Step One: DONE

Side Effects May Include . . .

Don't have the juice for a long thought today.

I've seen two doctors, a specialist, a pharmacist, and a member services practitioner.

Who would have thought that an egomaniac like myself would become physically drained by talking about himself all morning? But there you go.

Yet I think we can all agree that standing in line at the pharmacy is quite possibly one of life's least pleasant adventures, somewhere between delivering a child and a Jerry Lewis marathon.

I always get about halfway through the line before I start to question what I find more excruciating, the pain or the line itself. I usually come to the conclusion that its the line that is more devastating, but seeing as how I've already made the investment of half my day, I continue on like the good little communist I am.

Nice thing is that this new nerve medication is also an anti-depressant.

So I've got that going for me. Side effects may include curly red hair, a dog named Sandy, and a penchant for show tunes.

I break out into song all the time anyway, so I don't think the neighbors will notice a difference.

The other medication, A Non Steroidal Anti-Inflammatory, is totally bereft of musical theater humor. It is and does exactly what it says it does.

Take it with food.

If one doesn't work, take two.

If two doesn't work, take six.

If six doesn't work, take seven.

May cause intestinal bleeding.

I guess doc . . . if you think it's best.

Except, . . . wait a minute . . . okay, here's something reasonably terrifying.

Side effects may include erectile dysfunction.


I just can't imagine myself ever saying "Sorry Honey, not tonight." I mean, I'm not a machine, but there are parts of my anatomy that I would very much like to continue being useful on demand. I can give up cigarettes and In and Out Burgers for the greater cause, but lets not get crazy here. There's a line that needs to be drawn. This is neither the time nor the place to consider a sacrifice on that scale.

The very thought makes my intestines bleed.

However, there is a solution.

But it will require standing in another line.

And now I have some thinking to do.

Harvest Time

Tomatoes are red

Peppers are green

Zucchini is phalic

Aww yeah penis joke.

Its harvest time here on Wait . . . Dad? Farms, time to lace up those old hiking boots and start reaping what I've been sowing.

Its also "Media Depravation Week" as part of my artist rehabilitation program. It's a twelve step program designed to rekindle the creative universe around me, a fitness plan for egomaniacs. This is week four, which is sort of like detox for distractaholics, which means for the next seven days I get to read nothing but street signs, urgent emails, and restaurant menus. No books, magazines, crossword puzzles, or fantasy football articles. No television, internet or video games. I can listen to music, but I have to actually listen to it. No background noise.

We'll see how long it lasts.

I can take a lot of naps.

A lot of naps.

But today is all about playing out doors.

I took the monkey to the archery range, I went out and harvested arm load of vegetables and fruits, and I may go for a nice relaxing bike ride depending upon how long my nap lasts. Later, we'll head to the mom's for swimming and food and relaxing in the spa.

The fruits and vegetables are looking (and tasting) good. I'm actually here at the table munching on cherry tomatoes.

I may or may not be making salsa later this afternoon. Depending if I can find time between naps and bike rides.

The album is officially out at the printers.

150 copies should land on my door by August 1st.

It'll hit Amazon, and iTunes, and CD Baby, and a plethora of other stuff later in the month.

I'll keep you posted.

Har, dee, har, har.

The website will launch, the YouTube videos will launch, and a collection of these essay's will launch as well.

I'm putting together a band.

We will be an "Indie Pop Power Trio" if anybody asks.

Cause they'll always ask.

And we will be pretty awesome, if anybody asks.

I'll keep you posted.

So its harvest time. Where Farmer Wait . . . Dad?, who has watched the garden of his soul grow and grow and grow, and wither and die and grow some more. He has planted in the wrong spots, watered at the wrong time and has been baffled by his own decisions (who eats figs?). But setting all that aside, lets just hope that this other garden is as tasty and bountiful as these cherry tomatoes.

Or as hot as the jalepenos.

Or as zesty as this italian arugula.

Or as dirty as a bag of zucchini.

Aww yeah, penis joke.

Couch bound five

Hmmm. Second Friday Five in a row where I'm laying on the couch and typing with my thumbs. Fridays must be the new Monday.

Screw this Friday in particular. 

But let's play Opposite Day!

Five reasons why it's awesome to be couch bound on the Friday before my three day birthday weekend. 

Number One: I have Netflix. And Netflix has entire seasons of TV I can catch up on, or start all together. 

Quick Reader Poll: The Wire, or Breaking Bad?

Number Too: I have books. Books I've never read and books I've read a thousand times. Page turners, mind benders, and thought provokers. What ever I need to engage the real organ.

Number  3: I have kids. Not only can they fetch things, like TV remotes and Magazines, but they have no choice but to let me use their bendy straws when I'm trying to sip a tasty zin and don't want to over extend my core by sitting up.

Number Fore:  I have wife. And she can cook, clean, mow the lawn, and is willing to not only touch my feet, but to rub them for several minutes. 

Number Five: I have wife and she rates two. Actually she rates all five, but I really wanted to use that bendy straw in wine glass joke. 

Roses are like Zombies

Roses are like Zombies. 
Cut em
Poison em
Rip their guts from the ground
And cover their graves with mulch

And they'll still find a way to rise from the dead and snag your pant leg. 

Roses are like Zombies

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

Joann is taking the morning to clean the carpets in the studio.

"Its a good thing we're putting in a rug." She says. "Cause this sh*t isn't coming out."

Now before you get all concerned that I'm a gross slob writing in his own filth, I have to take you back in time a bit.

First, the studio has only been a studio for the last two years. Prior to this, it was the den (and I do mean den) of a teenage boy. And anyone who has ever lived with a boy from the ages of 12 to 27 can testify handily that they are disgusting creatures. Out of their pores comes a nasty mixture of hormones, stink spray, and some kind of gooey substance that makes everything much stickier than it has any right to be. Taylor was clearly no exception to that rule. Joann was very diligent about scouring his room every few months, but it took three bottles of bleach and two coats of paint before the room stopped feeling like an underground crypt.

Yet, to blame Taylor, is entirely unfair. Sort of. You see, a few years ago, I had gotten a really nice bonus from my day job and we decided to replace the gross carpet with a lamanent flooring. The decision was made (by me) not to replace the gross carpet in the boys' rooms.

Why, you ask?

Cause our boys, though lovely, wonderful, brilliant, and kind, are, to say it nicely . . . kind of loud.

And hardwood floors, though beautiful, turn little houses into echo chambers. Every spoken word, every step, even the sound of Rianna's off key howling leaking from a pair of earbuds, bangs off the floor and under the doors and down the hall and into the bathroom and out into space and back down onto the exact spot I decided to take a nap in.

"We'll get to their rooms after they move out." I convinced my wife. Sort of.

But that doesn't clearly explain why the carpets got so gross in the first place.

Well, the reason why the carpets got so gross is because when we were picking them out we/I decided to go with the super ultimate cheap stuff. The really really really cheap stuff. The kind of stuff that was so cheap the company had to actually pay us money to put it in.

Khaki beige with no under padding, no extra scotch guard, kind of like construction paper nailed to a concrete floor. And that sh*t stains easily. I've seen deep black stains appear after spilling french mineral water.

But I knew all this ahead of time and still opted for it.

Why, you ask? Cause Josh doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who goes for the cheap stuff. He's reasonable with his money, but not frugal. He likes good wine, expensive toys and always finds a way to get his wife jewelry at christmas time.

But here's one thing that Josh really likes to do;

He likes to think ahead. He doesn't give a crap about the moment. As far as he is concerned, the current moment is just the net effect of everything that has occurred previously. He believes you can't really do anything about the now. You can't fix the now, you can't break the now, you can't do anything with the now but hate it, enjoy it, or sleep through it.

And because he wants to sit back and enjoy the now, he spends a lot of time thinking ahead to the next now.

So eight years ago, sitting in the homebuilders office with a thick stack of samples and a very pregnant wife by his side, Josh made a decision.

You see, there was going to be a baby born, and babies are gross. They are sticky and smelly, they vomit all the time and have no fear of rubbing their poo poo into any surface within reach. They find no greater joy than to throw spaghetti at every wall and spray copious amounts of urine in any room any chance they get.

Josh knew this.

And Josh also knew that because of this, no matter what carpet they ordered, it was going to be a gooey sticky dirt trap in just a few years time.

He knew this because he was thinking ahead.

Now flash forward and most of the carpet has been replaced. (Aha, bingo) and yet the victory is only partial because Josh had no way of knowing what a gross teenage boy could do to an incredibly cheap carpet, or that by the time he was about to turn thirty seven, he was going to be physically incapable of the kind of back breaking work it takes to replace carpets and that he wasn't going to be willing to throw away his hard earned savings on paying someone else to do it, and now his wife hates him just a little bit for going with such a crappy option.

That's not true.

She hates him for lots of other things as well.

She especially hates him as she spends all monday morning failing to eradicate a big black stain of unknown origin from the floor of the studio.

She hates him a little less for letting her get a rug.

But you can all breathe easy.

Cause he's already picked out her christmas present.

Can't Friday Five

It was a tough day today.

Not just for me, but for everyone concerned.

Tough days can be like that.

Can't get comfortable sitting, so I'm typing this with my thumbs.

And since I can't Friday Five, I'm thinking of all the other things I can't do.

Can't dance.

(Two years jazz, tap, ballet, so it's not for lack of trying)

Can't run a six minute mile

(anymore, yet)

Can't grow cucumbers

(Maybe next year)

Can't have a cigarette.

(cause I'd never quit again)

Can't fix everything.


Omens and Otter Pops

I've come to the conclusion that Otter Pops don't taste the same way anymore. I also don't remember there being a banana flavor. I thought they were much bigger than they are now, and I remember than being much more easy to tear open with your teeth, a thought that should send shivers down every mothers spine.

There are a few continuous truths about Otter Pops that remain untarnished. First, come summer time, they are always around, you can have as many as you want and your mom will forget to put them in the freezer the night before the hottest day of the year and it will take another millenium before they're cold enough to eat, so the first few batches will be more cold liquid than tasty ice. Second, after the first few hundered are consumed, you will notice that the roof of your mouth will be so scratched up you might as well ave been sucking on glass shards. The plastic too, is razor sharp and your entire pie hole will be a throbbing mess and you'll have to invent entirely new ways of consuming them. You'll have to break them up in the wrapper and use your hands to soften and liquify the cold blue goodness and drink it slowly as if it was the last form of liquid you are gonna get till you get to the end of the desert.

And there is a final truth about Otter Pops that is not so much the consumming of the classic summer treat, but the disposal of the evidence.

Every mom in the world knows that no matter how diligent you are in picking up after your little angel, you will continue to find empty wrappers throughout your household long after your children have gone to college. My mom finds empty Otter Pop wrappers hiding in the cushions of furnature that she purchased long after I was married. They are sticky, promiscuous, and scietifically the least biodegradable substance on earth.

(Thats not entirely true. But they do rate a close third behind nuclear cooling rods and yellow lego pieces.)

Calvin loves his Otter Pops. Every twenty minutes or so the door will open, I'll hear him prance into the kitchen, the opening and closing of the freezer, the little snip snip as he clips the end off (the end by the way that becomes a pile of ends in the kitchen sink) and then finally the door opens and slams shut again. Because of this, it is impossible to nap during Otter Pop season.

I really shouldn't be napping anyway.

I gots way too much to do.

Releasing an album takes more than just a few clicks of the mouse. There are shows to book, websites to build, videos to shoot. I've got to find cool clothes and cool musicians to play with. I've got to diet and exercise, budget my time, budget my money, budget my life. this one is different than the last. Its bigger, its better, its faster, and bolder, and meaner, and catchier. This one means more than the last and I owe it my due diligence.

Cause the world is about to change. I can smell it in the air. I can feel it beneathe my skin. There's a tingle of unlimited possibility that I haven't felt since I was young enough to enjoy an Otter Pop on a hot day.

And I know I'm gonna cut the roof of my mouth trying to suck all that wonderful blue goodness, but thats cool. That's how you know you're alive.

Friday Five: Things I'd be terrible at.

I am thinking today about what I could do with the rest of my life.

Did some writing this morning. Were it not for the total dismissal of shape or format, I'd be a pretty good writer.

Played a little music. I'd be pretty good at that.

Fondled my tomato plants. I'd be a reasonably decent farmer if I could get up that early, work that late, or look reasonably good in overalls. Not a big fan of hats though. That might be a problem.

Did some desktop publishing for my promotional CD case. I actually did that for a living once. Once. And I wasn't very good at it then, I'd be better at it now. Mostly cause now the computers can move faster than I can think. Back in the day it took forever to move a picture from the top of the page to the bottom. For Ever! So most of the time I was just being paid to yell at the monitor and go for coffee.

I fixed a flat tire on my bike in less than ten minutes. I could totally be a mechanic. Cause I know how to use tools and I look smashing all covered in grease. The overalls might still be a problem.

Got a phone call from a woman asking me if I was interested in selling my house. I told her no thank-you and that I didn't have any friends or family who is interested either. But I insisted she have a nice day cause she sounded as though she could use the encouragement. Made me think that earlier this year she made a similar list to mine and came up with cold calling home owners as a viable option for what she should do with the rest of her time on planet earth in this particular body.

I would be terrible at that.


Just terrible.

Which, of course, makes me think of other things I'd be terrible at. Things that no matter how hard I tried, I would never do well. Or at all.

It's good practice to check things off your life possibilities, like how you're never going to get a tattoo and you're never gonna bungie jump, and how no matter how much she complains you're never gonna let your wife replace the carpet in your studio.

Actually, we may have to revisit that last one. My wife nods yes.

So here it is for our Freedom Loving, God Fearing, American Patriots who love their Life, Liberty, and Pursuit of Happiness;

Five Things I would be terrible at:

Number One: 
Cold calling home owners to see if they want to sell their homes. In fact, lets just about bundle every kind of work that requires the use of a phone. I am terrible over the phone. My voice gets high pitched, I speak too loud, I can't form normal sentences, I pace furiously and I sweat tiny little droplets at the top of my butt crack. I do not know why this is, but I have learned to accept it and the fairy god mother that washes my underwear is grateful that my chosen profession requires eye contact.

Number Two:
Any job that involves children. I don't like them very much. Not really much at all. Especially my own.

Number Three:
Athlete. Now I know I'm not in the best of shape at this exact moment, but I'm no slouch. I can run, jump, shoot (hoops and arrows), after three months of little league I can throw a ball again, I can swim, I can ride, I can even bend a golf ball the way Beckham bends a f├╝tball. But I've never been able to get the hang of competition. If I'm not winning handily, like lets say a foot race between me and a seven year old in the grocery store parking lot, I seize up like a yugoslavian rental car. I hate loosing. I hate it so much. I hate it more than I hate cleaning out the  U-Joint underneath the kitchen sink.

Number Four:
Plummer. There is just a certain smell from cleaning out the decay of clogged pipes. No amount of bleach seems to cover it up. And if I start to think about what that slimy stuff actually is, I have to stand outside for a few minutes and breathe and possibly fondle my tomatoes. And of course, there's the problem with the overalls again. And I'd prefer to minimize butt crack sweat to phone calls with my tax adviser.

Number Five:
Dental worker. I couldn't possibly go to work if everyone hated me as much as everyone hates their dentist. Of course we still go, cause you have to, but you hate it and you hate them, and they're so nice and accommodating and reasonable and they seem to only want what's best for your teeth, and yet they poke at you with sharp pokey things and they never use enough Novocain the first time through and their walls are covered with pictures of decayed gums as if Edgar Allen Poe was their interior decorator. And I would have a terrible time convincing people to brush three times a day. 

Here's a great Mitch Hedburg line:

"I know how difficult it must be for people to quit smoking, cause I know how difficult it is to start flossing."

He was a funny dude.

He too would have made a terrible dentist.

Oh, well, whatever, never mind.

"Is that an iPod?" he asks. 

"Yes." I reply. 

"Can I have it?"

"Sure, but it only plays music."

"Oh, well, never mind."

Fresh Cut Flowers

Well lets make one thing perfectly clear.

192 is not a good weight for me.

I can deal with the love handles and the special places I've learned to sweat, but I'll be damned if I'm going to buy any more jeans.

Joann and I flirted with just going balls out crazy for another month to see if I could hit 200.

Just to say I did.

But 192 is far enough. So its back to diet and exercise.

Everyone's favorite.

I need to invent a cheese burger that scientifically burns calories. In fact, while I'm at it, I need to invent a cigarette that  brings more oxygen to your blood and a type of scotch that gives you better diction, makes you more attractive and brings an eloquent wit to your lame ass jokes.

I need to invent a comfortable way to read.

Until I do these things, and I will do them, I need to work on my core exercises and cut carbs like a good little fatty.

But this isn't one of those kinds of blogs.

There will be no "Before" and "After" photos and I certainly don't need any encouragement.

Putting on my shoes without breaking a sweat will be encouragement enough.

But I told you that story so I's could tell you this one:

So I'm out for a a bike ride, which is the kind of thing one does when one no longer wants to ask for help pulling a T-Shirt over one's head, and out of the corner of my eye I see a sea bright spring colors. It catches my attention because flowers are not usually fond of 100 degree weather and the field I was passing was just littered with them.

Then I remembered that I wasn't looking a pretty grass field with an easter bouquet of wild flora.

I was riding past a cemetery.

I forget sometimes how close we live to our local cemetery. Its just like one block over, but its hidden by the houses at the end of the cul-de-sac and the entrance is nearly four streets away, so its easily forgotten.

But there's a little break in the line of houses a couple of blocks over where one could snatch quite a lovely view.

If one finds cemeteries to be lovely.

And since it is Monday, all of the flowers that have been laid upon the final resting places are still aglow with their greenhouse vibrancy from the day before.

I didn't stop to observe or think much about those flowers, had to keep my heart rate up if I'm ever going to be able to enjoy a Chipotle Burrito again, but it did occur to me in the shower how beautiful it looked in retrospect.

And yet sad.

So, so, so very sad.

Cause the people who lay those flowers on those final resting places are doing so in order to celebrate lives loved lost, or to pay homage to a special connection they once had, or to find a place to let their grief be for just a while. But someday those people will find resting places of their own and those flowers will cease being laid upon those places and what once looked like a beautiful garden on a blistering hot Monday, will simply become an underground parking lot.

And then I thought about my own resting place, cause, doesn't everybody? And I found it sweetly sentimental to imagine my son putting some pretty flowers down at the foot of my grave and thinking about all those times we played catch.

And yet . . .

And yet . . .

The scene pulls out a bit and I see my grandchildren in their sunday best, tired and fidgety in the hot sun. I think about the tremendous effort it took to get the family out of the house, the whining, the complaining, the "What do you mean we have to stop at the store and gets flowers too!? Its not like WaitGrandpa even cares, he's dead.!"

(my grandchildren are real shits.)

I think about all that and it occurs to me that there might be another way to do something special to remember me.

Instead of lilies, I'm thinking my son should just take a long drag off a vitamin enriched Marlboro Light, take a big bite of a gut-be-gone double quarter cheese burger and wash it down with a brain food beer, remembering all those times I let him sit in the front seat of the car and be happy that he decided not to have children.

"Here's to you, pop." He'll say.

"Here's to you."

And he'll have to pick up flowers cause his life partner is gonna smell the booze and smoke on his breath and not be very happy about it, so the florist will not be going out of business in this future economy.

Which is good.

Nobody likes to see an out of work florist.