The Six-Fingered Monkey

Just for Lulz

2012-01-19T21:09:00.000-05:00

Lu-dog: Dad, can I go upstairs and check my email real quick?

Six: Sure.

Lu-dog: Okay. BRB.

Six: K. TTYL.

Lu-dog: Don’t do that dad.

Six: Wuzup?

Lu-dog: Talk normal!

Six: LOL. K.

Lu-dog: DAD! Please STOP it.

Six: I thought you were going upstairs to check your email.

Lu-dog: I am.

Six: K. SYS.

Lu-dog: DAD! STOP!

D-man: P.F.R.T.H... um... C... and four... cuz I’m four.

ROFLMAO

***

In (sort-of) related news, Lu-dog has been taking the Internet by storm. The Girlfriend says he secretly wants to be just like his daddy which is the ~~scariest~~ sweetest thing ever.

It is so flattering, in fact, that his super-awesome blog deserves a plug right here at The Six-Fingered Monkey!

So here it is... Lu-Dog’s (apparently, most recent) blog. Please follow it and comment, etc.

Thanks.

Hairy, Scary

2012-01-10T18:03:00.000-05:00

I'm obsessed with body hair.

Not yours, mind you... mine.

My ~~obsessive compulsive tendencies~~ fascination with my “man fur” has spiked in recent years because it seems that, as I age, I get hairier, particularly in areas where hair never grew before.

Most of my grooming is focused on my face for the obvious reasons, like my charming and boyish good looks. For as long as I can remember, my eyebrows have required the most attention (think Bert - of Bert & Ernie fame - meets Scorsese). I pluck and cut nearly twice a week, yet they haven’t looked “right” in nearly 16 years.

My decades-long attempt at a prefect self-sculpted supercilium has recently taken a back seat, however, as I have had to turn my attention to other areas of my head including my ear canals, ear lobes, and the inside of my nostrils. There is nothing more disturbing or unattractive than nostril or ear hair.

Now, you would think that with so much growth, the Six-Fingered Monkey would be one of those guys that has to shave twice a day to keep up appearances.

Try once a week.

Seriously.

I can’t grow a beard to save my life. For example, I shaved before work this morning, but my five o’clock shadow will appear in about four days, with patches of hair suspiciously missing. More suspect than my erratic facial hair is the fur that grows (or doesn’t grow) below my shoulders and below the belt.

My arms and my legs, in my honest opinion, are pretty normal. Thankfully, I don’t have much back hair, but my chest hair is incredibly curious. Most of my chubby midsection is free from hair but for this massive patch of growth between my man boobs and an incredible amount of twisting curls growing from my nipples. Usually when I manscape I trim the beast to avoid looking like a complete freak.

Speaking of manscaping (here’s the part where you may want to close your browser to avoid exposure to way too much information) there is only one other place on my body where the hair growth is more out of control than my eyebrows -- my groin.

That’s right, I said it.. my groin... the hair between my legs... my enchanted forest, if you will.

Maybe I’ve just seen one to many porn movies with those buff, well-endowed men who wax their entire bodies (including their golf balls), likely for the purpose of bedroom aerodynamics... but when you’re hung like a Vienna sausage and you let your grass grow too high, its easy to lose sight of your manhood, literally.

I like knowing (and seeing) where my manhood is at all times, which means that, in addition to regularly grooming my eyebrows, nostrils, ear canals and nipples, I also subject my bits and pieces to regular visits from the electric razor.

Sigh.

So I’ve put all kinds of disturbing images in your head to bring you to the meat (no pun intended) of this story.

While driving home from work a few weeks ago, the sun was setting ahead and, as the light hit my face just right, I noticed something in my periphery. I cocked my head to the right and crossed my eyes and I could see it clearly... It was a gray hair, about an eighth of an inch long, growing from the bridge of my nose.

The problem is, I can’t seem to get rid of it. I can only see the fucking thing when I am driving... at dusk. I have spent hours staring at my nose in the mirror, but I still come up empty. I even enlisted The Girlfriend to help.

“Do you see it?”

“See what?”

“The hair.”

“I don’t see any hair.”

“It should be right there... sort of to the left of the bridge of my nose...”

“To the left?”

“Your right... my left.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“ITS THERE DAMN IT!”

“Well if you know its there, you should be able to get rid of it.”

“I can’t SEE it!”

“Well if YOU can’t see it, how do you expect ME to see it?”

“You’re no help.”

“There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

Fuck.

***

I would blame this elusive nose hair for wasting all of my time and preventing me from coming up with new material in recent weeks... but its not just that. The holidays (which were beautiful, wonderful, and exciting) ~~kept me absolutely wasted~~, ~~drained me of all my brain cells~~, were super busy. In addition, I’ve been keeping myself busy with other projects and... oh... hey... I’m writing a book. I think. Stay tuned.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

2011-12-25T12:37:00.000-05:00

What do you get the Six-Fingered Monkey for Christmas?

I AM T-Pain bitches!

Lube for two!

Best. Christmas. Ever.

Somehow I went from deer carcasses to boobies...

2011-12-24T01:06:00.001-05:00

I drove the cab last night.

Yeah, it’s been a while. I’ve taken a sort of sabbatical since the close of the tourist season.

The thing I realized about driving the cab this time of year? It’s very lonely and depressing, which leads to mind wandering and rambling blog posts.

I worked for four hours and made exactly $21.50. It seems hardly worth it, right? Most of my time was spent playing Angry Birds, but my phone died halfway through my shift. After that, I bought a couple of scratch offs to keep myself occupied – the “word search” kind. I usually hate those, because they take so long to scratch off…
Exactly.

It was a quiet night. Gone are the flirtatious young girls, the chatty tourist couples and the guys who try to tip me with drugs.

God, whatI wouldn’t do for a group of Swedes this time of year.

I had just three fares tonight… all local regulars.

There was The Cowboy -- a twenty-something guy with a southern drawl who uses the word “reckon” WAY too much and drinks a whole lot. At least he’s smart enough to take a cab. His southern drawl is something of a mystery since he’s a New York native. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.

Next up was The Loner, another regular who usually takes a cab home after dining alone… I suspect he doesn’t have companions because of his Ron Paul obsession, which he clearly cannot keep to himself.

I ended the night with The Cowboy again, only way more drunk and, this time, with a lady friend. This seems to be a pattern. He always comes out alone, but goes home with The Cross-Eyed Crazy Girl. She likes to talk incessantly about monster trucks and guns. She also wears camouflage… all the time. She’s kind of cute, I suppose... until she opens her mouth.

Sigh.

Speaking of local regulars, the deer were out in full force and it seems with less traffic and people they are getting ~~stupider~~ more brazen. I counted seven. Four of them were hanging out in the middle of the road.

I blame Nana.

I came to a complete stop and they literally stood there for like 30 seconds… and they were all like, “What?” And I was all like, “Get the fuck out of the way assholes or I’m going to run you over.”

Nah… I wasn’t like that. I don’t like killing deer. I actually hate seeing their carcasses on the side of the road.

Know what I DO like seeing on the side of the road?

Female joggers.

Not the muscular kind with flat chests… the “healthy” ones with boobs large enough to bounce when they run.

Yeah. I like that.

What’s wrong with you Six?

Everything.

Ho... Ho... ... Ho!

2011-12-21T19:37:00.000-05:00

So, Christmas is, like, four days away and, as usual, I am ill-prepared. Sure, the tree is trimmed and the stockings are hung, but that’s where it ends and... I’m panicking.

In my head, I had everything under control. For example, Black Friday was going to be my day to shine. I expected to get most, if not all, of my holiday shopping done. That didn’t work out so well.

I also thought I would have my act together with Christmas cards and gifts for family members that live out of town. Every year, I say I am going to send out “family” Christmas cards to all of my friends and send gift to select special people in my life but, for some reason, it never happens. Sadly, I live in a very strong “out of sight, out of mind” vacuum -- something that my sister B can attest to. If it were not for her keeping up her end of the brother/sister bargain...

At least I managed to cajole The Girlfriend and the boys into a holiday picture that would have graced our family Christmas card if I had gotten my act together. Thank God for the Internet... check your inbox and Facebook for your very own copy, because this is all I have for you this year...

I notice that people who send these “family” cards always give a little synopsis of the past year and the year ahead. Although I have historically found that terribly annoying, I now understand why they do it. So, here is your obligatory “year in brief” to go along with your high-resolution Christmas card which can be printed, cut, and placed on your refrigerator for 2012.

All,

The Monkey Troop would like to wish you all a Merry Christmas (Happy Hanukkah to our Jewish friends and Happy Solstice to all the hippies) and a very happy and healthy New Year.

D-man started preschool this year and he is really coming into his own. It has been exciting to watch his sweet personality take shape right before our eyes. Lately, he has been obsessed with Star Wars and Legos. He also has the cutest little stutter which is nothing to worry about -- it just seems like his brain is moving a little faster than his mouth. Being a November baby, I’m not sure if he is entering kindergarten next year or staying on for another year of preschool. We shall see...

Lu-dog started second grade this year and he is ~~still a genius~~ ~~smarter than all of the other kids in his class~~ doing very well, particularly in math and reading. He loves science and having deep conversations about the universe, religion, and words he has never heard before. His hobbies include creating websites and blogs, particularly for the nature club he founded this year. He also moved up to “Wolf” in his Cub Scout troop and placed third in last year’s pinewood derby. He is very excited about the upcoming 2012 derby.

Six and The Girlfriend (as well as the boys) have pretty much settled into their new home and love the neighborhood and surroundings. Spring/Summer was a little tumultuous, following a ridiculous arrest and legal battle, but the couple has been focusing all of their energy on creating a stable environment for the boys. Speaking of The Girlfriend, she has been working her butt off at the nursing home and will soon celebrate a year on the job there. As for Six, he continues to dream of retirement from his day job while continuing to work as a freelance writer for numerous clients, occasionally driving a cab and annoying others with his profanity-laced blog. Things are looking pretty bright for 2012!

Love to you all from Planet Six.

PS: Mylo is still a douche.

PPS: I came up with the perfect Christmas gift that you, my dear readers, can give me... A "like" on my Facebook page!

The Joke is on Me

2011-12-17T21:38:00.000-05:00

Hopefully you caught my last post in which I reprinted an email that I sent to Pastor Donnie Davies, who I THOUGHT was one of those “God Hates Fags” weirdos in response to his “gay bands list.” If you didn’t, you’d better read it now so you can join in the fun.

I had pretty much given up on getting a response, resigning myself to the fact that perhaps I’m not that clever after all... that perhaps they saw right through my sarcastic wit... and that they knew that I was just another heathen looking for a new way to fuck with them.

Maybe I did TOO GOOD a job.

I nearly crapped myself tonight when I logged into Gmail and found the following message waiting for me:

Thank you so much for your thoughtful response to our gay bands list. I can totally empathize with you about your own problems with homosexual dreams after listening to such music. It is exactly why it is imperative to stop listening immediately.

As for the safety of your children, I do not really think there is much concern for harm with the plastic. But, if you insist on using a hammer I think it'd be a good idea if you had him smash the CD's himself. If you think it's a good idea have him wear some goggles. And, yes, still burn the sleeves with him watching. I truly believe this is where the strongest impression will be made. It is a very important time in their development to learn such lessons.

MP3 players are a tricky subject. I would say it depends on how much actual filth there is on there. If over 60%, it's probably a good idea to at least step on it in front of them. You can print up some copies of the album covers and burn those, so they still get the effect. If there are only a few bad tracks, it is a good idea to just delete the offending material. Again, have them do it, and make sure you see them empty the recycle bin. . . children can be quite crafty when it comes to their music. Just remember, it's your job as the parent to make sure they're living up to Our Moral Standards.

Thank you again, and good luck with the nightmares,

Pastor Donnie Davies

Being the master Googler that I am, I should have taken the time to find out exactly who Pastor Donnie Davies is before deciding to take him on... The thing is, now that I know he’s not real, I can’t help but wonder if he thinks that I’m real. Does that make sense?

Let’s see who blinks first.

Pastor Davies,

I was starting to think that it was too late for me.

I’m so thankful for your response and it couldn’t have come at a better time. The “nightmares” have been getting worse and I swear pastor, I have not listened to any of that filthy garbage since I first read your list. Last night, I had the James Dean dream again... and this time it was only him and I... do you know what I mean? It was awful Pastor... the things he did to me... it is unspeakable.

In your email, you said that you could empathize with me. Does this mean that you’ve had dirty dreams as well? Did they involve handsome dead celebrities or were they of a different nature? Knowing that you, a man of God, may have had similar homoerotic dream makes me feel less alone.

I don’t understand why I am still having the dreams because since I read your list, I have spent all of my time exclusively listening to Amy Grant and Cyndi Lauper. I noticed that Cindy Lauper was on your good bands list and I know that Amy Grant is pure... or at least that’s what I have been told.

Do you know Amy Grant? Personally, I think she’s smoking hot... certainly hot enough to get the image of James Dean’s schlong out of my head. I’m working on it Pastor, but its really hard.

I appreciate your advice, but I totally disagree about the burning plastic. I mean, didn’t they do studies about that stuff? I think I’m gonna go with the hammer thing... that was a great call on the goggles, I’d hate for my son to lose an eye, because clearly the handicapped are just as useless as the gays.

I took a second look at his MP3 player and pastor, it is TEEMING with filth... but I cannot afford to smash such an expensive device. Would it be possible for me to simply erase the songs and then send it to you for a blessing? I’ll definitely pay for the return postage.

For that matter, perhaps I could send my son your way and you could bless him and we could put all of this behind us.

Thoughts?

God, Have Mercy on My Soul

2011-12-14T21:52:00.000-05:00

Have you ever heard of those “God Hates Fags” folks?

You know, those assholes from the Westboro Baptist Church who protest military funerals to push their homophobic agenda?

Well, it seems that there is a list out there, published by these freaks, of musicians who promote homosexuality. Credit to @FatMike from NOFX who tweeted about it last night.

Being the ~~attention-seeker~~ ~~troublemaker~~ homosexual sympathiser that I am, I decided to email Donnie Davies, keeper of the list.

Mr. Davies,

Your “Gay Bands” list was recently brought to my attention. I had absolutely no idea that these musicians were introducing our children to the homosexual lifestyle. I was shocked to find that so many of the bands that my son listens to were on your list. Thankfully, he’s still young and, if I take action now, maybe there will be hope for his eternal soul.

I do have a few questions though.

You recommend burning any of these artists’ CDs that I find in his collection. You say, and I quote, “Make sure your child is watching. Make sure they can feel the heat. It is crucial that the image remains emblazoned in their young minds. They need to know that if they continue to listen to these bands they may Burn eternally as well.”

I assume that you are referring to the CDs themselves and, of course, the covers and booklets, which likely contain pro-homosexual messages. Is it okay if I recycle the jewel cases?

I’m nervous about the chemical fumes from the burning plastic. Come to think of it, I have never burned a compact disc. Is that dangerous too? Would it be okay if I simply burned the covers and booklets and smashed the CDs with a hammer? I could tell my son that if he continues to listen to these bands that God will bash him with a hammer while he burns eternally.

What about his MP3 player? Should I take a hammer to that as well or would it be okay if I just erased it? What music would you recommend I replace his catalogue with?

I must admit that I have been actively listening to half of the bands on your list for years now and I am prepared to throw my own catalogue into the fire to save my soul. I am saddened and ashamed that I spent my hard earned money on so many of these homos and, after reading your list, it became apparent that I may have already been corrupted.

For example, I recently had a dream in which my girlfriend and I were involved in a threesome with James Dean. Although there was no man-on-man action in the dream, the idea of the three of us naked together is quite homoerotic. If you ask me, that dream was a direct result of listening to Morrissey’s Suedehead. Add that to the fact that I recently went to a NOFX concert and... well, I think you guys may have a point.

What is my next move here?

Sadly, Mr. Davies has yet to respond... but I hope he does.

I really wanna play!

I’m that guy you hear about on the news...

2011-12-12T14:43:00.001-05:00

Every once in a while you read about a freak accident where some guy shoots himself in the skull with a nail gun or accidentally swallows a razor. I’m that guy or, at least, I suspect that I would be that guy. That’s why I avoid anything that could be even remotely dangerous.

Go ahead, call me a pussy if you want. At least I’ve never been rushed to the emergency room for losing a finger while carving a Thanksgiving turkey.

I don’t skydive, bungee jump or parasail. Air travel makes me nervous and being on a boat is quite possibly the least relaxing experience for a guy like me. I avoid power tools like the plague and when I mow the lawn or hang a picture, I make sure that I'm on my game, careful not to run myself over or knock myself out with the hammer.

I try though, to be domestically manly... when I have to.

Last week, a massive tree limb fell in our front yard. It was too heavy to move. I stared at it for a few days, knowing that I would need to do something about it, but at a loss as to exactly what.

While having dinner with The Girlfriend’s family, I asked her step-dad, a very manly MacGyver-type dude, if he had an ax I could borrow.

“What do you need an ax for?”

Huge tree limb, I explained... blah, blah, blah...

He and The Girlfriend’s brother, an equally manly MacGyver-type dude, laughed heartily.

“You can’t use an ax,” he said. “You need a chainsaw.”

“Oh,” I said, wishing I had never brought it up. “Forget it then.”

Like most of these scenarios go, her step-dad promised to come over the next day with all the tools necessary for tree limb removal. Fearing the worst, I began plotting how to avoid wielding the chainsaw.

“I’d like to see YOU use a chainsaw,” I said to The Girlfriend, who used the subject razz me for my non-manly ways.

“Oh I plan on using it,” she said. “I’m psyched.”

Perfect. I figured that, if I kept myself busy enough, between The Girlfriend and her step-dad, I wouldn’t have to go near that thing.

I figured wrong. As the two of them took turns cutting, it quickly became apparent that I wasn’t gonna get out of this one.

Thankfully, I didn’t slice my foot off, though I worried the entire time that I would. Hopefully, I’m not going to have to do that again for a very long time.

On the plus side, The Girlfriend said that watching me use a chainsaw totally turned her on.

You're lucky I don't OWN a chainsaw.

Strangely, I was turned on by watching her.

A real woman knows how to handle wood.

Needless to say, the whole scenario made for the perfect aphrodisiac... and the sex was awesome.

Take Me to Your Leader!

2011-12-08T12:08:00.001-05:00

May I have a drum roll please...

It’s official.

The Six-Fingered Monkey is now an honest-to-goodness, full-fledged (with the official BSA patches to prove it) Cub Scout Den Leader.

I know, I know... what the fuck were they thinking?

It wasn’t like I didn’t resist.

Last year, Lu-dog’s first year in scouting, I was given a leadership application.

It quickly found its way into the trash.

It just seemed like a lot of work, ya know? I saw how dedicated the leaders are to the organization and I wasn’t sure if I had it in me... Plus, around this time last year, things were so manic. I had just moved in with The Girlfriend, the divorce battle was in full swing and I wasn’t sure that scouting was going to be Lu-dog’s thing.

However, he flourished in the program, even placing third in his first Pinewood Derby.

It was a great experience for me as well. As predicted, boy scouts became something that was exclusively ours... something that no one could take away from us... and it has brought us closer.

I’m the type of parent who sees scouting as a way to bond with my son. So many parents simply drop their kids off at scouts as if it is some sort of babysitting service. Look, I am NOT saying that there is anything wrong with that. Maybe if my situation was different, I would do the same... but I don’t get to spend as much time with my boys as I would like, so this gives us another opportunity to be together.

Since I accompany Lu-dog to every meeting and event, I often find myself participating. You know, helping other kids with projects, cleaning up after meetings, etc.

Scout leaders notice these things.

At this year’s first official pack meeting, the leaders told me that this was the year that I would become a leader and that I had absolutely no say in the matter.

Seriously?

Once again, I was given an application and, once again, my first instinct was to resist.

The commitment aspect certainly played a role. I am ready to give scouting my “all” but, with such a hectic schedule, I’m still concerned that it may not be enough.

But there was a larger issue looming in the back of my mind... something I really didn’t want to discuss with anyone... something I was hoping wouldn’t BE an issue.

The criminal background check.

As ya’ll know, I was arrested last April and spent a night in jail. In the weeks and months that followed I was harassed regularly, had new charges brought against me and spent a lot of time in court. The money I paid my attorney and the time I spent building my defense eventually paid off.

I walked away... vindicated.

However, the scars still linger. I have a hard time trusting police officers... guys that I work with... guys that I have hung out with... knowing that after an arrest, you can be openly harassed and profiled based solely on the word of a bitter individual that wants to see you burn.

Yet, even with assurances from my defense attorney and the district attorney that my record had been “expunged’ and even after doing my own background check... I was afraid to hand in the application.

Hell, even Lu-dog had concerns.

At some point, my “arrest” became known to Lu-dog and, recently, we even had to have a “talk” about it.

You see, to a seven-year-old, getting arrested means you have done something horrible... that you are a horrible person... that you have, in fact, committed a crime. For him, that incident (knowing nothing of the real story, probably having “overheard” bits and pieces from both sides) left him confused and scared.

On the advice of my therapist, we sat down and had a long conversation about what really happened... Thankfully, he now understands that his daddy is not a serial killer.

But still, he had the same concerns as I did.

“What will they find when they do your background check dad?’

Seriously?

It is so sad that he even had to ask that question... sad that I even had to explain what had happened... sad that I was even arrested and had to fight bullshit charges in the first place.

But that’s in the past... and during this week’s monthly pack meeting, to my surprise, I was called to the front of the room and I was handed my first-ever scout patches.

I almost cried.

Ya know, this wasn’t supposed to be such a “heavy” post. Originally, I just wanted to write about how excited and honored and proud I am to be a leader... and, of course, how excited Lu-dog is about the whole thing.

I wanted to be silly and clever... and make light of the fact that I am scout leader by day and adult humor blogger by night... and how funny it is that I... me, of all people... am going to help shape young minds...

I guess I just needed to get the other stuff out.

I’ll leave the funny stuff to my Facebook friends, who had plenty of snark to share when I made my announcement.

PS: I am gonna look SO hot in this shirt!

‘Tis the Season

2011-12-06T10:23:00.001-05:00

Know what sucks about the holidays?

They keep us way too busy.

It is hard enough to find some down time when working three jobs, shuffling kids between houses, and participating in extracurricular activities. But this time of year, it becomes even harder.

Between holiday parties, parades, school concerts, scout fundraisers, shopping, decorating and preparing for Santa's big day, on top of an already busy schedule, I can’t seem to find a moment of downtime and it seems to be getting even crazier as Christmas fast approaches.

When I climbed into bed last night, tired and horny, I didn’t even have the strength to fuck.

Too much information?

Whatever, you knew what you were getting yourself into when you came here.

The thing is, I am adamant about not letting the insanity of the season get to me, because Christmas is my favorite holiday and I am not going to let anything ruin it. That’s why I have been relishing in all things merry... like decorating the house, listening to non-stop Christmas music on the radio, and ~~drinking my face off at~~ making the most of holiday office parties and school events where I am forced to be around a bunch of people that I don’t like.

I come from the school of, “We’re gonna have fun this year if it kills us.”

I even decided to do an official family Christmas photo this year. Here are a couple of cute outtakes... official photo to follow closer to Christmas.

This is actually a rare sight, unless one is attempting to strangle the other.

Dontcha just wanna squeeze us?

On a different note... half of my visitors are friends that make their way here via Facebook. So, would you do me a favor peeps? Give me some holiday love by clicking here and liking my official Six-Fingered Monkey Facebook page. I’d certainly appreciate it.

If you’re some random stranger, you should do the same. I promise that I will not stalk you. Unless you’re hot... then all bets are off.

Fat Slob

2011-12-01T15:30:00.001-05:00

“Don’t forget, you have to testify in court tomorrow,” a colleague reminded me.

“Oh shit, I forgot. Fuck! I’d better write myself a note.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll remind you in the morning,” she said.

“No, no... that’s not it,” I explained. “I have to write a note to remind myself to shave and not dress like a slob.”

How pathetic is that?

Lately, I’ve been waking up, throwing on clothes from the floor of my closet, shaving less than twice a week and washing my hair somewhat irregularly... and that’s DURING the week. On the weekends, I have gotten into the habit of going out in public wearing my pajamas and sometimes skipping showers altogether. Couple that with the fact that I have been eating enough food daily to feed a small African country for a year, smoking like a fucking fiend and slowly becoming more sedentary than my usual sedentary self and what do you get?

One big fat slob.

What happened to me?

Shit, if you’ve been reading my blog long enough, you know that I seriously lack willpower and I often lament about my current state of health and make empty promises about how I am going to do better.

I’m tempted to blame my current state on my relationship. I mean, there is definitely evidence of a pattern here.

Whenever I settle in or settle down, I tend to let myself go. I mean, I really think that if I was still on the market, out there chasing tail (yeah, I just said ‘chasing tail’), I would at least be making an effort to look presentable, if not taking better care of myself. Of course, that’s not really fair to The Girlfriend who is still, by all accounts, smoking hot.

Hell, I haven’t even weighed myself in nearly a year, but I don’t have to. Aside from my clothes getting tighter, I have conversations on a daily basis about how my belly is growing.

Just this morning, one of my secretaries commented, “Holy shit. You’re getting fat!”

She’s absolutely right.

Now, if I could only get off my fat ass and do something about it.

On the bright side, I am still a super cutie... and my ego is still healthy.

That’s something, right?

Later, Turkey

2011-11-28T15:14:00.001-05:00

So, Christmas is upon us once again.

Yeah, I know its still November... but, lets be honest here, we’ve been conditioned to deck the fucking halls before we even buy our Thanksgiving turkey.

Right?

I heard my first Christmas song on the radio on November 15 and immediately shut it off. That’s way too early for me. It wasn’t too early, however, for me to string up some outdoor festive lighting while raking leaves with the boys.

Ease into it slowly, that’s how I roll.

I managed to keep the Christmas out of the Thanksgiving, at least until I ventured out for some Black Friday madness. The Girlfriend and I went out on amateur night (Wednesday) and I got to reconnect with a childhood friend, her sisters and other assorted characters that I had never met, but am now thankful to know.

Do you have a SAG card Adrian?

The problem with amateur night is that everyone ends up acting like a fool. I, for example, managed to lose $50 and pass out on the cab ride home. We spent Thanksgiving day nursing hangovers, but my “super trooper” girlfriend still came through with an awesome Thanksgiving dinner.

After a long nap and some Lady Gaga, I ~~forced~~ ~~coerced~~ ~~bribed~~ invited The Girlfriend to join me in an attempt to pop my Black Friday cherry.

9:00 PM

“Baby?”

Silence.

Baby?”

Silence.

“Oh, you’re asleep. Okay. We have to get ready to leave soon.”

Silence.

“I understand if you’re not up to it. I can go by myself.”

“Okay.”

9:20 PM

“Baby?”

Silence.

“So, have you decided if you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. Don’t worry. Its okay if you don’t wanna. I’m gonna hop in the shower.”

10:15 PM

“Honey?”

Silence.

“Have you decided?”

Silence.

“If you’re gonna go with me, you have to get up now and get ready.”

“I don’t know. Five more minutes.”

“Okay.”

10:20 PM

“Baby?”

“Huh?”

“Its been five minutes.”

Silence.

“Please don’t make me go by myself.”

“Seriously?”

“I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“I don’t want a coffee.”

“I’ll buy you a diet Pepsi.”

“I don’t want a diet Pepsi.”

“What do you want?”

“Sleep.”

“Oh...”

Silence

“Pretty please.”

Silence

“Please, please, please.”

“FINE!”

Yeah, no wonder she was pissed off when my bullet-proof Black Friday plan backfired.

You can read all about THAT hot mess over here.

Sigh.

So, our Thanksgiving didn’t go exactly as planned, but it was an experience.

Now that it is over, I’m ready to face Christmas (my absolute favorite holiday) head on. Bring on the food, the drink, the shopping, the lights, the sounds, the music... I’m gonna milk every last “ho, ho, ho” this year.

So, how about you?

How was your Thanksgiving?

I hope it was great and I hope you’re ready for Christmas because, like it or not, it's here bitches! It's here.

Thankful For “Nothing”

2011-11-18T14:33:00.001-05:00

Perusing my calender and planning the week ahead, it occurred to me that I have absolutely nothing to do for Thanksgiving.

I mean, that’s not really true. I have lots of stuff planned, but it is what I do not have to do that has me really fucking excited. I’m salivating over the fact that I have no family obligations this Thanksgiving, not with my family nor with The Girlfriend’s family. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for family functions and such but... eh. A Thanksgiving alone in my underwear (or naked) sounds pretty fucking inviting.

Know what else I don’t have?

My usual 35 hour work week.

I’m off on Monday because I am chaperoning Lu-dog’s field trip in the morning and, in the afternoon, I am doing my civic duty and delivering Christmas wreath orders for his Cub Scout pack. I will also be handing in my paperwork to become an official scout leader.

Fuck off.

On Monday night, the boys come over for dinner and then I don’t see them again until Saturday.

On Tuesday I will be going to work late because I have an appointment with the eye doctor. On Wednesday, our office closes at 11:30 a.m. and we don’t report back for duty until the following Monday.

Ah... civil service.

Of course, I am going to have to get all of my weekly writing assignments done by Wednesday, but that’s a cake walk.

So, what am I going to do with all of this free time?

On Wednesday night, I am hoping to hook up with childhood friend and fellow blogger, The I’s Have It. On Thursday, I will enjoy a delicious Thanksgiving meal made by, hands-down, the absolute best cook I have ever met (The Girlfriend). I think last week’s Iron Chef America Thanksgiving special has awaken some serious inspiration inside of her and I am really looking forward to the super-secret menu.

During and between these engagements, my time will be spent drinking (a lot), finally completing Lego Star Wars, The Complete Saga, watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory, putting some more records up on eBay, masturbating and/or fucking, and more eating... lots and lots of eating.

Oh God, I almost forgot. The Girlfriend and I are considering popping our cherries together -- our Black Friday cherries!

I really hope we don’t get crushed.

I’ll let you know how that goes.

“Its My Party and I’ll Cry If I want To” or “It Ain’t Easy Being Three”

2011-11-14T21:07:00.001-05:00

Clearly, I’m not above cliche titles!

Last week, my littlest monkey celebrated his fourth birthday.

If there are any perks associated with coming from a broken home, they clearly occur around holidays and birthdays when the kids get to double-up (and in the case of my kids, quadruple-up) on celebrations. But, multiple birthday parties make for spoiled monkeys.

In retrospect, planning a party for 6 p.m. on a Friday night may have been a bad decision. That’s meltdown hour for D-man, but the downside to having divorced parents is that you have to be flexible with your scheduling. Friday night was the best night for The Girlfriend and I to throw a party.

We spent the previous night shopping, cleaning house and prepping food. Since The Girlfriend works on Veteran’s Day, daddy spent the day cleaning, decorating, moving furniture and cooking, all while trying to keep the boys entertained.

Nana arrived around 4, wanting to avoid the party crowd. With her chemotherapy in full swing, germs are a major issue at this point. She came armed with three gifts, each a different coveted Star Wars Lego set. Lu-Dog was useless at this point, busy preparing his room for a “Nature Club” meeting (don’t ask). So, daddy was charged with building each of the three Lego sets. By the time the guests started to arrive, he was still knee deep in an X-Wing Fighter and ready to toss the fucking thing out the window.

I’m not used to throwing a kids party and everything was, shall we say, a little haphazard. Instead of setting a schedule for food, cake and the opening of presents, I opted for a free-for-all. Kids were running around everywhere, guests were arriving (and leaving), wine was being spilled on the rug and I was focused on trying to avoid a D-Man meltdown by handing him another gift every time he started to get cranky.

I'm four. I don't HAVE to censor myself!

Midway through dishing out some sausage and peppers for another dad, opening a Stella from my private stash and giving directions over the phone, The Girlfriend alerted me to the fact that D-Man was sitting on the stairs crying.

“What’s wrong baby?”

“I, I, I... I want someone to play with me.”

“Your brother is up in your room with the girls honey, go play with them.”

“But, but, but they say I can’t go in there cuz, cuz, cuz... cuz they having a meeting.”

“Oh sweetie. Okay. Listen, let’s open your present from Peter and Richard because they have to leave soon.”

“Okay daddy.”

It was a very cool Melissa and Doug 10-in-1 game for ages four and up.

Absolutely appropriate, right?

Wrong!

“This is a BABY toy.”

Try absolutely embarrassing.

“Look honey, this has ten games that you and I can play together.”

“I don’t want it!”

OMG.

My buddy Matt tried to save the day by suggesting that D-Man open his gift. Matt is known around these parts for giving the coolest gifts and, this year, he didn’t disappoint.

If there’s one thing that D-man likes as much as Star Wars, its construction vehicles.

Except for tonight.

It was an awesome die cast Caterpillar Digger.

You’d think he’d be psyched, right?

Wrong.

“But its not Star Wars,” he said as he started to tear up.

This went on all night.

“...but I have this already...”

“...but I don’t like stickers...”

The most embarrassing moment came when an old friend stopped by to say, “hello,” completely unaware that we were having a party for D-man.

“Daddy...” he said, tugging on my pant leg. “I, I, I... I have a secret to tell you.”

“What is it baby?”

“That man didn’t bring a present to my party!”

With that, he fell to the floor crying and I decided it was time for him to go to bed.

Here’s another cliche...

Kid’s say the most fucked up shit, don’t they?

A Cat Named Douche Bag

2011-11-04T17:19:00.000-04:00

Clearly, this cat is evil!

“Wouldn’t it be cool to have a cat named Douche Bag?”

“So, you want to get another cat?”

“NO,” I insisted, knowing that if given the opportunity, The Girlfriend would turn our home into a menagerie of kitty cats. “I DO NOT want to get another cat. I’m just saying...”

“You’re saying it would be cool to have a cat named Douche Bag.”

“Yes. Imagine it. We would have friends over and they’d be all like... Aw, what a cute kitty. What’s his name? And I’d be all like... oh that’s Douche Bag.”

“You have issues.”

“Here Douche Bag. Here Douche.... Douchey... Douchey Doucher... here Douche...”

With that, our resident kitty poked his head out from underneath the coffee table and proceeded to hop up on the couch and whore himself out to my leg.

“Oh that’s right,” I said, “I already have a kitty named Douche Bag.”

“Stop it,” the girlfriend chided. “His name is Mylo.”

“Well, I call him Douche Bag...” I said stroking his fat orange belly.

“Why are you so mean to our kitty?”

You may think that this is a valid question posed by The Girlfriend, but it is actually a pretty dumb one.

No offense lover.

You see, we live with the most spoiled, trouble-making cat on Long Island... perhaps in all of New York State.

"Give in to my demands, stupid human!"

First of all, Mylo demands that we “freshen up” his food and water at least two times daily. That’s right, he could have enough food and water in his dish to last through a nuclear holocaust, but if it isn’t less than three hours out of the bag or the bottle (yes he drinks bottled water), the trouble begins.

Mylo begins by sniffing his bowls and testing a single morsel of food. He picks it up with his paw and eats it. If its not to his liking, he picks up one or two more pieces and places them next to the bowl. He raises his nose and walks away.

He will do this all day if you don’t address the situation, amassing a pile of cat food on the floor larger than the pile in his food bowl... but that's just the tip of the iceberg. If his little hunger strike doesn't work, he will resort to more sinister measures in an attempt to disrupt our daily lives. For example, he will use his fat ass to block me from going up or down the staircase. Usually, I ignore such behavior and, in turn, he will attempt to cause bodily harm by tripping me.

He and I can play these games for hours and, as I pretend to become more oblivious to his actions, he gets more desperate and tries some passive aggressive tactics.

Crash!

I run upstairs to find that a picture frame has mysteriously fallen off my desk.

Bang!

I run back downstairs to investigate and I nearly break my neck tripping over Douche Bag, who has once again planted himself at the bottom of the stairs.

“Really? That’s how you want to play mother fucker? I’m not feeding you shit.”

“Rowr,” he replies. He always argues with me.

“NO... I’m fucking serious. You can pull this shit with your mother but you’re not gonna pull it with me.... You spoiled rotten bastard!”

“ROWR,” he snaps as he bolts upstairs to hide under the bed and plan his next move.

Why don’t you just “freshen up” his bowls Six?

Whatever. Give him an inch and he’ll take a fucking mile. It would be different if he was a good kitty, but I can’t reward bad behavior.

What kind of bad behavior you ask?

He tries to run away daily. Open the front door, the back door or the basement door and you literally need to fight him off to keep him from going AWOL. He also likes to take a fresh stinky poo every time his litter box has been cleaned... and for extra effect? He leaves it uncovered for a little while just so everyone else can relish in his stink.

If that’s not the definition of a douche bag, I don’t know what is...

And then there’ Laurel (RIP).

Back at the scene of the crime.

Laurel was the oldest living member of our little family, having survived three moves over two years and outliving scores of his tropical brethren. It was only recently that Mylo took an unhealthy, and obsessive, interest in the fish tank, even dismantling (literally) the filter one night while we slept.

A few days ago, Laurel took his last breath and floated, belly up, to the top of his watery grave.

Coincidence?

I think not, particularly since Mylo has been revisiting the scene of the crime... even after his prey has been long flushed away and his home to sit empty.

“I know you killed him Mylo.”

“ROWR,” he yells, jumping from the hood of the tank and glaring back at me with those evil kitty eyes.

“I know it was you and I’m gonna prove it.”

“Meow.”

“Don’t mock me.”

He strolls to his food bowl and picks up a morsel with his right paw.

“Douche bag.”

Freak the Freak-Out

2011-10-31T20:14:00.001-04:00

Here are a few things you need to know about me:

I absolutely believe in spirits, hauntings and all of that creepy jazz.
I am fascinated with the subject and I love watching those shows where people hunt for ghosts or profile haunted vacation spots and such.
I am convinced that I have been in contact with “the other side” on numerous occasions.

I am also a big, fat pussy and every single fact mentioned above scares the living shit out of me, from thinking about the spirit world to watching “ghost documentaries.” Still, I continually put myself in these situations, knowing that I am likely going to freak out and have a meltdown.

Case in point; I read a story this morning written by a colleague over at North Fork Patch. If you are into personal ghost stories, you should definitely read it -- its a great account and very well-written. Aside from making the hair on the back of my neck stand up, the story alerted me to something called Ghost Radar, an app that allegedly tracks paranormal activity and records words from the other side.

GTFO!

I had to have it.

Unfortunately I have a ~~gay-ass phone~~ Palm Pre, which does not support the Ghost Radar app, so I downloaded something called Spirit Box, which is basically the same thing.

While driving to an inspection site today I turned on Spirit Box hoping for a message from the other side. I placed the phone by my side, with the app open, and after a few minutes of silence I resigned myself to the fact that the spirits clearly have no interest in me. I forgot to shut it off though and as my mind wandered elsewhere an eerie voice had me so startled that I almost crashed. Well, not really, but my heart started pounding... the hair on the back of my neck stood up... yada, yada.

"Long!"

That’s what it said.

"Long..."

Of course, I turned the app off and I was so scared that I didn’t want to be in the car alone.

So, I called The Girlfriend.

“Sandy wrote this story... blah blah blah... I downloaded this app... blah blah blah... it just spoke to me.”

“Did you pay for that app?”

“Did you hear what I said? It spoke to me.”

“You’re a dork.”

“It said LONG.”

“What?”

“Long. It said, LONG. I wonder what that means.”

“It means that you downloaded a stupid app that is saying random words to you.”

“Whatever... I’m really scared. I knew this would happen.”

"Why did you download the app?"

"I don't know, maybe I like to torture myself."

"That's MY job."

"Long... What if it's trying to say... SO long... like, so long... bye, bye... you're about to die in a car crash."

“I have to go.”

Okay, so maybe the app is a farce... but Sandy’s story was pretty convincing and I have definitely had contact with people on the “other side.”

For example, my grandpa was hospitalized a few times toward the end of his life and his last trip home from the hospital was one of those, “we’re sending him home to die” kinda things. He didn’t last long after that.

About a year before his death, my grandpa bought a pair of Nextel direct connect phones so I could be at his beck and call.

Seriously.

That was so grandpa and... at his beck and call I was, sometimes three or four times a day. When he was in the hospital though, I felt a sense of relief knowing that I wouldn’t have to jackass over to his house every five minutes to get him a glass of water or empty his pee jar.

Yes, he had a pee jar.

I want a pee jar.

So, imagine my surprise when, while he was in the hospital for the last time, my Nextal rang at around 3 a.m. By the time I got to the phone, it had gone to voicemail. It was a missed call from my Grandfather’s phone. I sat there, staring in disbelief, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when the voicemail notification went off. I was petrified. I didn’t want to listen to it, but I knew I had to.

The voicemail? Exactly 1 minute and 37 seconds of pure static and noise.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night and early the next morning I raced to his house and relayed the story to my grandmother, who quickly dismissed all of it by pulling the phone, which was turned off, out from the drawer of grandpa’s nightstand.

"I didn't call you and neither did he" she assured me.

He made his final trip home that afternoon. I made sure to stop by and see him after work.

The first thing he said to me?

“I tried to call you last night. I needed to get out of that place. I needed you to come and get me, but you didn’t answer.”

I nearly threw up. “I was sleeping grandpa. I’m sorry.”

He died a few days later.

Although I never heard from him again, I hear from my uncle regularly.

My Uncle Jeffrey died soon after my 22nd birthday and he died way too young. He and I were close - very close... His long illness and death devastated me.

I don’t remember the first time he came to me, but even today, when I dream about Jeffrey it is a very confusing and surreal scene. Its always the same. We meet at my grandmother’s house, the house we both grew up in... I get angry with him... I think I confuse my dream world with realty and I spend a lot of time in the dream trying to figure out if someone tricked me... like, he never died... but he’s been hiding. His presence is so real that it takes a while for me to recognize that he’s only there for a visit... that it isn’t reality... that its just a dream.

And then he speaks to me. I never, ever remember what he says... but we have long conversations and then he’s gone... sometimes, for months.

Once, however, he didn’t come alone.

I was sitting in my grandmother’s living room and he appeared in front of me with an old college boyfriend of his. Though I hadn’t seen Richard in years, there he was standing with Jeffery. The three of us spoke briefly and then they were gone.

I didn’t think much of it, having seen my uncle in dreams so many times before, until a few days later when I got a call from my Nana.

“Do you remember Richard?”

You guessed it, she told me that Richard had passed away in his sleep the very same night that he and my uncle appeared in my dream.

Now that’s some fucked up shit, no?

I believe in the spirit world. I believe in ghosts and hauntings... In fact, I kind of find a strange sense of peace in the whole thing... but it stiill freaks the fuck out of me.

We've Got the Force!

2011-10-13T21:03:00.000-04:00

Thanks to D-man, it is all about Star Wars around here these days.

The rage started a little more than a month ago when I purchased Lego Star Wars: The Complete Saga for Wii, from our local GameStop store.

Combining D-man’s favorite toy, the Lego, with the foreign allure of Lightsabers and ray guns is, for a four-year-old, as exciting as watching Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis dyking it out in Black Swan. You know, one of the those things that even your own wildest imagination couldn’t conjure up.

Since first being introduced the game, everything, at least for D-man, centers around The Force.

Aside from playing the game non-stop...

“Daddy, I need help to beat this level!”

...every Lego creation is Star Wars themed...

“Does this look like the Star Wars ship daddy?”

...and every game of pretend ends up with someone losing an arm to a Lightsaber.

“Peshew... Peshew... I just gunned you with my Lightsaber daddy!”

We are even reading a Star Wars book entitled, Star Wars: Ultimate Duels. When he first brought the book to my house, he could barely contain his excitement.

“I... I... I... its... look daddy,” he stammered. “Star Wars...”

“Oh my goodness baby,” I said in an attempt to share in his earth-shattering excitement. “A Star Wars book!”

“Uh huh... Uh huh,” he said with a big smile as he repositioned the book so that he could explain it to me. “See... its, its, its a... a... a light saber... see? Its a blue one and anutta blue one and, and, and... um... that’s a bad guy and that one is a good guy. I got it at... at the, at the, at the ryeberry.”

“You got it at the library?”

“Uh huh. In the, in the, in the... um... in the game books section?”

“They have a game books section at the library?”

“Uh huh... with, with, with... with the Star Wars.”

Its pretty refreshing to see my little guy get so excited about all of the silly and trivial things that make a boy’s childhood so special, especially since it was something that I rarely experienced with Lu-dog.

I hate to compare my children. They are, to me, perfect in their own unique way... but while D-man has spent his third year interested in army men, dump trucks, science fiction and sports, Lu-dog has stayed on the course focusing his efforts on more “worthwhile” endeavors... You know, things like building websites, learning about the solar system, planting gardens, starting his own businesses and participating in philanthropic projects, such as raising money for children with cleft palates.

Seriously. Last year, he saw an advertisement about kids in third-world countries needing money for cleft palate surgery and he has had a donation cup in his mom’s kitchen ever since.

Sure, Lu-Dog is seven years old now, but its not like he shed any of the above referenced childish activities over time. Since he was born, this is is pretty much always been my Lu-dog; a no-nonsense, bright and inquisitive young man that never had time for toys and games.

“Dad,” he said to me last week, quite matter-of-factly, “I would rather read nonfiction than fiction.”

That’s Lu-dog, the polar opposite of his brother.

At first, especially before D-man came along, I thought that there was something wrong with Lu-dog... I thought that maybe we were doing something wrong with him... But now, as I watch D-man’s boyhood take shape, I realize that we did everything right... I realize that they are both so different... and I realize how perfect that is... for everyone involved.

“I’m a Jedi daddy!”

“You are baby?”

“Uh-huh...uh-huh...”

“You can’t be a Jedi D-man,” Lu-dog chided. “First of all, you’re like three years old... and, second of all, Star Wars isn’t real.”

“Yep it IS Lu-dog,” he yelled.

“LU-DOG,” I barked.

“Well, its not...”

“D-Man, we’re gonna get you a Lightsaber so that you can prove to your brother that you are a true Jedi,” I said.

“I want a Lightsaber too,” Lu-dog whined.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah...” He was silent for a moment, until quietly declaring, “I’m Jedi too!”

Like I said.. Perfect!

Another New Chapter

2011-09-14T21:17:00.000-04:00

I have lived in the same place for all of my life... born and raised here, sort of.

I was actually born in Augusta, Georgia and soon moved to Rutland, Vermont (what an unfortunate name and sort of fitting). By age three, I think, I returned to my mother’s place of birth and I have been here ever since.

People make fun of me for that and I always point out that I totally left town for four years to attend college, in New Hampshire, and another two years to work at a newspaper, also in New Hampshire. I have also traveled extensively, having vacationed in Vegas, Florida, nearly every New England state, South Carolina, Georgia, Maryland, Jersey and Tennessee. I even went to Mexico with my Spanish Club in high school.

Okay, maybe that’s not “extensive,” but I am trying to make the point that I am not as isolated as people claim.

Fuckers.

I love Greenport. It is one of the coolest and most beautiful places in America. Its a great place to grow up, a great place to live and work, and a great place to raise a family. It is, and always has been, my comfort zone.

I like knowing everyone and I like that everyone knows me. I know the restaurant and store owners, the bartenders, the grocery clerks, the bank tellers, their parents and their kids.

Hometown love, ya know?

There is a flip-side to all of this, of course. Anyone who lives in a small town knows that “knowing everyone” has its drawbacks. Since the demise of my marriage, spending the majority of time in the same one-square-mile as The Ex has been stressful, to say the least.

It is hard, in a close-knit community, to lose friends and even casual acquaintances over a something as personal as a divorce. It’s hard to watch people you grew up with take sides, even if that side is your own and, of course, it is -annoying- -uncomfortable- -weird- -hard- running into your estranged spouse (whether with a friend, a significant other, or alone) on an almost daily basis. All of it is hard, I suspect, for both parties.

So, it is a sort of bittersweet realization that, as of October 1, I will no longer be a resident of Greenport.

It’s not really a big deal. Its not like I’m moving to fucking Utah or something.... technically, I still reside in the same town.

I live in the Village of Greenport, which is nestled in the middle of the hamlet of Greenport, which is part of the much larger Town of Southold. I’m moving to Mattituck which is a hamlet within the Town of Southold. Leave it to Long Islanders to make shit so complicated.

I know that’s Greek to most of you but the point is, it’s not fucking Utah... In fact, our new house is exactly 13.3 miles from the house we live in now. It is far enough away that I will be shopping at different stores, going to different bars and restaurants, banking at different branches and avoiding much of the bullshit of the past couple of years, but it is still close enough that my time with Lu-dog and D-man will stay the same... and that, of course, is the most important thing.

In fact, they were my biggest concern, especially Lu-dog. He has a tendency to worry that daddy may be to far away when he needs him. He wasn’t keen on the idea at first, but when he realized that Game Stop, the only year round movie theater, and the best ice cream place on the North Fork is within walking distance? That sealed the deal.

Its not like I won’t be in Greenport all the time anyway. The boys still live and attend school there, my office is about five miles away, I still have family there, and Greenport is where the brunt of my Taxi calls come from. So, its really not such a big deal in the whole scheme of things... but it is change and change is good for everyone involved.

Speaking of change, The Ex and I signed our divorce papers this morning without incident.

I’m ready for the next chapter.

A House is Not a Home

2011-09-08T20:42:00.000-04:00

On the heels of Hurricane Irene, our landlord paid a visit to our home, in part to survey damage from the storm. While standing on our front porch, she gave The Girlfriend the bad news.

She wanted her house back when our lease expires on September 30.

Fuck.

We need this like we need a hole in the head.

I’m not faulting her. You see, we were able to rent this cute little house because of her own difficult circumstances. Having lost her previous job it made more sense for her to rent out the house so she could pay the mortgage while she looked for another job. Thankfully (for her), she has found a job.

We had a feeling that we would likely lose the rental after a year and we even started (casually) looking for a new place a few months ago. However, we got pretty lazy as September approached and there was no word from the landlord.

Long story short, we are house hunting again... feverishly looking for new digs and coming up empty around every turn. Most recently, we found a gorgeous place about nine miles from where we live now and just three miles from my office.

The second we walked through the front door we knew it was too good to be true. This beautiful ranch house, just steps from the beach, had three bedrooms, one and one-half baths, a kitchen, dining room, living room, den, full basement, screened-in back porch and an attached garage. It even had a pool and a hot tub.

A hot tub.

After our first visit I had everything planned out. I would have a man cave in the basement, as well as a playroom for the kids. We’d set up a craft room for The Girlfriend down there too, as well as an eBay space for me. The den would become my office and everything would be perfect.

I even envisioned ~~orgies~~ hot tub parties in the back yard.

Mm... hot tub parties!

The house was close enough to our jobs and our families, but far enough away from where we live now to escape the petty small-town bullshit that has plagued us since my separation.

Perfect.

A few days after our initial meeting, the agent called and informed us that there was a catch. The property owners wanted to rent the house furnished.

I really didn’t have a problem with this at first. I mean, there was already a room decorated for boys with bunk beds and a cute matching dresser. The master bedroom was totally our style with a wrought-iron bed (the same one we have now), matching end tables, a dresser and a vanity.

Still perfect.

While driving to the movies the other night we got another call from the agent informing us that everything was on track for us to get the house... except...

You guessed it... another catch.

We could not bring Mylo Winthrop Land, our family kitty.

We didn’t know what to do with the news. We loved the house, but we love our kitty too. He’s part of the family and we love him, even though I threaten to sell him to the Chinese food place on a regular basis because he can be a major douche. We briefly discussed the possibility for offering him to the girlfriend’s mom for adoption and then decided that we should just relax, enjoy the movie, and discuss it later.

I try to stay away from the whole “art imitates life” theme here but I think it is important to note that we went to see, “Our Idiot Brother.”

The movie was awesome. It was funny and cute and I started to cry a few times during the movie... because it centers around the love that a family (even the family pet) can create.

Driving home for the movie, it hit me.

“Ya know,” I said to the girlfriend, “forget about Mylo for a minute and think about this. That house is gorgeous. Everything about it is perfect, but nothing in that house would be ours... not the dining room table, not the couches, not the boys’ bunk bed, not the hot tub. We’ve been together for nearly two years and made a home for ourselves and for the boys where we are now. We have amassed all this stuff... as a family. Sure, a lot of our stuff is shitty and second hand, but its our stuff. What are we going to do in a year or two years, after living in this quasi-fantasy world... treating all of this stuff as if it were our own? We’re going to have to walk away from all of it and start over. Everything that we will become used to... everything the boys will become used to... we will have to abandon at some point. When I put that in context and look at that bigger picture... and I think about giving up Mylo... I think... for what? For a year or two of living in some fantasy world that’s not even ours? Personally? I don’t think its worth it.”

“Neither do I,” she replied.

“I’m going to call the agent first thing in the morning and tell her to forget it.”

You see, a house can never be a home. Its what’s inside.... the people, the love, the memories. We, as a family... Lu-dog, D-man, The Girlfriend, myself... even the shithead cat... we started building our home a year ago and its way too special to lock away in a basement to be picked up where we left off another day. I would much rather we (along with all our stuff) move from this shell into another and continue on this path.

That’s more important than a hot tub.

Catching Up!

2011-08-25T20:17:00.001-04:00

So, I have been super busy lately. SUPER busy. Between having house guests, writing (the boring kind of writing, for money), moonlighting as a cab driver and spending time with my little monkeys, I haven’t even had a chance to fuck, let alone blog.

Although being super busy generates plenty of fodder for blog posts, the truth is that The Six-Fingered Monkey is just too lazy and tired. So, I’m gonna take the easy way out and offer you, my dear readers, a list of ten things that happened since I was here last.

My sister “b” and her husband came to visit a few weeks ago and we tore up this sleepy little village and our livers. There was a lot of monkey business as you can see in the following photos:

Remember those pesky charges that landed me in jail, put me in front of a judge like eleventeen times, and forced me to pay a bunch of money (that I don’t have) in legal fees?

Dismissed.

#Winning!

My final divorce agreement has been hammered out and the documents are ready for signature. Fingers crossed!

My business cards arrived! Huzzah!

I have been offered drugs and/or alcohol by passengers in my taxi cab on seventeen occasions separate occasions. Although tempting, I did not take anyone up on their offers.

I have a really visible scar on my hand from when I once taught Journalism to an elementary school class and nearly severed my left thumb while cutting and pasting storyboards (the old school way).

The scar is SUPER itchy right now, which usually means a storm is coming (don’t laugh, I’m being fucking serious), but it is itching BAD which means that Irene is coming.

Fuck Lee Goldberg, I’ve got your weather report right here. A major hurricane, the likes of which we haven’t seen since around my eleventh birthday, is gonna SLAM Long Island this weekend. My thumb told me so.

Bring it on bitches!

On thirteen separate occasions I was offered drugs and/or alcohol by FEMALE passengers in my taxi cab. On eight occasions those female passengers were SUPER hot. Although REALLY, REALLY, REALLY tempting, I did not take anyone up on their offers because I value my life.

I’m thinking about starting a separate blog dedicated solely to my life as a cab driver, but I keep thinking that I need another project like I need a fucking hole in the head.

My Nana had major surgery this week and we were all on edge because, at the age 79, it was a very risky procedure. Thankfully, just two days later, she is up, moving around and feeling pretty good. She is also cancer-free. That’s all I can say about this subject, however, because I was told by Nana that I was forbidden to blog about the specifics or talk about it on “that stupid Facebook thing.”

Instead, lets go back in time, shall we? Think not of cancer, but about Nana’s lovely eyebrows!

I am designing a new line of tees that I may or may not give out to my passengers!

Pick Your Pleasure

2011-08-10T17:07:00.002-04:00

I have trouble drawing lines.

Not literally.

I have a hard time drawing the line that prevents me from getting stepped on, taken advantage of, or having my heart broken.

I also fail when it comes to drawing that line that should exist between knowing when I have had enough to drink and declaring that “we’re gonna carry this bitch till the sun comes up,” as I down my third shot of Jagermeister and fall off the bar stool.

Of course, there is the line between my masculine side and my feminine side, which has been blurred beyond recognition for more than a decade.

But those are not the lines I am referring to...

A couple of years ago (around the time that this started to get popular - and by popular, I mean I have like 15 followers) a friend warned me NOT to mix my “creative” body of work with my “freelance” writing business.

I understand why. I mean, I really don’t think its wise to encourage the New York City psychiatrist that hired me to revamp his website content to read about my thoughts on masturbation, homosexuality and other family-friendly topics. If he were to read my blog, he would likely petition the state to have me committed.

Seriously.

However, this blog is my baby. The Six-Fingered Monkey celebrated its fourth birthday this month and, although I don’t post as often as I would like to and I make absolutely no money at it (you can change that by making a donation here -- hint, hint), it is what I love to do the most.

I think I spend too much time trying to keep my identity a secret here (even though most of my readers personally know me) and trying to keep my freelance writing business insulated from the naughty monkey that lives inside of me... but the more I think about it, the more I realize that there is usually no good reason to NOT tie everything together.

Perhaps a CEO somewhere will see the value in a guy that can write killer web copy, but is ~~disturbed~~ creative enough to take a normal conversation about beavers and turn it into something dirty. Okay, so maybe that’s not my finest moment, but you get the point.

So whats the best way to market both Jekyll AND Hyde?

A double-sided business card.

When meeting a potential client or contact, I can present them with my business card, side one facing up. Should they decide to flip it over and step into the realm of The Six-Fingered Monkey, so be it.

On the other hand, when someone asks me about my personal blog (which seem to be what most people are interested in), I will present them with side two.

For the most part, I think people will be able to make a distinction between the two and understand exactly what I can do for them - either entertain them, or provide them with a service. If anyone gets a bug up their ass and decides not to hire me for a “serious” job because they are too uptight to appreciate my dirty mind... well, they can go fuck themselves.

Perhaps I’m over thinking this.

It’s too late anyway, the cards are on their way.

Perhaps I should have gone with my original design idea and blown the whole fucking thing out of the water.

Imagine the hits I’d get with that one!

Maybe next time...