Dog-danglin' Friday Five

Wait Dad is feeling all kinds of stupid lazy today.

So, first, Wait Dad is gonna power nap,

for three hours.

Cause that's lazy.

Then, second, he's gonna put on jammy pants.

Cause jammy pants are lazy and fun to say out loud.

Just say it.

Jammy pants.

. . . Say it . . .

Next, and thirdly,

Wait . . . is "thirdly" even a word?

If it is . . . then it's a lazy word.

Fourth, Wait Dad is gonna turn on the TV and then sit down and watch whatever is on, cause he forgot to grab the remote first.

Not getting back up to find the remote is all kinds of lazy.

That's lazier than cruise control and easy cheese. It's lazier than cat ownership and peeing in the shower.

Not getting back up to find the remote would make the lazy hall of fame if only lazy people would find some initiative and organize long enough to quantify and collate their lack of action.

But they would never do something like that.

Cause they're lazy.

Let's Do Launch

Wait . . . Dad?


Are you gonna be on the computer all day?

No. I just have to finish this video, build a website, and establish a presence on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, MySpace and Pinterest, send some notes to the mixer and check the account to see if I've got enough fun money to get some new strings, . . . and then the computer is all yours for the rest of the day.

So . . . dad?


So . . . like twenty minutes?

Early last year, as it looked like this project would be finished before the summer was out, (my crew says HA HA HA), I decided implicitly that I was going to focus on recording, performing, and content creation.

Find someone else to mold the message.

Find someone else to package the product.

Find someone else to sell it to the people.


That didn't go so well.

Everyone wants to be a freak, but no one wants to be Barnum.

And the media is in such flux that an MFA in Marketing is hopelessly out of date before the ink dries.

I talked with a gal who was running a hip new production company. The kind of company that I would've paid some serious money to in order to do the kind of things that I'm am guerrilla styling now.

She asked me what my writing was like.

Trying to find a way to describe this cunning mixture of suburban dad humor and punk rock ranting, I told her that the concept was like Dave Barry meets Henry Rollins.

She stared at me for a moment.

Then told me she had no idea who those people were.

And here's the thing. I didn't pursue the company because she wasn't familiar with a columnist for the Miami Herald or because she probably didn't own any Black Flag albums; I didn't pursue it cause she had no idea how to lie to me.

The least she could have done was nod her head, say "Awesome" and then Googled them later.

How can you sell me and not know how to bullshit your way out of a little chit chat?

To be a key demographic for me doesn't require a PhD in pop culture references, but you do have to have at least watched some Star Wars movies and listened to the Beatles.

Not the Stones so much.

But you should have purchased the White Album at least twice.

The best part of the modern world is that consumption of my style of guerrilla indie pop is at an all time high.

The problem is that the consumers are fragmented into their own little niches.

Case in point:

Last night, at the dinner table, my 20 year old son was doodling around on his Facebook, whilst his 19 year old cousin was engrossed in her Instagram universe.

And here's the thing: I spend three to four hours crafting a hilarious essay on modern marketing, post it, and get 20 views, 2 comments, and 1 like.

The two kids I had dinner with last night put up a note saying how boring their chemistry professor is and the response is deafening.

57 other kids jump in and agree, disagree, or wanna know when dinner's over so they can hang out.

Within the first three minutes.

Which I think is effing awesome.

I just gotta figure out a way to figuratively tap that.

Which means being everywhere.

All the time.

And awesome.

All the time.

And finished.

In twenty minutes.

Self Help Our Ship Five

There was an adorable little email sent to me a few days ago quoting from a book by noted self help guru John C. Maxwell.

It was about the power of belief and contained such circular logical gems like "If you believe you can't, then you can't."

Which is just amazingly true.

John C. Maxwell knows his shit.

Especially when you consider that its the same reason Luke Skywalker couldn't use the force to lift his X-Wing fighter out of the swamps of Dagobah.

Maxwell must be an "Empire Strikes Back" fan too.

There is no way in hell you're gonna lift your X-Wing fighter out of the swamp if you don't believe you can.

I promise.

And you have to give John C. Maxwell some serious props for sheer tenacity. The dude has sold millions of books filled the same bumper sticker twaddle. Millions. With an "M"

And don't get me wrong.

I have nothing against self help books. I know people who write them. Good ones. Practical ones. The kind of self help books that fill you with esteem and pack you an extra sandwich for your journey.

John C. Maxwell doesn't pack sandwiches.

He just points to dirt and tells you not to drink it.

Then condescendingly makes you feel bad for being thirsty.

I just have such a problem using the term "Belief" in the first place. "Belief" is a dead end. It's a justification for ignorance, and functionally ends the debate.

And I'm not saying all belief is bad. Go ahead and believe in the Ten Commandments and that menstration is God's punishment for eating from the tree of knowledge. I'll just sit over in this room glad that you're not my gynecologist.

But here's the thing . . . Why not replace the word "Belief" with the word "Confidence"?

Sure, I can say that I believe the sky is blue.

But in actuality, I have confidence the sky is blue because I have compared the color to other colors and blue is the mutually agreed upon word to describe that color.

Luke failed because he didn't believe?

Or did he fail because he had nothing to compare the experience to and therefore had no confidence that it could be done?

Self help is about confidence. It's not about belief. You can believe all you want that flapping your arms fast enough is gonna help you fly.

I have confidence its not.

Self help is about removing obstacles. Clearing your head. Giving you a few things to try and possibly a Bob Fett bandaid for when you fall and scrape your knee.

Self Help is about identifying all the things that strip you of your worth and make those first few steps feel just a little more possible than they were yesterday.

The obstacles are all different. Visions, Missions, Challenges, and dreams.

So for all the obstacles out there, here (I write with confidence) is a self help five, to give you a little confidence, and maybe start you on your way.

But I believe I'm not smart?
There were two, count em, two Presidents who couldn't pronounce NUCLEAR.

But I believe I'm not Talented!
Jackson Pollack, William Shatner, Anthony Keidis.

But I believe I'm not sexy!
If there is anyone willing to have sex with you . . . you're sexy!

But I believe I'm not capable!
Find someone who is and make friends.

But I believe I'm not ready!
Probably not. But no one ever is.

Believe me.

Post Hold.

You know those days when it's bedtime and you forgot to do everything?

Me either.

Happy Wednesday.

Identity Crisis

A guy told me the other day that his wife dresses up like Princess Leia sometimes.

Which breaks all kinds of WaitDad rules.

Please don't misunderstand, I am a firm believer in pursuing whatever fantasy, costume play, contact sport or organized religion that gets you off.

Go, I say, Go!

But there should never be a scenario unto which my vivid imagination is visually raped by the very idea of your naked body.

Unless I find you hot.

And there is a very specific litmus test you can use to determine whether or not I want to imagine you naked.

The first rule of hotness is that you're not a boy, and second, you're my wife.

All others need not apply.

And here's a question for you:

When did Princess Leia become a sex symbol? Cause I am a huge Star Wars fan. Huge. But there is a truth about Star Wars that I think everyone seems to be missing.

Han Solo is not the hero.

He's the best friend.

He is Horatio, Mercutio, and Ronald Weasly. He's a subplot with the coolest lines and the best hair.

But he's not the protagonist.

He's not the guy every seven year old dreams of becoming.

He's no Luke Skywalker.

And if your childhood psyche was formed by the desire to wield a lightsaber and use the force,


that would make Leia your sister.

Again, I'm totally "Game On" for kinky, I just want all y'all to be aware of the subtext.

Not to get me wrong again. I do think the early eighties era Carrie Fisher was a very attractive girl, but I like her more for her ascorbic whit in "Postcards From the Edge." and the pop culture footnote that she used to be married to Paul Simon.

Which reminds me of story I just heard:

During the recording of "We are the World";

(Please, for the love of god, and all that is holy, please look this up if you don't know what it was.)

I will wait.

Anyway, during the recording of "We Are the World" Paul Simon leaned over to Huey Lewis and said:

"If a bomb were to go off right here, John Denver would be back on top."

Which made me laugh.

And then made me sad.

John Denver was a perfectly packaged, clear voiced artist with impeccable approachability.

Easily the top selling artist of the 1970's, instantly recognizable both visually and sonically, and yet, and yet . . .

at the height of his career, he fired everyone around him, and shot off on his own.

John Denver didn't want to be John Denver no more. He wanted to be Paul Simon or Bob Dylan.

He set fire to his sunset career and it only took him a few years but he became a joke instead of an icon.

He died in 1997 off the coast of California in an experimental plane.

His answer was apparently blowing in the wind.

Which makes me laugh.

And then makes me sad again.

I've been thinking about image packaging a lot over the last few days as I put into motion a marketing campaign for the album.

Who is WaitDad?

What is WaitDad?

It started with this idea that the story behind the music is as enriching as the notes themselves, that it is the means by which the ends are justified.

Pop culture artist and commentator. To mingle the mundane with the iconic. Creating a trail you can follow, or just content you can nibble at. Each piece standing by itself but only part of a more epic journey.

Who am I if not a father and a musician and a writer and the guy you want at the party who knows that the odds of successfully navigating an asteroid field is 3,720 to 1?

But that's not an image that is easily packaged. It's not easily described and therefore, not easily sold.

Which part of this mini media empire is going to have to fold before I take another step. How will I have to dress?

And thank god I don't have enough hair to pull off the Page Boy look, but if I did, would I?

I don't know if I could be John Denver any more than I could be the guy who dresses his wife up like his sister.

So the question remains to be answered.

But rest assured,

when I find it,

you'll know.

Because I'll be trying to sell you something.

Repeating the Friday Five

Things I have to say at least fives time in order to get the family into the car.

Put your shoes on.

Turn it off.

Go pee.

Stop running.

Hurry up.

And off we go.

No Soliciting

I do not want your cleaning product.

I do not read your magazines.

Jesus can have my soul when I'm finished with it, and if you ask me one more time if I want your rewards card, I'm gonna fill out that content sheet with a bunch of offensive words just so I can happily imagine the look on your grandma's face as she's trying to type it into your data base.

I will, however, buy your cookies.

But only the thin mints. And only one box.

I will not buy them on my way into the grocery store, but I might buy them on the way out.

And if your Dad is out there with you, I assume you're pretty cool, and that the two of you will be going out for a burgers before coming home to play Halo 4 and therefore, I will buy your cookies.

Yet, if your mom is with you, I just assume she's an obnoxious twit who is making you do this because she never really amounted to anything but a loveless marriage to an upper middle class building contractor who played baseball in high school, and therefore, I will buy your cookies because the Girl Scouts support abortion and gay rights.

(Don't be so easily offended. You know exactly who I'm talking about)

And I'm not misogynistic, I've just spent too many years in suburbia.

I will not, absolutely will not, buy any more insurance than is legally mandated.

Insurance plays only two roles: 1. To frighten you into believing something bad will happen and 2. To make it as difficult as possible for you to cash out when something bad happens.

Terrible, terrible product.

Terrible terrible people who solicit it.

I hate them more than I hate those people on Facebook who post chain letters for curing cancer, even though, that is exactly what Facebook is for; unabashed opinions and disease control.

Did you know that Geico is short for Government Employees Insurance Company?

I don't honestly know why that would be important, but it makes me nervous anyway.


I guess it may suffice to say that I'm not a fan of solicitation.

At all.

Yet WaitDad is at a point now where I've gotta start selling stuff.

Cause, you know, the best way to get rich quick is to record a song, and post silly pictures, and write a blog about it.

But only if you can find fans.

And only if you've also generated content that they can buy.

Content I can create. Content I can sell. But I've got to generate traffic and Raley's won't let me stand outside their automatic doors with a business card and a box of thin mints, even if my dad does it with me.

Which means I have to become a marketing genius.

Or hire one.

Probably hire one.

And then I have to listen to her.

Cause she's a genius, and I'm just a blogger/musician/amateur mud wrestler, and will most likely be paying her actual money, to tell me to do things like going door to door, and terrifying people into thinking that if they don't read my stuff daily then something bad will happen, which Geico will not cover.

Artists are decisively arrogant to compensate for the crippling pain of low self esteem. After content creation comes a tipping point where the artist either dies or is lifted above the mire with shameless self promotion, baby kissing, hand shaking, and door to door guerrilla self promotion.

I can no longer survive with just my big toe dipping into some icy water, for it's polar bear time and I'm gonna need someone to hold the towel while I jump off the dock.

Between the hamburgers and Halo 4, my boy also deserves the kind of role model who can grab a hold of his fear, shamelessly walk into a crowded room and tell his story, and play his songs and sell an album or two.

However, and this is a promise, if she makes me create a rewards card, I will absolutely make sure that your grandmother isn't doing any of my data inputting.

Friday Five: PG13 Level Debauchery

Sooooooo . . . .

Looks like the wife is going out of town for the weekend.

Which means I have a clean house and a license to ill.

Top Five Things I'm gonna do when left to my own devices:

Medium Rare Steaks and Brussel Sprouts:
She likes her meat cooked and her vegetables un-stinky, which is perfectly fine, but Daddy's gonna get a little crazy with the barbecue come Saturday night. there's no telling what I'm likely to sauté.

Wine Glasses in the Dishwasher:
Its a sure fire way of "mazal tov"ing my way out of her good graces, but I will be damned before I hand dry anything.

Star Wars Marathon:
I'm starting with Episode I and won't stop until the ewoks have sung their last. I am going to absolutely hate the first six hours, but my bucket list ain't getting any smaller, and there's no football on Sunday.

Stringin Guitars:
Granted, I could do this whenever I want, but I sure as shit won't be answering the phone or stopping everything to get the sugar down from the highest shelf in the cabinet.

Sleep in the middle of the bed:
"Why?" you ask. Cause I friggin can, I say.

Cause I friggin can.

No One Special

I wrote a piece about a virtuoso piano player who died recently. He was a tall, lanky, man from Texas who won an international Tchaikovsky competition in the USSR in the late fifties. He performed his greatest hits for a while, made a butt-load of cash and then faded off into obscurity with his mother and his personal assistant (most likely gay lover)

In the 90's his assistant/gay lover tried to sue him for alimony since they had been live-in partners for over 23 years, but Texas doesn't recognize gay marriage let alone gay common law ones.

Either way, the case was settled.

I didn't mention any of that because it didn't matter.

I just thought it interesting this guy who was heralded as a hero, died in relative obscurity, and how fascinating it was to me that his death meant something to someone who had no earthly connection to him other than a remainder autobiography that never sold.

I also though it kind of cool to dream about someone who may have done what I wish I had, but never did, which was to read the damn book.

What I also didn't mention at the time was what I really thought of the man.

From what little I knew, not having read his own book.

I thought he was a particularly amazing case study of fame and fortune.

At 13 he was offered a full ride to Juliard, but turned it down so he could continue studying under his mother. He was probably terrified there wouldn't be homosexuals at Juliard, what with all the GI's returning from war.

He did go eventually, graduated eventually, found love eventually. His home town funded his trip to Moscow so he could enter the Tchaikovsky competition. He ended up being the clear winner, but his mastery had to be approved by Khrushchev, cause it was 1958, the height of the Cold War, and a Texan just showed up and kicked some ass.

He tries for so many years to live up to his "potential" but the bad reviews, the dwindling ticket sales let him fade into becoming no one special, so that he could live the rest of his life with his mother and gay lover in peace.

It haunts me to think that this is how it is for all of us. We hit our moment and then either spend the rest of our lives clawing our way back toward it, or, seeing that our moment has past, back out of the room and keep our dirty little secrets to ourselves.

I thought about this today as I was shucking crab meat for our dinner salads.

Am I climbing?

Am I clawing?

I guess I won't know 'till I'm nearing my deathbed.

So either way,

At least I am pursuing.

And I should probably call my mom and tell her I love her.

Super Sunday Seven

My Dad came up for a visit on Friday. We got to shoot the shit and play a little catch with the grandson. Couple glasses of wine, barbecued chicken, and a nice little mixed green salad. Thoroughly enjoyable, visit.

'Cept all y'all were cheated out of some Friday Five.

Then I was going to follow up with a Special Saturday Six, but my wonderful mother dropped off fixins for taco salads, and there ain't no workin allowed on Taco Salad night. When mom comes to take care of you, you drop what you're doing, goddam it.

Not to worry. I got up especially early today (before 10am) so's I could bring to you a Super Special Sunday Seven:

Now this list deserves some "Splainin" because on the surface it might be deemed terribly misogynistic. Well, actually, it is terribly misogynistic, so my female fans might be a bit annoyed. If you are a female fan and annoyed, I would love to hear from you. If you are a guy and annoyed, feel free to grow a pair.

So last week my Uncle Matthew posted a blog to nominate Lovely Actresses with Stinky Careers.  This was of course in response to the previous evenings Oscars, which leads one to thinking about previous Oscar winners, which leads to thinking about previous Oscar winners who led terrible careers afterwards, which leads all men to think about incredibly hot chicks who have won Oscars, but then went on to lead terrible careers.

Why not hot men who have won Oscars and followed up with terrible careers (Adrian Brody)?

Long Explanation: Bloggers tend to see more traffic to their sites when there are pictures posted. Pictures of pretty women tend to trend exponentially higher than pictures of sexy men and only slightly below cute kitties. (Perfectly reasonable parallel)  Since the goal of blogging is to pontificate for as many people as possible, it's only good business sense to run nominations for a pole that would allow you to post pictures of pretty women.

Short Explanation: Penis.

The rules of the nomination were simple: Brand Name, Above the Title, Biggest Face on the DVD cover, Known to be excellent, Beautiful Women, whose good movie to total crap ratio is an all time low.

Lovely Actresses, Stinky Careers.

Since WaitDad is both a pop culture blog and family treatment center, I immediately grabbed a a yellow pad, a pen, a big glass of sparkling water and went to town. I even included my wife, who is no slouch when it comes to pop culture references, and within about ten minutes that yellow pad was full.

Little embarrassing.

So I toned it down a bit.

I decided to nominate five lovely actresses, with stinky careers, all named Jennifer.

I regret nothing.

Anyhoo, the finally tally is up and here are the nominees for the Seven Best Prettiest Actresses with the largest tally of bad movies under their belt:

1. Jennifer Aniston*
2. Halle Berry
3. Sarah Michelle Gellar
4. Nicole Kidman
5. Milla Jovovich
6. Jennifer Lopez*
7. Charlize Theron

*My Jennifers. (The others were Garner, Love-Hewitt, and Grey)

Since multiple choice is about the process of elimination (They taught me that in an SAT class in the early 90's), I am going to break down this list so that the only reasonable choice is clear:

First, eliminate the girls who almost but don't quite make the list, which means Milla Jovovich has got to go. Sure she has made two watchable films (Dazed and Confused, The Fifth Element), but she was stoned in one and nearly mute in the other. She only scores high for super hotness, but that isn't enough. Not for this list.

Sarah Michelle Gellar also drops off the list. She made a couple of terrible post Buffy the Vampire Slayer movies, but if you watch the final season, you can she she was both exhausted and bored. Scooby-Doo was made just so she could goof off with husband Freddie Prinze Junior and then it seems they both just dropped off from the face of the planet so they can be rich and beautiful and not pestered about it. She lives happily ever after as far as I'm concerned, and if you're not trying, then you're not making the list.

I also feel strongly that Oscar winners shouldn't be included.

For the rest of their lives they will always be "Oscar Winning Insert Name Here" Which means they have nothing left to prove. Which means that they can pick projects based on who they'll be working with, how exotic the location is, and how much fun they think their gonna have during the shoot.

Concept before script is a recipe for disaster (disaster movies that is) so to hold Charlize Theron responsible for The Road cause she's got a girly crush on Viggo Mortensen is a little unfair.

I also think when Nicole Kidman went platinum blonde something went terribly wrong. Part of her soul died. So we simply can't count the last 23 movies of her career. Even with Batman Forever still in play, her ratio of good to bad is still pretty high, and Dead Calm was some of the super sexy scariest shit I have ever seen on film.

Halle Berry, the inspiration for the pole in the first place is really tough. Super hot, super talented and the gives the only watchable performances in almost everything that she's done. Which is bad movie after bad movie after bad movie. She would be the absolute queen of this pole if not for the oscar win.

She's gonna win by the way, so you other pollsters can just shut up.

That leaves us with the two Jennifers.

Jennifer Aniston and Jennifer Lopez.

Both exceedingly high on the beautiful scale (With the slight advantage to Lopez cause WaitDad prefers curves.)

Both with only one or two watchable movies under their belts (With the slight advantage going to Aniston, because she's given some good performances in bad movies, while Lopez has been a slave to the bad script.)

But I'm going with Lopez.

And there are two reasons:

First: Aniston has really really tried to make good movies. She's done some highly rated indies, and when she's been saddled with RomComs, she's done them with an impressive string of interesting premises, interesting leading men, and good intentions all around.

She's just had some terrible luck.

She keeps trying to make Sgt. Peppers and ends up with Magical Mystery Tours.

It's sad, but I have faith that she'll find her stride. We haven't seen what she can really do yet.

Jennifer Lopez, on the other hand, is an ABSOLUTE ICON. She is a Brand Name. She is a commercial powerhouse. Movie's, Music, fragrances and clothing lines. She's instantly recognizable, a paparazzi darling and has given dimensional derrières the dominance they deserve.

But aside from one movie with George Clooney called "Out if Sight" has she ever done ANYTHING of significance? ANYTHING of relevance? ANYTHING good? 22 albums, 35 movies, hundreds of TV appearances, Jennifer Lopez ain't no Paris Hilton, but even in my vast collection of pop culture crap, I have yet to pay one cent toward her royalties.

And the best part? She's probably the one person on this list I wouldn't be uncomfortable around.

I would totally have a beer with Jenny from the block without feeling awkward.

So with the highest rated beauty, super approachability, awesome chops, and terrible choice in projects, I vote for Jennifer Lopez 2013.

I mean come on, she endorsed the new Fiat for christ sake, easily the stupidest looking car of the 21st century.

and I drive an Echo.

vote here: