And so it begins…

First day of school is tomorrow.  At least it is for the high school senior.  The college senior and the college soph began classes at Iowa State on Monday.  So tomorrow marks the beginning of our 17^th and final year in our public school district.  I’m not sad about it.  As I explained previously we’re ready to be done with high school for a variety of reasons.  Regardless, here are couple things relevant to the start of school.

First, when I started my senior year in high school The Lost Boys had just been released.  The soundtrack included the INXS song Good Times.  Which, of course, leads to the inevitable debate about whether or not Good Times is a better song than New Sensation which came out the following summer.  The answer is New Sensation.  Anyway, nothing is out right now as cool as Lost Boys.  Mainly because Hollywood has no good ideas.  The reasons are many but mostly boil down to the fact that its run by intellectually hollow woke d-bags who have to rip off the 80’s by doing another Top Gun instead of coming up with their own ideas that don’t suck.  Which, if you’re them, is extremely difficult.  Why?  Most Gen-X 80’s scholars tend to settle on the loose idea that most people simply don’t like to lectured by smug entitled narcissists who revel in being tattletales and who honestly believe that they invented everything and absolutely NOTHING of any interest happened before them. 

So the high senior not only has to deal with the fact all the movies suck as she enters senior year but also that nothing out right now remotely compares to Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again video.  She’s stuck watching tiktoks about cats.  Now despite the efforts of some, our school district has thus far resisted efforts to turn it into a People’s Republic of Totalitarian Dumbassery.  She’s going to school tomorrow in-person and maskless.  Now most of the credit for that goes to the Legislature and the Governor for making Iowa the Freedom Capital of the Midwest.  Regardless, if high school looks anything like the mall did last Saturday, everybody agrees that masks are useless.  Advantage sanity.

The college soph is in the sorority house this year.  And despite starting her second year, she’s attending her first in-person classes.  Which means she’ll not only be walking within six feet of other humans but she’ll – gasp – be living with 9 other girls in the house.  For context I have to go back to August of ’89 to get an idea of how I felt about things as I entered my sophomore year at college.  Hmm…

Well, first thing is the top song in the country the week I started classes was Right Here Waiting by Richard Marx.  So, yes, the 80’s did have a few instances of head hanging shame.  But that same week Heaven by Warrant was also in the top 20.  So…awesome.  Also, I had to build the loft in my dorm room. I distinctly remember it going up easier than expected but I had to wedge it in by “borrowing” some excess pieces of wood “found” on various other floors of the dorm.  The soph showed up in the house and just had to pick a bunk in the cold air and stake out some closet space.  But as the semester begins things are as close to normal as one can expect on a college campus heavily influenced by woke communism.

The college senior moved into a new apartment a couple weeks ago.  Street access from the front door, three floors on the inside.  Two bedrooms up, two bedrooms down, with a kitchen and family room in the middle.  Not gonna lie, I’m super, super jealous.  It looks like a super cool brick brownstone on the outside and it is located on the same street I lived on my junior year and is really close to campus.  Which makes it even more cool.  It’s cooler and almost exactly the same rent she payed last year in a far less cool place on the fourth floor of building.  Just to be clear, as a Dad I much prefer street access to elevators and four flights of stairs.  As a college senior, she’s not as excited as I am for my buddies and I to stop by after home football games.  For convenience, I made a request for a few six-packs of Miller Lite Tallboys for those particular Saturdays this fall.  Can’t wait.  I’m making a playlist from the fall of ’91 just to make us feel more at home when we stop by.  So far I’ve got Naughty By Nature’s O.P.P., Mellencamp’s Get a Leg Up and Hole Hearted by Extreme. 

So happy first day of school from the Freedom Capital of the Midwest.  And remember – my freedom protects you and your freedom protects me.

Senioritis

School doesn’t start for the soon to be high school senior for about 5 and a-half week.  College classes start for the two older daughters a couple days before that.  So come the last week of August we will have two seniors.  Two.  One in high school and one in college. 

So a couple things here.  First, senior year is awesome regardless of its academic level.  I’m not sure how the high school senior is going to top my senior year of ’87-’88 but since she’s a mini me, I have supreme confidence that she will be 100% invested in the full and total pursuit of senior year awesomeness in all of its red, white and Pabst Blue Ribbon glory.

Don’t confuse that for excitement or approval.  I mean, I’m her Dad.  And she suffers from the same affliction of unearned but extremely solid levels of confidence that I had back in the late summer of ’87.  But when your world view is heavily influenced by Ronald Reagan, Axel Foley and Whitesnake, self-assuredness is a given.  It is not until your time as a parent of three different high school seniors that you realize that you were, in fact, a dumbass.

Which brings me to my second realization, this coming school year will be our eighth consecutive year of high school parenting.  And we already have senioritis before the year even begins.  I mean, I’m done with high school parenting and all the crap that goes along with it.  Mentally, we’re college parents.  This is why the youngest kid gets away with everything.  You are exhausted.  Beaten down.  You’re like John McClane at the end of any one of the first three Die Hards.  And by the way Die Hard With a Vengeance is fantastic.  Unless you are talking about Return of the Jedi, the third installment of a series rarely is awesome.  Well, Christmas Vacation, Clear And Present Danger and Rocky III aren’t bad either. 

Regardless, we have high school parenting fatigue.  I know there are parents out there who really enjoy the high school years.  We did too at some point in the distant past that I can no longer recall but I’m sure happened.  Really, we just want it to be over though.  Because teenage brains are stupid and dealing with them on an hourly basis just ping pongs your emotions between rage and total bafflement that somebody would make certain decisions.  Sort of how anyone with a basic understanding of the Bill of Rights feels about Commie Jen Psaki’s regard for the First Amendment.  Anyway, we’re tired of the monosyllabic answers to EVERY SINGLE QUESTION.  I mean, yes, we understand that the brain is the last organ to fully develop taking until the mid-twenties…which explains why 18-24 year-olds have a positive view of socialism.  We’re tired of dealing with the weird phenomenon of them getting dumber as more of them show up and get together.  I mean seriously, what is the freaking deal with that?  Six of them are dumber than three of them.  We’re tired of finding old cereal bowls in bedrooms.  We’re tired of eye rolls and condescension regarding any decision we make.  I mean if I want to be despised for encouraging personal responsibility and consequences for your own actions, I’ll listen to Dr. Fauci. So that’s where we’re at.  Didn’t really expect it to play out this way.  So in the meantime I think I’ll continue to enjoy the rest of summer with cold American patio beers and some sweet hair metal tunes…at least until Psaki and Facebook determine that those beers and songs are filled with misinformation regarding the appropriate levels of fun we are allowed to have…

A Mostly Uninformed Guide To Independence Day Grilling

First thing you need to decide is the meat.  I’m partial to burgers.  I’m not judging or casting aspersions if you decide supplement your burger menu with brats or hot dogs.  I’m just not doing that.  Truth be told, brats and my gut get along roughly the same way as Ferris Bueller and Mr. Rooney.  And hot dogs…well…that’s not food.  Doesn’t matter if you call it a wiener, a frank or a red hot.  It’s still a hot dog.  Although I prefer calling them wieners.  Because saying wiener is funny and my sense of humor is still 14 years old. 

Now, I realize that the hot dog barons have gone to great lengths to disguise what the wiener truly is.  And to be frank (see what I did there?) nobody is completely certain what makes up the hot dog, although most wiener scholars agree it is some kind of combination of beef, pork, turkey, chicken and either raccoon or groundhog.  Depending on your preferences, you might dress your wiener up with pickle relish, onions, sliced tomatoes, sauerkraut, horseradish, pickles, chili, bacon or even jalapenos.  But most Americans stick with ketchup and/or mustard. 

Now since we’re Americans and we can always make wieners more interesting, we came up with the corn dog which rarely wanders outside of its native habitat of the Iowa State Fair.  Next, we developed the common American bagel dog.  The bagel dog, while a staple of suburban street cuisine, doesn’t normally make an appearance at the typical Independence Day cookout. 

Which brings us to the burger.  The venerable trustworthy delicious burger.  Burgers form the backbone of standard American grill fare the same way spandex and shredded jeans formed the backbone of hair metal attire.

First, condiments.  Lettuce, tomato, ketchup, mustard, pickles, onions.  Absolutely.  You pick.  The real decision comes with cheese.  First, it’s Independence Day so American cheese occupies whatever place on the cheese plate indicates awesomeness.  Next, cheddar.  Cheddar cheese is American cheese’s sometimes cool cousin.  Looks similar, adheres to grilled meats in a natural way but just not as good as American.  Kinda like Canada. 

Other choices?  Well there’s swiss. But I don’t really like to allow swiss onto the cheese menu for Independence Day.  The swiss aren’t really reliable allies and there are consequences for that.  Then there’s pepper jack, gouda and provolone I guess.  But here’s the deal, outside of pepper jack, I don’t like to get too creative with the cheese choices.  So, if you must, include some pepper jack.  But be forewarned.  Pepper jack isn’t for everybody.  Like free speech is to the left.

Finally, the meat.  Or meats.  Most, if not all, of your burgers should rightfully be beef.  Good ol’ midwestern raised beef.  If you were to compare burgers to NATO, beef is the USA.  Beef carries the entire cookout, smells great on the grill only to hear the Germans complain there isn’t any bratwurst. 

Next comes your bird meat.  Which is pretty much limited to turkey.  Turkey burgers are good.  But they’re not for Independence Day.  It’s like wearing a “I’m with AOC” shirt to a tailgate.

Your next grouping are your alternative burgers.  Elk.  Venison.  Bison.  Native to North America, high in protein and low in cholesterol.  Include them among your 4^th of July grilled meats.  Elk burgers are awesome.  Legit awesome.  Plus you feel like frontiersman eating what you kill.  Which, or course, you’re not.  You picked them up in the health section of the grocery store.  Doesn’t matter.  Wear a suede jacket with fringe and a cowboy hat when grilling these to get the full experience.

So there are some ideas for the grill.  My suggestion is you fire it up, take a pair of tongs and couple them with several ice cold beers.  Something nostalgic.  Stroh’s.  Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Old Milwaukee.  Miller High Life.  It’ll make it feel like the 70’s.  Which should seem familiar anyway with high gas prices, runaway inflation and left-wing crazies blowing up police stations…

Mowing And Freedom

I like mowing.  Sure the first few mows of the year are tough because your back and legs aren’t in mowing shape yet.  Plus, whatever endurance and functional strength you gained from shoveling snow off your driveway and sidewalks has dissipated by the time you roll into April.  By the time you get to your first mow your body isn’t ready for mowing because you’ve spent the last month watching college basketball which requires exactly zero of the same skills it takes to nail a really quality and enjoyable mow.  However your alcohol tolerance should be at peak performance levels.

One of the top reasons I like mowing because it is good thinking time.  Some guys use their time on the shitter for thinking time.  And that’s not a bad strategy.  Nobody is coming in the bathroom while you’re in there so it’s quiet.  Pro tip if you really want to be left alone while you’re in there – make some short audible comments that end in a question mark.  Like, “hmmm?” or “what the…?” Sounds stupid doesn’t it?  It works.  But the downside is that eventually your legs fall asleep and your stuck in there like Sgt. Murtaugh in Lethal Weapon 2.  So I use my mowing time for deep thinking.

But there are some dudes who don’t like mowing.  And while I intellectually understand that these dudes exist, don’t confuse that for sort of empathy.  Generally speaking I think these dudes fall into one of two groups.  Farmers.  Or communists.

1) Farmers

Farmers don’t like mowing.  You know why?  Because they don’t make any money mowing.  They are spending money to mow.  They have to burn gas and they have to push a machine instead of riding in it.  Granted a lot of farmers have commercial grade riding mowers or an attachment to one of their assortment of tractors which allows them to not only mow really tall grass but also take down relatively small trees in the process.  Which sounds awesome.  But I guess it makes sense that if you have to spend a lot of time in a combine making money, mowing is kind of a letdown.  Mostly because they aren’t sitting in a giant air-conditioned combine guided by GPS so their rows are perfect while they listen to podcasts about FDR’s failure at the Teheran Conference in 1943.

2) Communists. 

Communists hate anything that an individual can accomplish on their own without the help of the government intelligentsia.  Mowing is a threat to everything commies believe in. 

A single individual operating with autonomy on private property?  Unacceptable. 

The ability to assess your work immediately without approval from the statist illuminati?  Forbidden.

Taking pride in one’s own work and being able to celebrate the fruits of that work?  Capitalist piggishness.

An independent Dad using varying mow patterns as an art form?  Art that doesn’t equally distribute wealth, abolish private property and glorify state reeducation camps!?!?!  To the gulag with you!

America, that’s why

So this Independence Day weekend, take joy in the mundane self-determined tasks that we often overlook.  Because we’re only one more nutjob socialist in the US Senate away from being locked in our houses again.

Also, if the opportunity arises, head down to your local fireworks retailer.  My suggestion for those of you who aren’t sure what to purchase is to look for products that are called something along the lines of “Dr. Boom’s Mad Dog TNT Eagle Claw Blaster Shells.”  Another decent guideline is look for things that recommend you stand outside of some kind of “blast zone radius.”  If something is labeled with “maximum allowed by law” or “high altitude atomic freedom storm” also should give you confidence.

Lastly, if a neighbor attempts to impose some of sort local communist diktats about noise ordinances, just respond with a simple “America, that’s why.” 

Happy Independence Day everybody.

I Miss Those Days

There are many reasons I like being a Dad.  But one of things I like most is that I get to do Dad things, make Dad jokes, bitch about Dad stuff and talk about things from a Dad perspective.

It’s a good life.  I’m not gonna lie.

For example, I enjoy making fun of snapchat filters.  I love stating with absolute certainty that teenagers are stupid.  I watch I Want My 80’s on MTV Classic all the time.  I honestly believe I can have an impact on the Steelers won/loss record based on what jersey or sweatshirt I wear and where I sit on the couch.  I’ve been known to casually mention that time I went bungee jumping in college.  I love wearing Asics.  I’ll make fun of you if you drink White Claws instead of beer.  I like driving by rest stops when the girls have to go the bathroom while saying, “Damn I missed it, you better hold it!”  I like flying my Don’t Tread On Me flag.  And my Betsy Ross flag.  I fly my Cyclones flag on fall Saturdays.  I like free t-shirts.  Love going to Lowe’s.  Especially like flashing the horns to the girls while rocking out to AC DC.  I like belting out the lyrics to We Didn’t the Start Fire just to prove I still know them.  Even though it’s complete BS.  The boomers did start the fire and Gen X was left to put it out.  I like watching woker-than-thou progressives lose their minds at Bill Barr.  I like turning on Sugar Hill Gang’s Rapper’s Delight or Young MC’s Bust A Move whenever somebody talks about how today’s rap is better.  I like wearing my Oakley Half-Jackets.  And I think Star Wars is better than Harry Potter.

I also like Christmas.  But I miss the magic.  The almost unbelievable realization that Christmas Eve had arrived and the weeks of excruciating anticipation of Christmas itself were almost over.  I can’t answer for you, but the movies and shows from the golden days of yore help me stir up that magic.  Because we all dream of Christmases that we used to know.

Scrooged.  Saw this with my high school buddies on Thanksgiving Break 1988.  We were all back home during our freshman year of college and we snuck a bottle of gin into the theater.  I know what you’re thinking – who in the hell brings gin into a theater?  Nobody but professionals drink gin.  Or, as the fates would allow, 18 year old morons.  Regardless, Scrooged brings back those memories of seeing my buddies every time I watch it.  It is Bill Murray at the peak of his powers.  You don’t realize how much you quote this movie until you watch it.

Home Alone.  Saw this my junior year in college.  Twice.  Not at all ashamed to admit it.  During Christmas of 1990 this movie was a force of nature.  I know it’s all cool and everything to dump on Home Alone like you didn’t like it when you were younger.  But that just makes you the Uncle Frank of Home Alone fans.  Kinda like Bernie Sanders is the Uncle Frank of the Democrat primary.  But I always remember Gus Polinski (John Candy) giving Kevin’s mom a ride home for the sole reason that “It’s Christmastime.”  And take a quick look at Kevin’s house next time you watch it.  That is A LOT of Christmas decor in the house.

It’s A Wonderful Life.  Now I can’t be the only one who gets nervous every time Uncle Billy loses the $8000 deposit at Old Man Potter’s bank.  Happens to me every single time.  Like whenever I see a highlight of Jerome Bettis fumbling in the closing minutes of the 2005 playoff game between the Colts and Steelers.  I mean, I know Roethlisberger is going to make the tackle…but what if he doesn’t?  Seriously I may never have recovered emotionally.  Similar to It’s A Wonderful Life.  What if all George’s friends don’t show up with baskets of cash?  I know they do because George is an awesome dude with a hot wife but, you know, what if they don’t?  Regardless, that closing scene of everybody singing Christmas carols chokes me up every single time.  That’s the moment when the magic is back.  Only lasts a second or two, but it’s back.

But here’s where it get weird.  Does anybody else go back and watch old Christmas commercials?  The Miller High Life ad with I”ll Be Home For Christmas?  The Coca-Cola ad where they teach the world to sing in perfect harmony?  The Folgers ad where Peter comes home for Christmas?  No?  Well, I guess there are more communists in America than I thought…

 

Chargers

No, not the team quarterbacked by Philip Rivers.  Not that I’m adverse to discussing them, it’s just that unless we’re talking about the Chargers of Dan Fouts and Air Coryell then I’m not really interested.

What I’m talking about is phone chargers.  Adapters.  Cords.  The lifeblood of your mobile electronic device.  Is this specific case, iphones.  Now I don’t own an iphone.  I own a phone that uses android technology.  Not that I have a preference, it’s just that I’ve always had an android and I don’t want to learn how to use an iphone.  And please read the next part very carefully…I DON’T CARE HOW EASY YOU SAY IT IS.  AT ALL.  I also don’t care how much you talk about how all your devices are integrated and can talk to each other and make plans and take each other out to dinner.  Two words: Sky. Net.  Your annoying insistence on talking about your affinity for your iphone and all its integrated devices is only topped by millennials’ annoying insistence that everything they say and do is morally superior to literally everything anybody else has ever done in the history of -and let me phrase this right- ever.

I mean you have a phone that millions of other people have.  You’re not special.  Plus Apple Jedi-mind tricks you into buying a new version of the same damn phone every other year while also fooling you into buying a a freaking watch that does the same crap your phone already does.  Then forces you to spend time in the most Godforsaken place on earth…the i store.  So good job morons.  So while I understand that, much like progressives, you believe the only reason I don’t do what you do is because I’m an ignorant, backwoods a-hole.  I’m not.  I just don’t care about what you care about.  And yes, I do realize that won’t stop your never-ending sermonizing regarding how you’re making a impact while achieving a healthy work/life balance while influencing the values of your organization while you’re just being you in you’re own unique way.  Blah, blah, blah.

That being said, against my free will I’ve been forced to care about iphones.  There are 4 of them on our plan.  Mom has one and the girls each have one.  So, much like corporate business incentives, MSNBC and liberal bias in public education, I’m forced to pay for something I don’t use, want or need.

So I went to Wal-Mart.  And I’m not a big Wal-Mart guy.  But Wal-Mart electronics section is pretty bad ass.  I found four chargers, each a different color, and gave them to each of the iphone users in my house.  I did this for one very specific reason.

To make them all be quiet.  When it comes to iphone chargers, I assume the budget shutdown discussions between President Trump and Speaker Pelosi are similar to the ones amongst Mom and the girls.  There’s yelling, sarcasm, condescension and an astonishing amount of blame.  Then that is quickly followed by a helluva lot of shoulder shrugging and a complete and total inability to look for the simplest solution on their own.  I mean, it’s a phone charger.  Maybe look around your damn room, in your damn car.  Or how about in your damn backpack.  You’re not looking for Jimmy Freaking Hoffa. It’s a charger, not Flight 19.  I mean next to the actual iphone, the charger is the most important possession they have.  You’d think they would treat it the way Texans treat the 2nd Amendment.  Instead they treat it the way Jim Acosta treats his credibility.

So for the last few weeks we’ve had this uneasy detente.  I’m skeptical of its duration.  So I’m planning more trips to Wal-Mart…

So I Had This Dream…

You know how you have a dream that is so awesome, so compelling, that you simply enjoy the dream as if you’re watching a great movie?  You might even realize at some point that you’re really asleep and what you’re experiencing is only a dream.  But you don’t care because the dream is so gripping that you can’t look away.  Like the Miami Vice episode when Crockett gets shot by that Columbian drug lord’s girlfriend while Phil Collins’ In The Air Tonight is playing during.  But then the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the one thing you don’t want to happen actually happens.  You wake up before the dream is over or at least has reached a point that you’re satisfied with the outcome.

That happened to me right before Christmas.  Granted the dream was powered by Miller Lite and tacos but it was still awesome.  I got up the next morning and immediately wrote it down because I didn’t want to forget any details.

So Mom and I are at a Peter Gabriel concert.  Don’t really have a historical context for the point in which this concert was taking place during Peter Gabriel’s career but I’m comfortable saying it was during his  greatest hits phase.  We’re sitting in the back row on the end of the aisle.  The seats are arranged in a half circle.  We were super pumped about being there which is kinda weird because I’m not really a big Peter Gabriel guy.  Never have been.  There’s really only two, maybe three, songs that I like.  But here’s the thing, Peter Gabriel was only sitting one minute versions of his songs.  Who does that?  I distinctly remember it pissing me off because I had hauled my arse to a freaking Peter Gabriel concert and I wasn’t even going to hear the full version of Solsbury Hill.  Which, as we all know, is Peter Gabriel’s best song closely followed by In Your Eyes with Shock the Monkey a distant third.  I realize you could make a persuasive argument for Games Without Frontiers for that 3 spot.  I’m just saying that I’m not going to help you with that argument.

Anyway, I had a spiral notebook at the concert and everybody was stepping on the notebook tearing all the pages off.  The presence of the notebook and the reasons behind its presence remain unclear.  Regardless it was there.  At this point everybody in our row needed to get up and leave the concert or at least the row we were in.  I assumed the short ass concert was over.  So I turned to my left and let everybody leave the row and then I picked up the now loose and torn pages of the trampled notebook .  I was very angry about the notebook being torn up and combined with the unannounced and thoroughly unacceptable plan for Peter Gabriel to only sing one minute versions of his songs.  Still extremely mad we only got to hear a one minute version of Solsbury Hill.

As we got up to leave our seats we turned to leave but instead of stepping into the aisle we stepped out of the driver’s side back seat of a stretch limo.  Don’t really remember being confused by this occurrence either.  Regardless, we just stepped out of a limo.  And I was barefoot.  Yeah, as we were walking to our car to leave I realized that I was barefoot.  I know, weird.  So I turned back to the limo to get my shoes out of the back seat.  The shoes were my brown Birkenstock clogs.  Don’t laugh, they’re super comfortable.  But as I turned back to get the shoes the limo driver is walking across the street to this shanty looking house and he gives my shoes to the people at the house!

And these folks were those creepy looking voodoo guys like Yaphet Kotto’s henchmen in Live and Let Die.  So I casually, but in a sternly confident way, walked up to them to get my shoes and – poof – they were gone.  Like voodoo magic.  So I yelled at the limo driver “Yo, Yo, Yo, those are my shoes!”  But the creepy Cajun guys just smiled toothy unsettling smiles and opened the door to the shanty.  There, directly in front of me was a staircase to an upstairs room that looked like your uncle’s den from 1973.  Gold carpet, wood paneling, crappy fold out table for a desk.  The guy at the desk was the big fat black guy with the gravely voice and big glasses from the Kandy Bar in Weird Science.  I climbed the stairs and a quick conversation ensured.  Turns out to get my shoes back I had to agree to buy some homemade alcohol in a super weirdly decorated bottle.  The bottle kinda looked like a homemade maple syrup jug.

But it was apparent that this was now a bargaining process to get my shoes back.  Unbeknownst to the guy from Weird Science, I had this giant crumpled up wad of cash in my pocket.  But, like any good negotiator, I didn’t want to take the money out because then he’d know how much money I had and the price of getting my shoes back would undoubtedly go up.

So I offered $30.

For some reason I knew the price was $50 so I tried to lowball him.  He said “higher.”  So I said $40 and he just laughed and walked away.  That’s when two of my nieces, Mom and one of Mom’s sisters started walking up the stairs at various intervals.  And their hair was wet because they had all taken showers.  And I thought, “Wow these creepy weird Cajun voodoo guys are letting everybody take showers after the horrible Peter Gabriel concert, that’s really nice.”  But then Mom walked into the den where I was and asked the big fat black guy from Weird Science if she owed anything else.  I turned to her with the WTF look on my face.  I was naturally confused because I was negotiating for my shoes which had nothing to do with Mom.  And I was completely and utterly unaware of any previous business dealings between Mom and Weird Science guy.  So I said, “What are you doing?  He wants me to pay for this stupid homemade moonshine to get my birks back.”  But then the guy says to Mom, “No we’re square. $58 dollars.”  So I was super mad now because how is this guy doing business with Mom and I had no idea.  And what the hell cost $58?

Even weirder was everybody from Mom’s side of the family was there and waiting outside the shanty.  I mean everybody except the few that were lucky enough to score shanty showers.  Anyway, they all wanted to leave the absurdly short Peter Gabriel concert so I was feeling a lot of pressure to get the moonshine for shoes deal done. So now the Weird Science guy knows that I didn’t know Mom had some side deal going and that I’m under pressure to wrap it up.  Both of which undermine my credibility!  Then I notice this one guy from work is also there.  He was wearing a red and black track suit and was also wearing his blublockers.  He’s also getting irritated with me to get this thing done because he had to ref a soccer game at 1:00 and it took two hours to drive home from where we were.  And, he was tapping his watch telling me it was exactly 11:06.

Which made me even angrier because now I’m losing even more leverage in the deal making process.  Which, of course, means the price to get my sweet Birkenstock clogs back is not going to go down.   So I offered $50 and said you win.  But he said that was the old price, the new price is higher now.  So now I’m moving from feeling pressure to being just plain angry.  So angry that I start doing what Denzel Washington was doing in The Equalizer when he checks his watch to time himself on how long it takes to kill all the guys in the room.  Evidently that got me so angry, I woke myself up.

So I did what everybody would have done.  I frantically tried to go back to sleep to find out if I ever got my shoes back and how much damage I caused in the process.  Didn’t work though.  Instead I woke up Mom to tell her that if she’s going to negotiate side deals with big fat gravely-voiced dudes from Weird Science then I’m going to need a heads up.

The Latest Halloween

So with the oldest off at college and the remaining daughters still under our roof but really too old to go trick or treating, Halloween continues to evolve away from us taking the girls door to door to load up on candy.  Which really just means that the girls do stuff with their friends and Mom and I hand out candy.  I’m both happy and sad about this.  I sincerely enjoyed taking them trick or treating.  I also sincerely enjoy not taking them trick or treating.  And since we moved we only get the most the dedicated and determined trick or treaters.  We’ve had 11 in three years.  Which is simply more evidence of the wussification of American youth by well meaning but utterly misguided adults engaged in safetyism…but that’s a rant for another day.

Regardless, our college freshman sent us some pics of her costume at the Halloween party she went to with the other girls in her sorority.  I had suggested that she go as Elizabeth Warren and carry a DNA kit while wearing a big sandwich board that said “1/1024th” but she didn’t think it was as funny as me.  Instead she went as a cowgirl.  Or a country girl.  Or a girl from a rural area.  I don’t know what pretentiously smug politically correct term the liberal illuminati are using.  No offense intended.  All I’m doing there is what used to be called sarcasm.  Anyway, if we’re really being honest, what she really went as was a girl from the suburbs wearing clothing associated with country music fans.

But I mean who is trying to fool?  Country girl?  I know she goes to Iowa State and evidently all of us who went there are backwoods rubes, but she listens to Justin Beiber and Imagine Dragons.  She used to work at a Cupcakery.  I know…LAME.  She’s no country girl.  She’s comes from good ol’ dependable Gen X stock.  And as we all know that means she really should be dressed like this if she has any cultural pride at all.

 

I think I like this teacher…

I walk in the door after work Thursday and the 14 year-old is sitting the kitchen doing her homework.  So two things comes to mind:

1. Damn, we’re killing this parenting thing.
2. Wait, is she just trying to impress us by doing her homework right after school and in an area of the house which we will undoubtedly notice her doing homework and therefore be impressed with her…so she can ask us for money or something?

Regardless, she was doing her math homework.  She also let us know a couple observations she has of her math teacher.

“Dad, my math teacher is like you times 100.”

“What?  Why?  Does he consider the first weekend of the NFL season a national holiday?  Does he agree that Die Hard is a Christmas movie?  Does he agree that socialized health care like Obamacare is only supported by people who are bad at math?”

“I don’t know but he’s the most Gen X teacher I have.”

“Hmm…I’m interested.  Go on.”

“First, he tells us that he’s there to teach us math.  Not care about our feelings.  So if we think he’s mean or that our feelings get hurt then we should just go see the guidance counselor because math doesn’t care about our feelings.”

“Sounds reasonsable.”

“Then, he tells us that his main rule is no whining.  And if we have any complaints about that we should write them down put them in his complaint file which is his garbage can.”

“Well that’s just smart management.”

“Then he tells us that he’ll let us listen to music in class when we’re doing work but that our music is crap.  He thinks the rap we listen to is trash so he’s going to do for us what his parents did for him and teach us about good music.”

“And what’s that?”

“He makes us listen to classic rock.”

“This guy either should get a raise or they should make him superintendent of the whole school district.”

Which got me thinking about something else.  Did any of you watch the VMA’s last week?  For yet to be explained reasons, Mom was.  Which was weird because unless you’re pretty sure Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is a future president of these United States, you’re not watching the VMA’s.  But I’m a Gen X Dad in my late 40’s.  This ain’t my show anymore.  Judging from the ratings, most of America agrees with me.  But Mom was interested in a few of the performances.  So we watched it.  Kevin Hart’s comments about Trump sounded a bit forced.  Which was disappointing to me because I was looking forward to a lot of moralistic smuggery from the liberal thought police.  There were a couple things that were simply a surprise.  For example, I just learned that they no longer call the video music award handed out at MTV’s awards show a “moonman.”  They now call it a “moonperson.”  I’m sure someone can explain to me why that change is so important.  I’m also equally sure I won’t listen.  I also learned that they hand out something called the VMA for video with a social message?  Maybe you knew that.  Maybe you watch the VMA’s and believe this is an award that is super important.  I don’t.  It kinda sounded like an award developed within the “everybody gets a trophy for participating” school of thought.  But that’s just me.  Because, once again, I’m a Gen X Dad in my late 40’s.  Truth be told, the award did make me a bit curious.  I mean, what videos would have won this award back when I would have watching the VMA’s?  I’m just spitballin’ here but here’s a few guesses:

1984 – “You Can Still Rock in America” by Night Ranger.  Back in the 80’s you could still rock in America.  Social message?  We’re Americans.  We like to rock.

1985 – “My Girl Wants to Party All the Time” by Eddie Murphy.  Reagan just got re-elected and Rick James was in the video.  Social message?  We want to party.  All the time.

1986 – “Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins.  I feel the need, the need for speed.  Social message?  We’re Americans, we like to sing off key in bars and blow those commie bastards outta the sky.

1987 – “You Gotta Fight For Your Right To Party” by The Beastie Boys.  White dudes rapping.  Diversity.  Social message?  Breaking racial stereotypes is important…but not as important as partying.

1988 – “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard.  Social message?  Sugar, beer, tax cuts…who cares…just pour it on me.

1989 – “Bust a Move” by Young MC.  A rap song can sound like music.  Social message?  Got no money and you got no car, then you got no women and there you are.

1990 – “Up All Night” by Slaughter.  Social message?  Annoy authority.  Sleep all day.  Party all night.

I’m just saying that maybe Gen X was pretty good at staying on message.  And our messages, and again I’m just spitballin’ here, seem like a helluva lot more fun.

 

 

It Has Arrived

It’s here.  Feels weird but there’s nothing we can do about it.  Not that I want to do anything about it, I’m just saying that it is weird that it is actually happening.

College.  The oldest daughter started classes on last Monday.  Which means that we are now the parents of a college student.  How in the freaking hell did this happen?  It was only…30 years ago that I was going to college.  Wait…30 years…Holy Crap.

Anyway, college is cool.  Going to college was cool.  Having a kid going to college is weird.  I mean, yes, it is also cool.  I guess anyway.  Like putting the Democrats in charge of Congress, it just makes things more expensive.  But it is pretty cool seeing your kid and her friends getting ready to experience the awesomeness that is college.  Although I seriously doubt it is cooler going to college now than it was between 1988 and 1992.  Then we had hair metal.  Now they have safe spaces.  Then we had Milwaukee’s Best Light.  Now they have Crispin Rose Hard Cider  Then we had shredded up jeans.  Now they have…shredded up jeans.  Who knew that Joe Elliot’s legacy wasn’t Hysteria but the shredded jeans in the Pour Some Sugar On Me video.  Evidently these sneaky kids did pick up on few things…

Regardless, moving your oldest into her dorm room and then leaving her there is disconcerting.  On one hand you’re happy for them because nothing is like going to college.  On the other hand, well, you hope to hell you did a good job because all the guidance either took or it didn’t.  And we’ll all find out shortly.

Anyway, we moved her and her roommate in a little over two weeks ago.  Move-in is essentially a convention of sweaty Dads.  So yeah, pretty awesome.  I impressed myself, but no one else, by carrying in the fridge single handedly.  Those things really are pretty light but who cares.  I carried a damn fridge alone!  Her roommate’s brother and I carried in the couch.  Here’s the backstory.  Dorm is on the 2nd floor…which is really the third floor since it goes ground, 1st, 2nd.  Dorm has 7 or 8 floors.  Not really sure because when your kid lives on floor 2, you don’t give any craps about the floors above.  Those are problems other Dads need to navigate.  The dorm room was right at the top of the stair well on the west side of the building.  So, assuming the couch fit through the outer door, the door to the stairwell, the door from the stairwell to the hall and the door to the dorm room, we’re golden.  Since Mom is awesome, she remembered to bring a tape measure.  33 inches of clearance in all the doorways.  Shortest side of the couch is roughly 31 inches.  Easy peezy.  But we had to carry the couch across the street, through the parking lot, around the line of Dads waiting to use the elevator which ran out of the main doors before finally making it to the outer door on the west side of the building.  Helpful Dad #1 stops us at the door and recommends we go back around to the main doors and then the long way down the hall because those main doors are way, way wider.  I smile and tap the tape measure hooked onto my belt.  “Thanks Chief but we measured and as long as we keep our hands underneath I think we’re good.”  We slip through the opening with barely any room to spare.  Tim Allen like grunts of approval from the other sweaty Dads.

Next was going up a couple flights of stairs.  I made the roommate’s brother go backwards.  What?  He’s 16.  I’m 48.  Helpful Dad #2 puts his stuff down, grabs the cushions off the couch that had started to come loose and then opens the doors for us.  Sweaty Dads Unite!

We successfully navigated the stairs using our innate knowledge of geometry and weight distribution.  More vocal noises of approval from other sweaty Dads.  Not gonna lie, I feeling pretty damn good about myself at this point.  Helpful Dad #3 who is one of the Dads of the girls living directly across the hall, clears out the doorway of his daughter’s dorm room and lets me back in to create an easy angle of entry through which to enter our desired destination.

So what’s the lesson?  Sweaty Dads are friggin’ awesome.  It’s like a bond of unspoken camaraderie.  A connection of implicit admiration.  A pledge of unsaid solidarity.  It was beautiful really.

Once everything was in the room, I sat down on the aforementioned couch.  Mom started suggesting where everything could go.  The two 18 year-olds immediately resisted.  It was like Hillary Clinton saying, well, anything to a room full of midwesterners.  In response, I suggested that we should just run to Target and get whatever supplies they needed and then we’d go get tacos.  Because everybody likes tacos.

Dropped off the supplies and then had lunch.  And that was it.  Just like that you’re down one kid.  Although the 14 year-old took about 5 minutes to get used to her being gone.  She immediately went into the departed sister’s room to examine what clothes she had left behind…