 games are against the Padres.

Never before in the history of Major League Baseball has a team gone to the playoffs having won less than 50% of their games. This isn't basketball or hockey where you get to go to the playoffs if you faithfully show up and sit in your seat each day. No, this is baseball, dammit! If you want to make the playoffs, you've got to do damn well over your marathon-like 162 game season.

Until, perhaps, this season.

The Padres have won exactly 50% of their games, but they're losing their game tonight. They've been stuck at this level for months it seems. Aside from their non-trivial 5 game lead, they don't have much reason to be proud of their season, nor do they have reason to think that they'll improve.

MEANWHILE, exciting things are afoot in San Francisco. The Giants general manager, Brian Sabean, finally ditched a whole set of crappy, yet savvy, veterans, replacing them with youngsters from the minor leagues. These new players are learning and getting better every day. Additionally, the team is finally getting healthy. Our top reliever, Armando Benitez, spent four months on the disabled list and came back two weeks ago. He's been dynamite ever since. Other players have also found their groove.

AND, the most feared hitter to put on a baseball uniform in decades, Barry Lamar Bonds, is almost ready to play again. It's likely that he'll be standing in the batters box later this week.

So, despite playing crappy baseball for the last 5 months, the Giants just might sneak past the Padres and perhaps be the first team in modern baseball history to go to the playoffs with a sub .500 record. Sweet. More likely, they'll get close and then break my heart in some spectacular way. Either way. I'm just excited to be excited again.

Somebody, macramé me a rally cap!

I'm starting to feel guilty that I haven't tried to write something poignant or insightful about Hurricane Katrina or the response to it. Then I realized that I'm an idiot and this is my idiotic blog.

My chair has nothing to say about Katrina, it's just for my ass. My ass has nothing to say about Katrina, it's just for my excretory system (that's my story and I'm sticking to it). Similarly, this blog has nothing to say about Katrina. It's just a place for my dumb notes on what's been going on in my life. That being said...

Daisy and I went out to dinner together on Saturday night. We slid into opposite sides of a booth:

Daisy: Hey, this is a pretty good booth.
Me: (smiling at Daisy) Yeah, I've got a nice view here.
Daisy: (matter of factly) I don't.
Me: (smiling less) I'm talking about you. I'm talking about my view of you.
Daisy: I know.

Last night my wife, uh... Hank, and I went to dinner to celebrate our 9th anniversary, the clean sheets anniversary. We had what was easily the most expensive dinner of my life.

My wife had informed me that a jacket and tie would be appropriate attire, and I certainly own these items, but it became apparent that I was out of my league mere seconds after walking into the restaurant. The hostess politely offered to take my wife's coat, and I immediately chimed in, offering her my coat as well.

The tiny flash of panic in the hostess's eyes alerted me that I had done the equivalent of asking if I could eat dinner in my underwear. I immediately realized that it's not enough to merely wear a coat while walking through the door, but I must continue to wear it throughout dinner. Thankfully, the hostess and Hank graciously laughed as though I had been joking. I barked out a laugh along with them. Oh, funny me.

Turns out this was a rather fancy joint with French cuisine. The wife and I perused the menu and nothing jumped out at us, so she suggested that we order the Chef's menu with the wine pairing. Actually there were three different Chef's menus available. Two of them were outlined on the menu and the third was the irresistable mystery option. This was described as a personalized dinner where you place yourselves in the hands of the chef. The waiter asked us about our food allergies and preferences so that the 7 courses could be customized to our palates. I explained that I liked spicy foods but not sweet ones. Aside from that, I didn't have much to say. Honestly, what the hell am I going to say to a chef about food? "Whoa, Frenchy! Easy on the brie!" or maybe, "These snails need tabasco!"

For each of the courses (and both of the palate cleansers) they served different foods to Hank and I. Inexplicably, I was usually served the sweeter of the choices, and my wife got the more savory or spicy one. So much for my preferences. Also, the table next to ours got the exact same set of "personalized" courses. Nice touch, Frenchy.

The courses were absurdly pretentious. They were all about the size of my thumb and consisted of flavors I couldn't identify, fancy meats, and vegetables sliced quark-thin. It was more impressive than delicious, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't tasty.

My favorite moment came when the waiter (and when I say, "the waiter", I'm referring to any of the dozen people it required to serve us our 9 courses and wine and bread and water. Had this taskforce been mobilized to New Orleans, I think the victims of Katrina would be well cared for) served us our zillionth "taste" of wine.

"Zees eees a blah blah blah blah blah Sauterne," he said without a hint of a French accent. "But now, of course, I have given away zat zee next course is foie gras!" he continued, with a I-am-zee-bad-boy smile.

Hank smiled knowingly while I wondered if it's even theoretically possible for me to know less about wine than I do. I guess it was obvious to everyone else in the room that one would only serve Sauterne with organs that had been squeezed toothpaste-style out of animals, but I'm a bit of a rube. Had they served me the same wine over and over again, creating red from white by using red dye #5, I would have been none the wiser.

We did have a lovely time though, and the food was pretty damn good. It was, as they say in France, burpalicious.