Always Home and Uncool

Come to Connecticut. PLEEEEEEASE!

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 03:48:00 +0000

Let’s talk a little about my ‘hood -- Connecticut.

With deficits and taxes growing larger than a sperm whale (um, that's our state animal), our governor decided to spend $22 million to rebrand and market Connecticut abroad as a tourist destination.

At first glance, it seems excessive.

Then you reflect deeply and frankly about this place I call home -- and you see the light.

That's NOWHERE near enough money to undo centuries of work to make Connecticut the most generic of the Northeastern states.

Consider our state bird: the ubiquitous American robin. State song: "Yankee Doodle." Our seat of government: Hartford -- The Insurance Capital of the World.

Welcome, stranger, to the Land of Steady Habits. We are bland; hear us snore.

The four (four!) agencies the state hired for this job must be real Mad Men. Look at our competition just in New England:

Vermont's a crunchy life of skiing and maple syrup.
New Hampshire proclaims "Live Free or Die" when not in the presidential primary spotlight.
Maine is synonymous with lobster.
Massachusetts has Pilgrims, Bunker Hill, Kennedys, Hahvad Yahd, etc.
Even without its legendary music festivals, Rhode Island still has the distinction of being the tiniest state of them all.

But try to define Connecticut.

Long Island Sound? Maybe if it wasn't for, oh, …the NAME

Mystic Seaport? Not quite a Boston Harbor tea party.

Mark Twain? Lived and wrote in Hartford for decades but he is forever associated with Huck, Tom and the South.

His neighbor Harriet Beecher Stowe? Her house is one of at least three "historic" Stowe residences throughout the country and ours is not the one where she penned Uncle Tom's Cabin.

Yale? You mean that other Ivy League school.

The Coast Guard Academy? That would be home to the fifth most popular of the nation’s five armed military forces.

Lyme Disease? Well, it is our best known export …

Connecticut's portrayal in literature and Hollywood also rarely screams, "Pack up the kids, we're road trippin'!" We're bored suburbanites, preppy snobs, anti-Semites or Stepford wives. Even the Ricardos and Mertzes lasted only a dozen episodes in Westport before shutting down that legendary Desilu production.

Past Connecticut marketing campaigns prove our lack of "wow factor." Most focused on the state being small but with a broad range of features and activities that, sad but true, all our neighbors do much better. We sold ourselves as the Vanilla Mint Listerine of the region: just as effective but much less intense.

That's our problem. Connecticut is good at many things. It's just not particularly outstanding at any one.

No one views our role in U.S. history as quite so revolutionary. Our cuisine, derivative. Our wine, kinda drinkable. Our mountains, more molehill than majestic. Our beaches, not even vaguely MTV-ready (in the era of Snooki, I suppose we can live with that). Connecticut is the utility infielder of the Northeast: able to fill in adequately but unspectacularly when The Hamptons are already booked.

Without best-in-class traditional tourist features to brag about, it's time my fellow residents and our hired shills change tack. We need to mindlessly, obnoxiously and absurdly promote our urban legends and idiosyncrasies.

In short, we need to make like Texans.

Having spent six years in Dallas, I never could comprehend Texans' blind devotion to their home state unless they had never ventured beyond its borders or, worse, only into Arkansas. Yet they embrace cowboy boots in their hellish heat, rally behind a battle they lost in a massacre (which explains why concealed weapons are legal there) and revere native dolts as political geniuses, y'all.

Here's where we finally win. Connecticut and Connecticut alone has P.T. Barnum -- native son, successful businessman, mayor, Congressman and, most importantly, master showman. We need to follow Barnum's lead and fly, nay, wear our freak flag every day and everywhere. The suckers will follow.

Hike the treacherous yet romantic 356-mile trail of the cryptic Old Leatherman! Escape the zombies and monsters in Sleeping Giant Park! Indulge in the ancient, secret powers of our legendary wooden nutmegs! Bwaahaahaahaa!

Step right up, come one, come all to Connecticut! Just make sure to visit the Egress!

The Accidental Valentine

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 05:01:00 +0000

This Valentine is right on time.

Or many years late.

Only my wife can make that call.

Assuming someone reads this to her.

Roughly 20 years ago, in the mid-February shortly after My Love and I began dating, she invited me back to her home state of Nebraska for a friend's wedding. I dusted off my one and only suit and suppressed my then-fear of flying. Maybe I didn't suppress it so much as it was canceled by the apprehension about meeting her family and, worse, a few of her studly ex-boyfriends.

Being in her native land, My Love handled most of the driving along those never-bending highways. This left me staring for hours through the rental car window into the aptly named Great Plains as it grew more featureless and infinite with every new vanilla layer of snow. When my amusement from exit signs for Beaver Crossing and McCool Junction faded, I took to perusing the local newspapers, reading aloud items that caught my fancy from the pages of the Kearney Hub and Lawrence Locomotive. It's a tradition, along with chawing on handfuls of beef jerky, that we carry on to this day on road trips.

Being near Cupid's holiday, several of the papers published Valentine missives between lovers - new, old, hopeful and desperate. After reading several of them, I nearly choked on a plug of hickory-flavored Oberto.

The message went something like this:

My Love,

Every day I'm with you my love for you grows and I find you are even more beautiful on the inside than the outside.

Love,
Uncool.

Hokey.

Corny.

Completely not me.

It was the most bizarre of coincidences in the most bizarre of places but at just the right time.

I read it to her. And she lit up. The glow in her face defrosted our windows and probably more than a few passing acres of winter wheat.

It took a while for My Love to believe I wasn't conning her when I claimed no responsibility for that love note. In the end, it didn't matter. Neither of us remembers what I really did give her that Valentine's Day, but we still talk about the sign the gods or fate sent us from beyond the Nebraska farmland.

Two decades have come and gone since. We are so past the romance stage in our relationship that it's a wonder either of us showers on weekends anymore.

This year, as for the past several, My Love has told me to get her nothing for Valentine's Day. She really means "nothing beyond an obligatory greeting card."

She expects no flowers and has made me aware on more than one occasion not to waste the money on something that fades and dies so quickly.

My recent suggestion to splurge on a dinner -- sans kids! -- was nixed because "everyone's out that night" and neither of us needs the hassle.

Chocolates are always a no -- calories, fat, hips and thighs, you know.

Lingerie? Refer back to the sentence on chocolates. Then re-read the one about no showering.

However, I really feel I still owe her something from 20 years ago. So here goes:

My Love,

I knew I loved you on our second date. That's when, as a joke, you secretly flipped around every other cassette box in the case I kept in my car so the next day the labels would be difficult for me to read when I fumbled at a stoplight in search of some new tunes to play. You have been turning my world and me upside down ever since.

Love,
Uncool

del.icio.us Tags: valentine's day,valentine,holiday

The Gift of Free Advice

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 19:03:00 +0000

The Mouthy Housewives have kidnapped me!

Despite my pleas to be their sex slave, they have instead chained me to a Dell and demanded I give them the day off.

Hence, I’m filling in today as their guest advice columnist.

The only way for me to be released so I can return here with a real blog post is for you to read my words on their site about husbands who give lame gifts and their needy spouses.

Hurry! Before they make me do windows, too!

In Which I Blow and Suck

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 05:01:00 +0000

Never learning to play an instrument with any proficiency is one of my greatest regrets in life. Now it is yours, too!

I’m ahead of myself. First, a little on my musical background beyond my well-known mad percussion skillz.

I sang in a band in high school for about six months.

Our repertoire consisted of a few ‘80s Who songs, a crappy number by prog-rock supergroup Asia, “Rock This Town” by the Stray Cats, the Van Halenized version of “Oh! Pretty Woman” and “Hungry Like the Wolf” by Duran Duran. (We briefly brought in a female classmate to stand next to me and do the moaning at the end of “Wolf.” Absolute closest I came in high school to losing my virginity.)

We went through guitarists like Spinal Tap went through drummers, just without the bizarre gardening accidents. Shortly after we finally found one who was really good (that would be him on the left in this video playing with ‘00s Top 40 alt-rock band Splender), they realized they needed a singer with a vocal range exceeding four and a half notes.

In college, I taught myself to play some basic blues harmonica riffs so I could jam with my roommate, a nine-and-a-half finger guitarist, while we drank too much Keystone on Thursday nights. You can image how that went.

I took piano for a few months in my 20s through an adult education class. I was at the top of the class. Sound impressive until you learn my competition was all grandmothers. With arthritis. And periodic gout.

I took bass guitar lessons for about nine months from one of Bob Dylan’s first electric sidemen. Result, I can play bass guitar like I’m wringing a neck. Not confirmed but I may have been the student who drove him to move to Israel.

So when Neil of Citizen of the Month asked me last year if I would contribute something to his next Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert, a joyous annual post of bloggers singing and playing their eggnogged noggins off, I immediately said yes. Never let it be said that I let my lack of talent stand in my way.

Below you will find my solo musical debut, but I encourage you to visit Neil’s site and enjoy the entire Sixth Annual Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert. It’s a blast:

My Love’s unvarnished reaction when I finally showed her this yesterday: “So is this why the ladder was in the living room last week?”

Naked Again

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 17:18:00 +0000

How desperate are people for me to get rid of this growth on my face?

The folks at Philips Norelco not only sent me, free of charge, their Vacuum Stubble and Beard Trimmer Pro but also their super high-end SensoTouch 3D Electric Razor.

Then they forked over $15,000 to the cause our band of Movember Dads has been growing these goofy things for.

All I had to do is use them … and let the world watch me as I did:

Ahhhh. Smoooooth.

Thing 2 has already said he’ll let me kiss him again since I’m not so “prickly.”

Thing 1 was too busy texting to comment. Once the cell phone battery dies, I’m sure she’ll look up and say something. Maybe even something nice.

My Love … well, she says she likes me better clean shaven but I think secretly she dug the ‘stache. Let her pretend she was snoring next some strange other man every night.

Well … strange, definitely.

# # #

If you want to be smooth like me, I can hook you up with a special holiday rebate on the SensoTouch. Just click that link in the previous sentence.

The FTC Full Monty: Philips Norelco and its PR firm, Zocalo Group, sent me the razor and trimmer for free. No charge whatsoever. I used them, filmed it and wrote about it solely for the money - a $15,000 donation to our team raising money to fight prostate cancer. For that, my fellow "bros in mos" and I are incredibly grateful. Nonetheless, the opinions and typos contained in this post remain mine and mine alone.

Technorati Tags: Movember

What’s Worse than Snakes, Indy?

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 20:14:00 +0000

To quote from Raiders of the Lost Ark:

“Marion, don't look at it! Shut your eyes, Marion! Don't look at it, no matter what happens!”

The mustache has only hours to live. Don’t let it die in vain.

Please donate to help the Movember fight against prostate cancer. Our team has raised more than $17,000 this month thanks to generous (and hysterically laughing) people like yourself.

Leaf Me Alone

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 05:01:00 +0000

Drivers are white knuckling around my fair 'burb these autumnal days, employing the most important skill the Department of Motor Vehicles never tested them on: defensive leaf pile dodging.

Sure as the days are grower shorter, our local streets are becoming narrower than a stripper’s butt floss. Every trip for groceries requires channeling one's inner Lindsey Vonn to navigate an asphalt slalom between the driveway and the Stop & Shop. Meanwhile, rush hour resembles a live-action version of Mario Kart except the flying turtle shells are replaced by acorn-addicted squirrels leaping frantically at our vehicles from the roadside crack dens we have heaped along the curbside for them.

However, the bobbing and the weaving and the periodic near-death experience with oncoming vehicles doesn't bother me quite as much as ... oh, how do I phrase this delicately ...

You ignorant foliage-heaping narcissists who keep blocking my way!

You people are like inverse hoarders. Instead of stuffing every square inch of your property with others' castoffs, you blow, rake and dump your junk right smack in the middle of the public thoroughfare. Someone needs to get a TLC reality-show crew out here before Jim Bob Duggar knocks up his wife yet again an- ... what?

He did? She is? Man -- another shot at undeserved stardom blown.

I think "ignorant" is the key word I spit out back there. My city spends roughly $200,000 a year on leaf collection but precious little on educating its residents that safely navigable roads might be more important than naked lawns. For example, the leaf pickup instructions on my city's website state only that leaves must be “brought to the curb." Given the overwhelmingly liberal political tendencies of our residents, this is interpreted as "anywhere between opposing gutters is fair game."

One of our neighboring towns, with its wealthy citizenry of strict constructionists, lays down the law far more explicitly. Its public notice clearly states leaf piles should be "at the shoulder, off the pavement of the road." Unfortunately, no one there reads these notices to the under-the-table help toiling around his or her McMansion.

It wasn’t always this way. Municipal leaf pickup arose in these parts from the environmental movement of 1960s, culminating in the Clean Air Act of 1970. Before then, many people would gather the fallen foliage and set it aflame. They'd stand there, smiling proudly, sucking in the smoky autumn aroma with a cigarette in one hand and freshly mixed Manhattan in the other. That's Big Government for you. Always infringing on our right to poison ourselves.

Before striking the match, though, a dutiful citizen back then would first check the leaf pile for small children. That's not so much of a concern today, and not just because of the burning ban. Kids don't play in leaf piles much anymore, and that's a good thing. First, no one wants Junior to host a dinner party for Lyme disease-infested deer ticks. Second, most kids these days know better than to play in traffic.

###

Look closely at the photo and you’ll see the Movember State of the ‘Stache Day 27. Don’t forget to donate to support the fight against prostate cancer and other issues affecting men’s health at my Mo Space -- http://mobro.co/uncool. I’m up to $525.

Come on Over, It's Thanksgiving Day

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 15:55:00 +0000

You’re always welcome here, friends. Except spammers. No one wants spam on Thanksgiving.

Cheers … and pass the gravy.

Are you going on Thanksgiving Day
To those family celebrations?
Passing on knowledge down through the years
At the gathering of generations

Every year it's the same routine
All over, all over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

Papa looks over at the small gathering
Remembering days gone by
Smiles at the children as he watches them play

And wishes his wife was still by his side
She would always cook dinner on Thanksgiving Day
It's all over, it's all over
It's all over the American way

But sometimes the children are so far away
And in a dark apartment on the wrong side of town
A lonely spinster prays
For a handsome lover and a passionate embrace
And kisses all over, all over
All over her American face

It's all over, it's all over, it's all over

'Cause today she feels so far away
From the friends in her hometown
So she runs for the Greyhound
She'll spend hours on the bus but she'll reach town
For Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

At a truck stop a man sits alone at the bar
Estranged in isolation
It's been a while now and he seems so far
From those distant celebrations

He thinks back to all the mistakes that he made
To a time when he was so young and green
Innocent days when they both looked forward to that
Great American dream

Now it's all over, it's all over, all over
And all over America people are going home
On Thanksgiving Day

Now Papa looks out of the window
The sight brings a smile to his face
He sees all his children coming back home
Together on this special day

Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

-- Ray Davies

No Thanksgiving for You …

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 05:01:00 +0000

… if you don’t donate to the Movember fight against man cancer! My little friend here needs your help!

His face not blurry. It’s distorted by steam rising from the pot. Turkey chili. With free bread.

Mmm, mmm -- NO SOUP FOR YOU ‘TIL YOU DONATE!

Maybe you get him over the $1,000 mark, he sing Freddie Mercury song for you. He does good “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”

You want “Bohemian Rhapsody”?

TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!

Technorati Tags: Movember,health,grooming,Thanksgiving

Upcoming Tweets from @mrskutcher

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 05:01:00 +0000

This all confirms that CBS hired one “half man” to replace another.

Just took some nude photos of myself … with my new Canon PowerShot.

Valuable life lesson: What happens with a blonde tramp in the hot tub, doesn’t stay in either.

Yo @justinbieber! My invitation stands.

@aplusk The million $$ Redford gave me is not part of the pre-nup. It was a movie, moron.

Counseling with rabbi at Kabbalah Centre. Hope I properly used the words “schtup” and “schmuck.”

About last night … the tub shower is warm, wet and waiting for you once again, @RobLowe.

Finally! I can stop explaining how I survived growing up without social media.

# # #

Technorati Tags: demi moore,ashton kutcher,divorce,Twitter,social media,celebrities

Rage On, Regis Philbin, Rage On

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 05:01:00 +0000

The world is filled with love sweet love today for Regis Philbin, who will be retiring after long ago establishing himself as the pit bull of morning talk show hosts.

Not pit bull as in “vicious” or “mean.” As is in foaming at the mouth.

Drooling, really.

The man is like 147 years old.

He once interviewed Roosevelt.

Teddy Roosevelt.

Oh, everyone loves Reege. Even though he’s a terribly inept interviewer, I like the guy, too. Even after the time that he allegedly wanted to kick my ass.

At least that’s what Frank Gifford insinuated.

Frank Gifford. Hall of Fame football player. Sportscaster. Philandering husband of Kathie Lee Gifford, Reege’s former co-host.

Many lifetimes ago I was the reporter at a newspaper in a small-but-insanely-wealthy town. One day I proposed writing an article about the many celebrities who owned property there.

I combed through the property records in the town assessor’s office. Talked to some locals in the know. Stood on the main street and watched them pop into Starbucks and nosh at the local eateries.

Oooh, there’s Mel Gibson. And Diana Ross. And Ron Howard. And Frank and Kathie Lee. And, yep, Regis.

The article ran and, as with most things I wrote then and write now, I never heard a thing about it from anyone.

Until the next night.

As soon as I walked in, one of the guys in the sports department stopped me.

“Oh, man. Did I take a bullet for you today,” he said. “I got chewed out by Frank Gifford because of that article you wrote.”

He had called Frank, then in his post-football glory/pre-cheatin’ on Kathie Lee days, for comment on some local sports matter. Instead, he got an earful about how he couldn’t believe the newspaper would publish an article like mine.

People like him moved there to get away from the spotlight! (No, they want to be near New York City and other celebrities and live in posh mansions. Otherwise, North Dakota would be teeming with Kardashians and Baldwins. Besides, your wife talks about the town you live in every day. On NATIONAL TV!)

How dare we print what street he lived on! (Then don’t buy the land in your own name. It’s in the land records. Besides, I didn’t give the house number, the street is two miles long and it has dozens of other “estates” on it.)

Now the kicker.

“And he said it wasn’t just him who was upset,” the sports guy told me. “Regis was very upset, too.”

Regis.

Very upset.

With me?!

Reege, on this special day when the whole world is bowing at your feet and the media is falling over itself with weepy praise for you, can we just put this behind us? Can we? Because, man, …

Well?

What do you say?

Aww. Thanks, man.

Now get some rest.

And get me a shot at the seat next to Kelly Ripa. Rrrrrrowl.

Technorati Tags: Regis Philbin,television,entertainment

This One Has Teeth

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 05:01:00 +0000

I'm at the point in this mustache growing gig where I'm hesitant to leave the house for fear of having to make visual contact with others while having this THING on my face.

I’m even embarrassed to look you in the eyes.

However, venture forth I must. Today it was the dentist’s office for my semi-annual cleaning.

Whereas strangers I encounter who see this caterpillar orgy going on around my lips have no clue I don’t normally look like I’m auditioning for the part of Otto in a remake of A Fish Called Wanda …

… it’s a different story with my dental hygienist.

I see her only once every six months for maybe 20 minutes at a shot, but it’s possibly the most intimate relationship in my life outside of my marriage.

Think about: Would your partner ever floss you? Would you trust him or her to poke around your soft tissue with a sharp metal object? No. Besides, it’s hard not to feel a certain bond with someone when you have little choice but to stare up into her pale blue eyes while she stares down at the tarter build-up on your No. 17 occlusal surface.

So no sooner does she sees me standing in the waiting room yesterday and it’s all “so what’s, uh, going on, uh with that” and lots of index finger circles around her mouth.

I lay out my tale and she’s at least amused if not confused. Trying to explain the connection between growing a mustache on one’s face and the health of one’s prostate (well, you know where that is) has that effect.

Then it’s sexy time. Scrap, floss and polish. The ol’ rinse and spit. Mmm, give me that good oral hygiene, one mo’ time.

When we finish, she calls in my dentist of nearly 20 years for a final review of my choppers. And my facial growth.

“Everything looks perfect, as usual,” she says. “Except for that mustache he brought in with him.”

I ran through the whole Movember scenario with him and well, let me sum it this way:

I left the dentist’s office today with three sample tubes of Sensodyne toothpaste for a finicky filling and $100 to support men’s health issues.

I also left with the knowledge that if I ever need to hire my own PR person, she’s going to wear powder blue scrubs, latex gloves and scent of Cool Mint Listerine very well.

* * *

Now it’s your turn. Donate now to help my mustache in this Movember fight against prostate cancer and other issues threatening men’s health.

Mid-week Mustache Update

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 13:27:00 +0000

It’s Day 9 and I’m wondering … does this mustache make me look fat?

Please donate to help fight prostate cancer and other health issues affecting men.

In fact donate now. I can’t suck in my gut like this for much longer.

Burning for the ‘Burn Notice’ Babe

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 19:14:00 +0000

To mark tonight’s season 6 premiere of Burn Notice on the USA Network, I’m giving away a 4-DVD set of Season 4 (which includes what I’m sure is the hysterical extra “Sam Axe’s Guide to Ladies and Libations”). Just leave a comment, any comment, at the end of this post and I’ll randomly select one winner next week around this time. I’ll give you two extra entries if you make a donation to my Movember Foundation page.

This photo raises so many questions.

Why is actress Gabrielle Anwar, who plays former IRA bomber Fiona on the spy show Burn Notice, standing next to My Love?

Better yet, where am I?

Drooling behind the camera?

On the floor, passed out and blind from seeing all this hotness in one place?

Standing dumbstruck after Gabrielle posed this question to me, “Is that a brick of C4 explosive in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

Sigh.

Alas, I was back here at home, tending to the dog and Things as I normally do. My Love was in Miami on business and Burn Notice happened to be filming in the hotel where she was staying.

Because she knows how I love that show (and lust after Ms. Anwar), she finagled a quick snap with her. Their brief conversation went something like this.

MY LOVE: My husband thinks you’re so hot.

MS. ANWAR: Oh, sweetie. Short, tight dresses and high heels have that effect.

MY LOVE: Damn you, Anwar.

MS. ANWAR: Smile for the camera!

So rather than an intimate brush with celebrity, I got this autographed photo of the cast that I can pose with for today’s Movember update.

Movember: Save a guy’s life with cash for my ‘stache

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 20:21:00 +0000

I'm in a bit of a hairy situation these days, you see.

No, really, do you see?

Look! It's right under your nose. I mean, MY nose. I'm growing what you would charitably call a mustache.

Or, to be exact, a mustache for charity.

Yes, friends, it is time again for those of us who are facial-hair inclined to change the month of November into "Movember," 30 days of growing lip sweaters to raise awareness of men's health issues.

Men’s health issues? Like what? Terminal beer gut? Remote control finger?

Turns out 1 in 2 men are likely to be diagnosed with some form of cancer in their life compared with 1 in 3 women.

While enormous amounts of pink are spilled annually publicizing breast cancer awareness for women, did you realize a man is 35% more likely to be diagnosed with prostate cancer than a woman is to be diagnosed with breast cancer?

I didn’t until last year when I first grew a soup strainer for Movember. That’s when you and others helped me contribute $1,300 to the fight against prostate and testicular cancers through the nonprofit Movember Foundation, which in 2010 raised more than $80 million.

This year, I’m at it again with a team of 50+, including again my partners in crime against fatherhood at DadCentric.com. I shaved late last night and now I again intend to put them to shame with my overt facial fuzziness.

Here’s what you can do help this worthy cause:

DONATE: Give a few bucks to support the growth between my nose and upper lip. Funds raised benefit the Prostate Cancer Foundation and LIVESTRONG - the Lance Armstrong Foundation.

JOIN IN: Whether you are facial hair proficient or not, you can join our team to raise funds and awareness.

(By the way, why “Movember”? According to legend, the movement started several years ago when a group of men gathered in an Australian pub decided to grow whiskers for a good cause. "Mo" is allegedly short for the "moustache." I've never actually heard that nickname used before, but I have seen enough Foster's Lager commercials to know those Australians have a different way of saying almost everything.)

Notable Number 47s in our House

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 04:18:00 +0000

Jesse Orosco, closer for 1986 World Series champion New York Mets.

Black 47, Celtic rock band.

And, don’t know how, but … me.

I only have one bone to pick – one of omission by the Babble Top 50 Dad Blog list folks.

When I was interviewed for this many months ago, the writer asked me, “Does your blog have any special recurring features?”

“Typos,” I replied.

(One other omission -- Homemaker Man’s Musings from the Big Pink not making the list. Friend, you wuz robbed!)

Thanks all of you for sticking with me and my typos, especially:

Those who take the time to comment or email, just once or on every post. I appreciate it, sincerely. Unless you are a spammer or incompetent PR intern. You know who you are.

The handful of local bloggers (and sadly, ex-bloggers) I’ve known from almost the get-go who I still consider my friends even when they abandon me in bars with drunken bisexuals.

The many bloggers I’ve meet and befriended, especially all the DadCentric guys – past and present, in these nearly four years. You all seem oddly normal and pleasant in real life. Or you fake it really well. Meh – I’ll take it either way.

The Things, who have provided so much material. And heartburn. Dad loves you for both.

Murphy, who forces me to get up from my computer to scratch his belly or open the back door for him. Mostly open the door. Every 6 minutes. You’re the uncool’s best friend, even if you become the only hairless Labrador retriever in the world.

And, most importantly, My Love for supporting my “work” and even when you can’t understand why I do it. And for supporting me financially. First rule of blogging: Don’t expect it to pay the bills. Second rule: Marry up.

Fiddle deee diddle deee deidely dee, indeed.

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes (and Beets and Radishes and …)

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 04:01:00 +0000

Autumn has descended upon our drenched New England-ish suburb with a cascade of sewage-colored leaves, ending a plentiful summer harvest that overflowed under temporary tents and makeshift stands filling roadsides and parking lots across our SUV-infested region.

Halle-effin-lujah!

I say that having marinated our garbage disposal, again, in lemon juice and baking soda to rid our kitchen of the stench of "fresh" beets and radishes.

At least beets and radishes are what I think those fuzzy little beasts were I found nuzzling the baby carrots. Thank science for cellophane. In another day or two, we might have unleashed a mutant root vegetable upon the world or, worse, another Republican candidate for president.

Don't misunderstand me. I love the idea of farmers' markets dotting our landscape. If you have the time, money and determination to browse them regularly in effort to eat only locally grown foods, I applaud you, but discretely and only when you out of earshot. Get some people talking about their all-natural, carbon-footprint-reducing ways and you soon understand why the word "locavore" is just two letters and a space removed from "loco bore."

Instead, my greatest concern with this green grocer revolution is keeping My Love far, far away from it.

In our barely dual-income family, she's the breadwinner and I'm the bread buyer. Circumstances reversed somewhat this summer, leaving my normally better-paid half with the need to occasionally help with my prior household duties, including the quest for food. So imagine my surprise when the woman I married, the one always quick to declare how she loathes shopping of all kinds, kept filling our home with crates of tomatoes and bushels of peppers, and buckets of ... well, I really don't know what those buckets of puce-colored things were.

"Oh, I stopped by the farmers' market," she'd say, looking proud of the bounty spread before her. "Everything looked so beautiful and fresh."

I'd agree. The acre of farmland produce and fruit spilling off our kitchen counter would look pretty and scrumptious. For about three days. That would be when I'd open a crisper drawer and pray that exposure to this organic and rapidly disintegrating goo I discovered inside didn't somehow trigger my lifelong allergy to penicillin.

I'm not averse to eating healthy. I do my best to avoid the salty, sugary and tasty evils of processed food when I can. Breakfast tends to consist of egg-white omelets or artery-unclogging oatmeal so long as a doughnut doesn't try to leap to its death down my gullet.

While My Love is normally a big proponent of moderation and portion control. However, when she passes a farm-fresh stand of berries or squash she suddenly comes under the delusion that our home doubles as a way station for ravenous armies of vegan extremists.

"Oh, I'll just freeze it for later," is her standard reply to my dismay at the sight of our cupboards jammed with fresh reds, greens and yellows that I know inevitably become a fuzzy lot of spoiled grays, whites and blacks. Therefore, she freezes.

And freezes.

That's why when Tropical Storm Irene knocked out our power for three days, I rejoiced. Our light company’s failures were my success at blamelessly clearing the lower depths of the Frigidaire of another forgotten icy crop.

But what am I to do with all this room now that a chill is in the air?

If you are a dairy farmer interested in opening an all-natural ice cream market, please -- give me a holler.

Beer is a Many Splendored Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 13:56:00 +0000

Today’s is National Beer Drinking Day.

I swear.

I heard it on the news this morning. They would never report on something this important if it wasn’t true.

Weapons of mass destruction in the Middle East, definitely, but never this.

There are many a day I enjoy a Tanqueray and tonic, too.

Sometimes, an icy Bombay Sapphire martini (up with a twist, please) does the trick, but only one – thank you.

In the summer, I dig lazing about with a mojito. Or perhaps, three. What can I say. I like mint.

But beer. Nectar of the gods, in all your hoppy, malty, flavorful incarnations. Thank you for the days. And nights. Not so much the belly, but I forgive you. Love takes work, and if loving you requires working out -- so be it.

So to you, I raise a glass. And you, too, friends – whether we’ve ever clinked glasses and tipped one back together or not.

Cheers!

The Sky is Still Falling

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 12:45:00 +0000

Latest word is that the satellite will crash sometime today.

Maybe tomorrow.

Somewhere between the Arctic and Antarctic circles.

Gee -- thanks, NASA!

Thanks to my loyal reader, Cheryl of Deckside Thoughts, for this classic Saturday Night Live sketch about Skylab that sorta reinforces the point of my last post.

Unfortunately, just not the point about sexy multi-boobed space aliens.

Have a safe weekend, friends.

The Sky is Falling

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 12:41:00 +0000

If you are reading this, plummeting space junk has not pulverized you. Yeah, you!

Earlier this week, NASA officials reported that a 6-ton atmospheric research satellite is tumbling to Earth at a roughly, oh, a gazillion miles per hour and could strike at any minute. I'm not surprised that this is news to you. The mass media have been oddly restrained considering the 12,000-pound mass of fiery death hurdling toward us. And these are people who whip up mass hysteria about far more improbable doomsday scenarios involving Mayan prophesies or a Michele Bachmann presidency.

Instead, the biggest topic on most news shows this past week was about was how Two and a Half Men killed off Charlie Sheen's character. If only the writers had him die under a school-bus sized hunk of molten titanium that dropped from the sky instead of being splattered by a plain ol' Parisian commuter train …

You think at least one broadcast would have dug up a "disaster expert" for us. There's only a few hundred of them out there, unshaven and panhandling, since Irene-ageddon. Think of the economic stimulus if we were all told to again have our "to go" bags ready, this time not just with a 7-day supply of Power Bars but Kevlar helmets and asbestos undies. Instead, the little the media did report consisted of statistics about how unlikely it is falling space-age metals will permanently dent your noodle. (For the record, the odds are 1 in 31 trillion, which is exactly the same chance of survival TV critics, gave Two and a Half Men … eight seasons ago.)

Contrast this to 1979. That's when word came that the space station Skylab would come crashing down. Church attendance rose. Media outlets offered rewards for recovered debris. One of my elementary school buddies and I, armed with binoculars and wearing plastic replica Major League Baseball batting helmets for protection, sat on the steps in my front yard, peering through the July leaf canopy looking for flaming streaks in the sky. This week, when my kids learned about the falling satellite, they couldn't even muster excitement over the possibility of a wayward chunk causing an early school dismissal.

This is all further proof of how bored Americans have become with outer space. After centuries of fantasizing about advanced civilizations with sexy multi-boobed aliens and living on Mars, we boldly went where no man has gone before and turned up … rocks and gases. As a result, this summer NASA put the Space Shuttle out of its misery and Hollywood hasn't considered putting a new "Star Trek" series on the tube in years.

Today, Gene Roddenberry turns in his grave; the rest of America just turns over and hit the snooze button.

Technorati Tags: satellite,NASA,crash,space

Seasonal Breakup

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 12:30:00 +0000

Dear Summer,

I'm so over you.

Maybe not physically. No -- definitely not, physically. I still yearn for your warmth. That's what happens when you thin your blood for three months with daily infusions that are three parts India pale ale and two parts avobenzone.

That will pass, though. I'll just continue to compensate by donning socks every waking moment, just as I have done this first post-Labor Day week. It's the first time I've had to do that since June. JUNE! Even though those leather sandals I bought this spring still have a good couple weeks of tread left, I'm willing to send them on a premature permanent vacation.

Speaking of near-death experiences ...

The minivan is in an annual state of seasonal disaster that's even worse than usual, thanks to you. Your enormous tropical disturbances and steamy jet stream waters last month sent us packing two days and an entire case of beer early from the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Two adrenaline-stoked adults, two exhausted children and one confused Labrador retriever speeding off a barrier island at the ungodly August hour of 5 a.m. Then, 10 hours later, we arrive back at our Connecticut home only to discover, via an iPhone app, that the little dotted line projecting Hurricane Irene's eye shows her passing all of two miles from our house.

That was the last straw. For every pleasant yin you brought a much darker yang, my former friend.

Those picturesque afternoons and evenings on the back deck, sharing a cocktail or bite with family and neighbors? It was a sneak attack on my arteries and belly. You and your savory grilled meats, aromatic cheeses and sweet, sweet mojitos. I'm feeling my bad cholesterol level rising at the thought of that misbehavior you encouraged. My wife and son aren't happy about the golf-ball size welts your little winged terrorists left on their legs and arms, either.

The free tickets fate handed us to experience the many rides at that amusement park? They came with intolerable summer road repair standstills on I-84 and almost equally long waits inside. As for your other promised entertainments, those overpriced, underwritten 3-D family movies you pumped out every weekend ... promises not kept, ex-pal o’ mine.

The weeks of relaxation at home while our tween did sleepaway camp upstate? Ended early in an infected big toe and a nasty infestation of head lice. Sure, my thinning locks escaped the little critters, but just who do you think had to delouse the rest of the clan for an hour or so every day? For two weeks straight!

Summer, I'm going to hold a grudge against for you for some time.

At least until it stops raining.

And I get around to finally shoveling out the minivan. That's when I'm sure I'll start finding all those unintentional souvenirs you left behind.

The crumpled parking passes to the minor league baseball games.

The seemingly infinite grains of sand from along Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean.

The X-ed out sheets from the many rounds of travel bingo (how is it we never found a "bird on a wire"?).

The receipts from Gopher Ice Cream and Rita's Ice.

The collection of tiny pencils from golf courses both big and miniature.

Ghostly zinc oxide fingerprints from children and their pals.

All right, Summer, you had your moments.

Same time, next year … right?

Your friend,

Run Awaaaaaaaay

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Tue, 23 Aug 2011 13:27:00 +0000

Playing the waiting game on Banks o’ Carolina as Irene blows down in the Caribbean. Meanwhile, I’ve written a little back-to-school diddy for all of you moms and dads over on DadCentric today. While I contemplate evacuation route options, read how the piece starts and then maybe click to read a little more:

Meet the New Math

Remember when you climbed on the bus for the first day of a new school year then you'd turn your head to see your parents fighting back the tears?

Now, as a parent yourself, you know that feeling.

Joy.

Pure, unfiltered, fully leaded joy.

As soon as that bus escapes view … (read more at DadCentric)

I’m Still With the Band

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 16:04:00 +0000

I would have loved to been at BlogHer in San Diego today but, you know, I had a gig in the city last night.

Why, since this is my second time being plucked out of the audience to perform with the legendary Fountains of Wayne, do I look so determined and serious?

1. I had about 5 fewer Sierra Nevada Pale Ales under my belt this time.

2. I was trying hard to resist singing along since I know My Love was close enough to capture my vocal stylings or lack there of.

3. I’m trying very hard not to pay attention to what the woman in the skimpy outfit on my right has going on. Trying. Very. VERY. HARD.

I must have looked terrified coming off stage. The guy working security offered me and no one else a bottle of Poland Springs from the band’s private stash.

Which I took and finished.

I plan to convert it into my own FoW shaker for next time …

When I play with them on Letterman, naturally.

Goin’ Postal

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 04:01:00 +0000

Call it emailer's remorse, but I feel partially responsible for the U.S. Postal Service's billions of dollars in annual losses, especially since it may now result in the closing of a post office in my hometown.

Yet I will carry on, like any real American, and blame the messenger.

A few Aprils ago, I stood in line with dozens of others to send our long forms and short hairs to the Internal Revenue Service. Behind the counter, a clerk became increasingly frustrated with explaining the difference between certified mail, registered mail and delivery confirmation to every single person who came up to her.

"When was the last time a letter you sent got lost?" she finally let loose to one patron. "It's going to get there. It gets there every other day of the year. Why do you think it's not going to get there today?"

The only such incident I recalled in my life was about 10 years earlier when a friend of mine never received a Christmas package I sent. I had addressed it to her house, so it was possible the mail carrier left it on her doorstep and a gang of seasonal thieves snatched it before she got home from work. All I need to prove that theory is to find a medium-build female crook wearing a powder blue "What the Duck?" novelty T-shirt while using a Signals' catalog star scope to locate the constellation Corona Borealis (literally, "boring Mexican beer").

Once I tried to frame the mail service. I told a college girlfriend I was trying to break up with over the summer that her letter to me never arrived. Turns out she knew something about postal operations and had the delivery traced to my mailbox.

We dated for another five months.

Meanwhile, back at the counter, here was an obviously loyal Postal Service worker -- one who believed in the competency and efficiency of her employer -- actually trying to talk people out of giving her employer money it desperately needed.

You had to admire her honesty if not her total lack of business savvy.

When my turn came, naturally she was my clerk.

"You've convinced me," I said. "Mail these tax forms and my check first-class, period. I trust you."

"That's what I'm talking about, baby," she said.

Then she asked if I wanted to purchase the latest commemorative stamp sheet of dead people.

I regretfully declined her offer, but today it has me thinking.

What else can the Postal Service do in its hour of need besides try to convince people to pay for services they usually don't need?

That's right: Capitalize on financially lucrative children's fads.

I don't know a single person who collects stamps, but the Things are always hounding me for the latest trendy "collectible" that they'll discard in six months.

WebKinz stuffed animals, then the WebKinz archrival, the NeoPets.

Pokemon cards and Bakugan tops.

Briefly, it was Silly Bandz, which are colorful rubber bracelets in the shape of animals or objects -- one of which, naturally, is a dollar sign. We have a few thousand of these regularly clogging up vacuum cleaners and plumbing (usually the dog’s).

Whatever the next Pet Rock is, the U.S. Postmaster General immediately needs to put its likeness onto postage stamps. Cha-CHING! Instant revenue in the USPS's coffers as parents and grandparents must fork it over or face ear-splitting tantrums.

Also, just think of the economic ripple effect it will have on our country's ailing tweezers and magnifying glass industries.

BlogHer for Hims, Too

noreply@blogger.com (Always Home and Uncool) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 16:38:00 +0000

If the men who attend BlogHer are a pathetic lot,
you should see the ones who attend internet porn conventions.
- James Griffioen, Sweet Juniper

* * *

The social media world is buzzing -- or in hipper circles, Google +ing -- about BlogHer ‘11 scheduled to take place in San Diego August 4 to 6.

(NOTE #1: I say '”scheduled” because I learned to always hedge your words against postponement due to plane crash, tsunami or outbreak of cold sores.)

“Are you going?”

“What parties are you attending?”

“Did you buy any cute new shoes?”

“Can you believe they picked her as a Voice of the Year and not moi?”

Gossipsnipesqueeeeeeeelbitchsqueeeeeel!!

And that’s just the men who are going.

Men?!

MEN!!??

(Interlude: DramaDramaDramaDrama)

First, thanks for recognizing vaginally challenged BlogHer attendees as “men.” Tiny gestures like that matter.

(NOTE #2: Don’t refer to that particular defining feature as “his tiny gesture.” Least not within ear shot.)

For you newbies and don’t-really-cares, every year a handful of the penile-impaired brave the unpredictable sea of estrogen known as the BlogHer blogging conference. On occasion, these men cause a stir either purposefully or by others overtly fawning over their dangling bits.

Having been at BlogHer ‘10 in NYC last year, and being what some loosely call a “man,” though the record shows I’m clearly more just “a guy,” I have reached the following conclusion on this controversy:

Ladies and dudes, get over yourselves.

It’s a blogging conference.

Not Middle East peace negotiations.

Not the G7 Summit.

Definitely not Charlie Sheen’s mansion despite the abundance of goddesses from the writing and professional world all about.

What BlogHer boils down to, for all its “let’s chant ‘female empowerment rah rah rah’ until it is totally meaningless” foundations, is a social and networking event.

Just a big-assed one.

(NOTE #3: The phrase “big assed” shouldn’t be used anywhere near BlogHer or its attendees. I seriously don’t have to explain why.)

That’s how I viewed BlogHer ‘10 when I attended as one of the few and proud Members with a Member Brigade.

I went to meet new people, connect with others I already knew online, listen to what attendees and speakers had to say and have a good time. I also had a mission to spread the word about a good cause that needed people’s help, but that’s my burden in life.

Yeah, yeah -- the target audience is women and I’m not one.

However, I don’t kid myself. My blog subject matter and reader demographics (as well as my friendships and this sexy at-home lifestyle I lead) tends to overlap with this crowd.

Besides, I always stay up to date on my Cootie shots.

Anyway, I came (no, My Love, no! I “went” – I definitely only “went”!), I saw, I mingled and BlogHer well met my expectations.

With the exception of the “women and humor writing” panel, which turned into a Comedy Central Roast of oppressive honky dinosaurs (and that Polite Fictions guy who risked his balding melon to ask a respectful question), nearly every panel I attended and discussion I had with attendees about blogging, writing and life applied as easily to men, dads and humanistic space aliens as well as women.

That’s not pathetic. That’s good bang for the buck.

(NOTE #4: Banging in exchange for bucks, extra Mr. Potato Head doll swag or other forms of currency, even Canadian, did not take place at BlogHer ‘10 to the best of my knowledge. I’m also sure the conference organizers neither encourage nor endorse such things.)

I won’t be at BlogHer this year. Opposite side of the country, cash flow issues, Thing 1 has a JM doc appointment, etc. However, if you are going, let me offer one piece of advice:

Have fun, but act like a grown-up not an asshat.

That applies regardless of your Klout score, page views or your gender.

Technorati Tags: blogher,blogher '11,blogging