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Wanna know how I got these scars?


I was having an interesting conversation with my family last night. The Beast has just had his wisdom teeth out; of course that makes me feel not at all old and decrepit, a little rusty, and probably impotent, and we were trying to figure out what to do about the stitches. Then I noticed. None of my kids have ever had stitches unless it was part of a procedure. Seriously. They've busted teeth, got black eyes, and almost hanged themselves, but they've never had a "friend" jam a hockey stick through the front spokes of their bicycle and go face first into the pavement. None of my kids have ever broken their nose. I don't think any of them have seen a glass topped table, never mind headbutting one. They haven't walked through sliding glass doors, ridden their bikes into lit barbeque grills, walked into open locker doors, fallen down stairs, jumped head first onto open dresser drawers, or even ever had to tell the ambulance guy "I dun't remember how it happened, don't tell my mom."

My kids have had broken bones, both real and imaginary, but they've never been hit in the face on a dare with the side of a tennis racquet. I don't know if that's good or bad. Really.

I'm a little afraid of what will happen the first time they see a huge pool of their own blood. Will they freak out? I know I did the first time... and the second.. and third... then it got a little routine. Still hurt, but I wasn't afraid of bleeding to death.

I really can't tell you how often I've had stitches. I have a scar on the top of my head from a car trunk lid (I got the My First Concussion playset for Christmas), one above my right eye from God only knows, a good ol' frankenstein right in the middle of my forehead, a small one over my lip from the tennis racquet fiasco, two on my chin, and one on my right ear where they sewed it back on. I have a smallish bump on my nose from a walking issue and scars all over my legs, knees, and hands. It got so bad that my father used to keep a suture set and Novocaine in the refrigerator.

I'm not saying my kids have never really hurt themselves, they've all busted teeth for example, and like I've said, broken bones. But the scars aren't there. And that's what worries me. How will they know that their kid will survive that long walk through the closed sliding glass door of life?

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RIP Robert Pirsig and a late "tuck you" to Earth Day


First things first. As much as they deny it now, back in the day, the jackasses who decided to step thousands of years into the past and worship nature Gods picked this asshole to be their Dr facto spokesman. When you spend your time dreaming of the extinction of the human race, what's one hippy chick, more or less?

Remember folks, I'm an environmentalist. I hate litter and pollution. But not at the expense of people. So give a hoot, don't pollute, but also don't murder your girlfriend and go into hiding and mooch off of gullible and stupid rock stars and artists for twenty years. It's a bad look.

And speaking of nuts, Robert Pirsig died. He wrote about going nuts in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Sort of. He had a schizophrenic break as a young man and wrote this book, I think, to make some sense out of it. There really is no sense to be made, and the book depressed me when I read it.

I wonder if there's some kind of genetic incompatibility between western people and eastern thought that can give rise to serious mental illness? Maybe it's the meditation or intense concentration it takes to really understand eastern thinking. I don't know, but I once had the idea that a civilization based on reason and experimentation (the idea that you can understand nature by putting smaller and smaller pieces of it into a box and observing it to understand how it works), didn't jive well with meditation without action. At any rate, it seems that occidentals who get deep into eastern philosophy go nuts at a higher rate. Or at least that's how it seems to me, but it may be a personality thing, at any rate, I threw away my copy of the Bhagavad Gita, lost my copy of the Vedas and didn't like this book. RIP Robert.

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All right, you "fashion-forward" screwheads


There is a difference between a "button-up" shirt and a "button-down" shirt. Learn it.

Forget it. I'll learn it for you.

A "button-down" shirt has little buttons to fasten down the collar. As opposed to; a tab that buttons under the tie, plastic or metal collar stays that get shoved in the corners of the collar and lost in the wash, or nothing at all except for a strong belief in the wearers own moral superiority. A "button-up" shirt has buttons on the front that hold it closed. As opposed to studs or, God forbid, a shirtfront. You would never have a button-down collar on a shirt that isn't a button-up, but you MAY have a button-up shirt that is not a button-down.

Got it?

In other news, the "Today" show? A bunch of fucking idiots.

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I just gotta say


I am back down to where I should be. I'm wearing my favorite pants again. It's been 5 years. 5. That's insane, I know. Who keeps pants that don't fit for five years? maddad. That's who. They fit now. and are even a bit big. Now I still can't lift what I could five years ago, but my endurance is better. I could probably stand to lose another ten pounds, if I'm honest, but given where I store my flab, I don't think my pants size will change any more than it has.

I will probably attempt to get rid of those 10 extra pounds before I have to have shoulder surgery in the fall, just as a precaution.

I'll probably up my big lifts over the next month or so and keep riding 50 miles a week. Maybe more if I can get outside.

So there. This, plus the fact that I quit smoking almost fifteen years ago makes me better than you.

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Well shit.


What am I going to do on vacation now?

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RIP Gerard


One of my favorite bloggers, and one of the most frequent blogs that I've linked to over the years, died on Feb 27 after what seems to be a very sudden onset illness. The PreSurfer aka Gerard Vlemmings.

He had an eye for the neatest things, and I visited his site almost every day that I was at my desk. In the early days we exchanged some emails and left comments on each other's stuff. He's one of the four bloggers that I ever gave my real name and email address to. It's a shame that in these days of a sharply cleaved internet there's almost no one left to simply entertain us. I'll miss that about Gerard.

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Veggie Tales has gone to hell...


Wanted Melody from Wanted Melody on Vimeo.

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