Crazy-Pops

Adios Cruel World!

2007-02-05T21:37:00.000-08:00

Well, like Andrew Ridgeley had to leave George Michael and like Garfunkel had to leave Simon, I've decided to go out on my own and leave this Crazypops place. So, if you'd like to hear more from Jeff C., who knows he can be WAY better than George Michael ever was (at least I'll never get caught engaging in a lewd act in a park in Beverly Hills - I mean, I rarely get back to California these days) please head over to my new blog at:

http://footprintsontheceiling.wordpress.com/

We'll leave Crazypops up for a while and then shut it down. So maybe somebody else can have the address. If they want it. Or maybe they just want your sex. Either way.

A New Year. A New and Improved Comedy Show.

2007-01-10T17:33:00.000-08:00

“By the time a child reaches nursery school, he or she will laugh about 300 times a day. Adults laugh an average of 17 times a day.” – Some important scientist.

Tired of sitting inside, eating leftover ham and watching it snow? Itching to get out, see some live performance, and laugh your newly enlarged ass off? Yearning to rediscover your inner child? The Rodents of Unusual Size Comedy Improv Troupe is very proud to present its first 2007 improv and sketch comedy show, Wednesday, January 17, 2007, 7:30 p.m. at the Avenue Theater. $10.00 gets you in and gets you a drink, so come out and laugh with and/or at us! Hey, you’ll probably get back those 283 laughs that you’re missing. And it’ll be good for you:

“When we laugh, natural killer cells which destroy tumors and viruses increase, along with Gamma-interferon (a disease-fighting protein), T-cells (important for our immune system) and B-cells (which make disease-fighting antibodies). As well as lowering blood pressure, laughter increases oxygen in the blood, which also encourages healing.” - "Science of Laughter” Discovery Health Website

Hopefully it will have stopped snowing by then and you can all get your cars out and get over there, but if you can’t, we’ll bring a snowplow to your street to dig you out! Oh, wait, wait, the Mayor says he already did that. Uh, yeah. Anyhow, we CAN promise that, if you make it to the show, you’ll have a good time and you’ll laugh and you’ll increase those tumor-killing cells, so you won’t have to go see your doctor and when he calls begging you to come in for a checkup you can laugh at him, too! Increasing your tumor-killing cells yet again! See that? It’s a cycle. A healthy, healthy cycle. A Catch 23. Or something.

See you there. Details below:

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

7:30 pm: Mid-squeak comedy!
$10 cover, includes one drink

The Avenue Theater
417 East 17th Avenue
(303) 321-5925
www.avenuetheater.com

www.myspace.com/rodentimprov

Thanks, Honda!

2006-12-22T12:22:00.000-08:00

I just want to give a special shout-out to Honda for their new ad for the Honda Odyssey mini-van (if you've seen it, you'll know what I mean). Honda, thanks to you and your magical PR firm (or whoever thought of it), The G-Man (my 3 year old) is now walking around my house demanding the funk. In fact, he's gotta have the funk. He wants the funk. He's got to have the funk. He's even demanding that I tear the roof off the sucker.

Thanks, Honda. I always thought I was going to be the one to get The G-Man out of his rock and roll phase and into more esoteric forms of music. Actually, I appreciate the help. While I have explained to him about rock and roll and jazz and even soul music, I have not yet ventured into the funk, because I didn't think he was ready for the funk. But now he demands it. He wants the funk. So we're going to be spinning a steady diet of P-Funk around my house over the holidays so he understands what the funk really is. And he'll know when he has it. SO HE STOPS ASKING FOR IT, HONDA!!!!

When At Holiday Parties, Do As Holiday Partyers Do

2006-12-14T21:55:00.000-08:00

Well, the holiday party season is upon us. And, being that I'm married to a Career Woman (she can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and go to Canada to get the kind I like, too!), we go to holiday parties. Actually, we had one at our house a couple of weeks ago, which was surreal. There were 50 people in my house. And, a couple of times through the evening, they were all in the same room. Which was cool. I wish I had taken a picture, because it reminded me of one of those pictures from the 1950s where they'd cram as many college students as they could into a phone booth.

But, like Canadian Bacon, I digress. We've gone to several holiday parties this year, to be honest, because it's important politically to play that game. After all, Mrs. C has to maintain her high level job so that I can sit around the house all day noshing on Canadian Bacon and bon bons. Which don't come from Canada, I don't think. They're probably French. Or something.

But, again, I digress. So we've gone to several parties and, at one of these parties, I mentioned to somebody that I went to college in San Luis Obispo, California, and they started talking about wines, because that's an up and coming wine area and they are a big wine fan. Now, understand, I don't know dick about wines. Not that wines don't have dicks; they might. I certainly know that flowers do, now (see "Question of the Day" post below). Anyhow, so, where were we? Right. Holiday parties. And nothing like standing around talking about wine all night with a bunch of strangers. Especially when I don't know anything about them. That's where my improv skills come in handy. "Yes, the 1995 Wild Horse Pinot had a hint of the oak barrel in its flavor, while the 1996 Pinot was burdened with flavors of cat piss and donuts. Which, when you're 21 and in college, is a treat for the palate, but as you get older, you come to terms with the fact that donuts are an unsophisticated cuisine. Now where are those canapies?"

20 years ago today....

2006-12-13T21:22:00.000-08:00

…I graduated from college. Saturday, December 13^th, 1986, was the first winter graduation ever held at California Polytechnic State University at San Luis Obispo (Cal Poly, as it’s known – or “Cow Poly” for you humorists). I guess up until then they never had anybody take more than 4 years to finish a degree, but for me and about 1,000 other slow students, a winter graduation was the perfect thing. Because, yes, I took 4 ½ years to finish a 4 year degree. As did 5 of my Architectural Engineering classmates (out of a class of 48).

What does this have to do with music? Well, dear friends, it has a lot to do with music. Let me explain. No, no time, let me sum up. 3 things:

1) I was, in some sense, aware of the big change I was going to go through. I had a job waiting for me in Los Angeles at a large architectural firm, I was leaving a small town, and more importantly, I was leaving all of my college friends behind and moving to a big city where I knew exactly nobody. So I was feeling slightly reticent to go through it all. And sad about losing what I had. And afraid of starting over. Then, a couple of nights before I graduated, I drove out to Los Osos (a smaller town right on the coast) to my favorite place at the time – a little coastal inlet surrounded by trees that nobody really knew about – and I sat and I pondered. And a song came into head. An incessant song that wouldn’t go away as I sat there, looking out over the water, pondering what was coming up. A song that somehow made it all okay. That song? “Solsbury Hill” by Peter Gabriel. More specifically, the part with the lyrics “grab your things they’ve come to take you home.” When that song wouldn’t get out of my head, I somehow knew I was going to be okay. And that I needed to go to Los Angeles.

2) As a defense mechanism against the deep emotional aspect of it all, my classmates and I employed humor to help us all enjoy the actual graduation day. And, being that it was 1986, and we all had a very bright future, we all wore shades to the ceremony. Yep, “The Future’s So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades” by Timbuk 3 was one of the hits of the day. It’s funny to look back and see that they were a one hit wonder, and that we used their one hit at our college graduation.

3) The Architectural Engineering Department had some sort of senior “party” that year, where we all got together somewhere to eat and drink and celebrate our impending Overworked and Underpaid status (little did we know!), and they asked me to provide the music for said party. Somehow I had a reputation for listening to lots and lots of music – probably brought about by the fact that I always had my Walkman on at our engineering lab, where we spent most of our waking hours, and by the fact that I was always listening to something quite loudly. Anyway, I made two 90 minute tapes for this party, and, sadly, the second one has gone missing. But the first one still exists, and yesterday I tortured Emily (my 27 year old assistant) with it by playing it. First I had to go find a tape player…what an archaic piece of machinery! Anyway, as a gift to you, dear reader, here is the song list from Mix Tape 1 prepared (from records!) in 1986 for a bunch of engineering students. Enjoy:

Side 1:

1) Old Mother Reagan – Violent Femmes (it was 1986!)

2) Let’s Go Crazy (12” remix) – Prince

3) Are You Leading Me On – General Public

4) She’s a Doll – Jesse Johnson’s Revue (he’s a former member of The Time)

5) I’m Down – Adrian Belew (the Beatles song)

6) Never Say Never – Romeo Void (“I might like you better if we slept together…”)

7) Bachelor Party – Oingo Boingo (the theme song from the movie)

8) La Bamba - Richie Valens

9) I Wished I Looked A Little Better – Sparks

10) Shining Star (live) – Earth Wind and Fire

11) Hungry Wolf – X

12) I Saw Her Standing There – Beatles

Side 2:

1) Can’t Get There From Here – REM

2) Close to Me (extended) – The Cure

3) Kiss Off – Violent Femmes

4) 867-5309 – Tommy Tutone

5) White Lines – Grandmaster Flash

6) Tell Me – Bangles

7) Shout – Otis Day and the Knights (From the “Animal House” soundtrack)

8) Modern Love – David Bowie

9) Jeanette – English Beat

10) The Bird – The Time

11) I Do – J. Geils Band

Crossposted from Waking Up With Morning Song

What a drag it is getting old.

2006-12-06T09:00:00.000-08:00

This morning I was trimming hair. From my ears.

Yeah.

Could be worse, I suppose. One of my neighbors doesn't trim any of his hair and he's got it coming out of every orifice and he's got a huge unibrow. Which, honestly, inspires me to attempt to keep myself trimmed. But still: from my ears? Dammit.

Question of the Day

2006-12-05T07:09:00.000-08:00

From The Mixmaster:

"Do flowers have penises?"

And, yes, I SO wanted to answer, "No, but trees do. That's where the wood is." But I didn't. I shouldn't confuse the boy.

A show so good, they made a record out of it.

2006-11-29T14:48:00.000-08:00

From last night:

Tryptophantastic Comedy Show tomorrow night!

2006-11-27T21:41:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow night (Tuesday, the 28th) is the ROUS' last show of 2006 and our last Tuesday show ever! That's right, at 7:30 p.m. tonight we go on at the Avenue Theater for the last time in 2006, and in 2007 we move to the third Wednesday of each month. We're done with Tuesday shows forever! Or until they ask us to move back to Tuesdays. Whichever comes first. If I were a betting man, I'd bet that they'd ask us to move before forever. Because, really, forever's a mighty long time, and I'm here to tell you - there's something else. The comedy world.

Get off the couch and come out tonight. And laugh. And cry. And hurl. If you've had too much turkey. Or cranberry sauce. (You know who you are.) See you there!

Very interesting

2006-11-27T21:40:00.000-08:00

Your Political Profile:

Overall: 30% Conservative, 70% Liberal

Social Issues: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal

Personal Responsibility: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Fiscal Issues: 50% Conservative, 50% Liberal

Ethics: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal

Defense and Crime: 75% Conservative, 25% Liberal

How Liberal Or Conservative Are You?

Monkey's Uncle 5th Anniversary Show!

2006-11-20T15:29:00.000-08:00

Our pals at Monkey's Uncle Comedy Improv are having their 5th Anniversary Show tonight - check it out:

Monday, Nov 20th
@ 7:30 pm
Jazz@Jack’s
Denver Pavilions, 16th Street Mall, Denver
3rd Level (Map)
303-433-1000
$6

Go to www.monkeysuncle.info for more info.

And The Train Conductor Says...Chicken Butt

2006-11-17T08:42:00.000-08:00

Something I found out just today: The Mixmaster thinks "Driver 8" by REM is the funniest song ever...if you replace all the lyrics with the words "chicken butt."

Crossposted from Waking Up With Morning Song.

Overheard at lunch

2006-11-07T17:57:00.000-08:00

Oh, the places we go: Last night I found myself eating prosciutto-wrapped figs and talking politics with some people at a fashion show. Yeah, I'm serious. The story of how I got to that point from my lowly origins in Chula Vista, California, is a long one, so I'll write that up in the next day or two. In the meantime:

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Overheard at lunch today: A conversation about the types of milk available at the Mixmaster's elementary school:

Second grade girl: "You can get chocolate milk, strawberry milk, and white milk. I know all about the three kinds of cows that make the milk and how they make it. The chocolate cow eats chocolate, the strawberry cow eats strawberries, and the white cow eats grass."

Crossing over to the dark side

2006-11-06T08:48:00.000-08:00

I spend a portion of the weekend cleaning out my closet - actually throwing away clothes I don't wear! - and organizing my sock drawers. ORGANIZING MY SOCK DRAWERS! And I actually ENJOYED it.

I'm worried about myself. Is this what it means to get old? If you know me at all, you know I'm a slob. At best. I once had 6 cats, I like leaving my shoes wherever I take them off, and I tend to let clothes pile up until I have nothing left to wear. That's my true nature. Or, it was my true nature. All of a sudden....okay, so maybe it's not "all of a sudden," because this has probably been a slow transition. After all, I have been married to Mrs. C. for 12 years now and she's a total neat freak. I think the only way we've managed to avoid divorce court is because we have a house cleaner.

Anyway, now I'm 40 something and I'm actually "getting" the benefits of having things clean and in order. It's sort of a Zen feeling. There's so much more peace around here when the toys are picked up and the dishes are done, ya know? And that, my friends, scares the crap out of me. Because it goes against everything I've ever been. I'm crossing over to the dark side. Those of you who are already there, please welcome me. I'll organize your sock drawer for you. And those of you I'm leaving behind? Pick up those socks! AND PUT THEM IN A DRAWER!

Overheard this week

2006-10-29T14:19:00.000-08:00

In Vegas a week ago, walking down stairs at Caesar's Palace:

"My uncle got his nose bit off by an iguana."

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A conversation between my 3 year old (The G-Man) and me:

Me: "You're precious."

The G-Man: "Of course I am."

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The G-Man having breakfast with his mom:

The G-Man: "Mommy, what's that under your shirt? Is that a bra?"

Mommy: "Yes, it is."

The G-Man: "Can I see it?"

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Putting the G-Man down for a nap:

The G-Man: "Daddy, from now on, my name's Bayster."

Me: "That's an interesting name. Where'd you get that?"

The G-Man: "California."

November 7.

2006-10-23T21:45:00.000-07:00

I'm a registered Democrat and a liberal at heart. And, honestly, when we went into Iraq after 9/11 instead of going after Al Qaeda with all of our resources, it felt like it was a huge mistake from the beginning. The current administration had the entire world behind it on 9/12/2001 and could have done some amazing things with that support. Instead, they screwed it up. It's a screw up and a war that, IMHO, will go down in history as one of the greatest blunders this nation has seen.

If you're a sports fan, you know about Pat Tillman. He was an NFL player with an NFL salary who left it all behind to join the Army with his brother and serve his country in Iraq and Afghanistan and was killed in a friendly fire incident in 2004. ESPN and others have covered his story extensively because, honestly, somebody who leaves behind what he left behind to serve his country is a hero.

Now his brother Kevin chimes in on where we are today. This is a must read. We'll get back to the comedy soon, but I had to share this. It's powerful stuff. And no matter what, please vote on November 7:

After Pat's Birthday.

Dis n Dat.

2006-10-12T22:30:00.000-07:00

I was told today, by a client, that I'm being "discourteous." Is that even a word? I mean, I realize you're waiting for something from me and that I've been horrifically slow in getting it to you, but if you're trying to get to me, please use proper English words. Maybe I'm being "disrespectful" or "not at all courteous" or even "the world's biggest jerk who I'm about to fire so I can go hire a decent structural engineer" or even "a dick," but I'm in no freaking way "discourteous." Because there's no such thing. And now? Now, because you are making up ridiculous words to describe my lack of professional care for you, I'm going to make up even MORE excuses as to why I haven't completed your stuff. "Sorry, dude, but my discourteousness has gotten worse and I've had to go see a specialist, who said I'm contagious and can't leave the hospital room. Oh, and since you and I had contact several months ago, when I started your stuff and said I'd have it done in a week, you probably now have discourteousness in your blood as well. The symptoms don't show up for some time. You should really get that checked out."

On second thought, if you want to get to me, go ahead and make up words. Because it obviously worked. Congratulations, you disintelligent dishuman.

Oh, hell, I just looked it up. I take that all back.

Album covers battle...great stuff!

2006-10-10T22:00:00.000-07:00

Overheard at the Playground...and other places. Episode 1.

2006-10-10T21:44:00.000-07:00

Here at Crazy Pops, we give you more value for your entertainment dollar. With that in mind, I'm starting a new weekly feature, called "Overheard," because the things children say and do are much too funny to keep to myself. Here's episode one:

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Overheard this week:

At the elementary school playground:

- 6 year old girl, running at full speed around the playground, saying to nobody in particular, "Who let the dogs out? Who, who who who who?"

- Two boys, swinging on swings. One of them says to the other, "Do you have your bling bling on?"

At my house:

- From the 3 year old, as he's playing cars and building a city. "Look, Daddy, it's a city! No, it's a town! No, it's a universe!"

- From the 3 year old, as I'm trying to convince him to get dressed: "Daddy, I don't love you anymore." (pause) "Okay, maybe I love you just a tiny bit. But I love Mommy more."

- From the 6 year old: "Daddy, Mommy's stronger than you." "No, she's not." "Yes, she is! She can lift up a whole house! But you can only lift up the attic!"

Got a match?

2006-10-05T21:59:00.000-07:00

Back to our regularly scheduled comedy:

Like I said on Tuesday, I've been spending a lot of time at the Mixmaster's school. A LOT of time. Because, well, I have an anxious child. And he has trouble in certain situations. And, well, before you get to thinking that the situation is dire and that my kid's never going to make it out of first grade because he can't read or write or add, let me assure you that's not the case. No, my kid is doing fine where it counts: In reading, writing, and adding. Where he's not doing fine? The lunchroom. There, I said it. My kid is the one kid who, as soon as the lunch bell rings, starts crying. Because he's afraid of the lunchroom. He's also got a problem with gym class, but it's not as big a problem, because who the hell actually likes gym class when they're 6 years old, right? I sure didn't. Heck, when I was a kid, I played one season of little league baseball and never swung the bat because I was too afraid. So we know where the Mixmaster gets it from. And honestly, if the two major things that give my kid problems are lunch and PE, I think that's pretty good. It could be a lot worse.

But I digress. So while the 200 other 6, 7 and 8 year olds are crowding into the lunch room with all their friends, making all kinds of noise, being boisterous like only little kids can, my kid's freaking out because it's so noisy. He's always been a little sensitive to noise. And so, on his first day back in August, M (I'm getting tired of typing "The Mixmaster") ate his lunch in the school office, by himself. And so, subsequently, ever since then, for the past 6 weeks give or take, I've been walking over to his school with my own sack lunch and eating with him, Monday through Friday. I don't really mind, but it does play havoc with my schedule because I can't take any meetings in the middle of the day anymore. And we have been working on seperating more and more and eventually I'll stop going. And, being the super intelligent father that I am who doesn't have to resort to tricks, as soon as he can eat without me he gets to watch "Star Wars IV" AND he gets some trains. Parenting, my friends, is all about bribery.

But that's not the point of this story. That's just an uber-long setup. And if you're still reading, congratulate yourself for your stamina and resilience. And now, here, in Act III of this blog post, comes the comedy:

One day a week ago, it was going to be quite nice outside, according to the Denver Post. So I awoke, dressed my kids, made their lunch, and sent them off to school. Then, around 11:00, I dressed myself in my green plaid shorts, my yellow t-shirt, and my black sandals. Yes, it's a weird combination, but it looks good (if a 42 year old engineering geek knows what looks good, anyway - hahahaha!) and it's important to the story. So I walk over to see the Mixmaster and we grab our lunches and we sit down to eat. After we're done eating, we walk out to the playground to find a swing for him and a place for me to return phone calls (it's what I do at that time) and one of his friends walks up to us and says, "Hey, you look the same!" I look over at M, and guess what he's wearing? C'mon, guess! Yep - he's wearing green plaid shorts, a yellow t-shirt, and black freaking sandals. It was, in a moment, hilarious and creepy at the same time. Because I really don't pay attention to how I dress the boys, as long as they pseudo-match, and if you know me you know that I typically dress in whatever's clean, so the fact that I came up with same bizarre combination of clothes for me and my son says....um....I'm not sure what it says. But I felt like a dork standing in the hallways of an elementary school dressed the same as my kid. Like we planned it or something. And, really, when can you ever feel like a dork around a bunch of 6 year olds? That's an accomplishment.

Back in blog

2006-10-03T22:03:00.000-07:00

I've taken some time off from the blog for other things....which I'll get to tomorrow. But first, I've been spending a lot of time at the Mixmaster's school, for reasons I'll explain later. And with the new round of school shootings that seem to be taking hold of our country lately, I've been watching the kids and thinking about what a cowardly act that is. If you're psycho and you have a gun and you want to end your life, go ahead. Go ahead and do it. Go out to the backyard, stick the barrel of the gun in your mouth, and do it. With nobody around. And if you hold a grudge against somebody in your past and you're psycho and you own a gun, put the gun in the gun closet, lock the gun closet, throw away the key, and go talk to the person from your past. Or, better yet, go buy yourself a pile of new CDs and spend a couple of days with your headphones on, getting over your grudge and realizing that life is worth living and grudges are worth getting over. Or go to Hawaii for a couple of weeks. Or go volunteer at a soup kitchen and see that your life isn't nearly as bad as it could be. Something.

Because if you're the kind of person who's psycho, has a gun and a grudge, walks into a school - which, honestly, should be the safest place in a community, with a church a close second - and starts taking out kids, there's a special place in hell for you. Children are the most innocent creatures in this race we call the human race and they don't have a freaking clue as to why you're mad and they don't really care why you're mad and they certainly don't understand why you're mad. And what the hell kind of point are you trying to make, anyway? "Hey, look at me, I can shoot kids!" Um, yeah, that's a Big Man right there. You've taken your stupid grudge against whatever/whoever out on innocent creatures who don't have anything to do with it and you've ruined countless lives. Imagine - somewhere in America tonight there are at least 6 households who are newly missing a daughter. That's absolutely crushing. To the spirit, to the soul. And there are countless other families who have sons and daughters who are injured, physically or mentally. And there are the rest of us, who are left to try to explain to our kids how such a thing could possibly happen and try to answer to questions like, "Why didn't their daddy save them?" And we go to our public school and we drop our kids off and we look around and if we don't recognize an adult face, we wonder what they're doing at our school. And we go to our public school and the other adults look at us and also wonder what our motives are for being there. And all we're trying to do is drop our kids off at what should be the safest place around.

Thanks, Big Men. Thanks for taking your silly grudges or your anger or whatever and shattering whatever idealistic notions we had about our communities and our schools. Fucking cowards. There's a special place in hell for you, doing unspeakable acts with other unspeakable cowards from history. And if there isn't a special place in hell for you? When I get there (I think I've done enough things in my past to warrant an admittance) I'll make one for you.

Guess what tomorrow is?

2006-09-18T09:58:00.000-07:00

You're gonna hear it on your radio, yeah, your radio...

2006-09-12T21:14:00.000-07:00

At this month's Radio Avenue taping (a couple of weeks ago), I was asked again to do a "rant," so I took my "Urinal Conversations" blog entry from below, tidied it up a bit, and performed it in front of a live studio audience! It was great. To enjoy - and I do mean enjoy - go here. Download it as an mp3 (see the upper right hand corner of the page) and start listening at the 42 minute mark for my rant. Or listen to the whole show - it's really very good. I play a policeman in one sketch and there was a woman on who runs www.liberatethis.com and talks about what's really happening in Iraq. Obviously that part of it's not comedy; overall it's a very good radio show.

Jesus Loves You

2006-08-29T08:20:00.000-07:00

2006-08-24T22:12:00.000-07:00

Best. Band. Ever.

Enough Said.

2006-08-23T14:49:00.000-07:00

Your Pirate Name Is...

Cannibal Sultan of Timor

What's Your Pirate Name?

Hey guy, be a minority!

2006-08-22T15:12:00.000-07:00

Hey fellas. Yes, I'm talking to you. Black, white, brown, yellow, red, gay, straight, androgynous, spotted, confident, shy, well-hung (blue state), not-so-hung (red state), comfortable with your sexuality (Richard Simmons), in denial (Dick Cheney), hungry, or no-more-deep-fried-bacon-for-me-thank-you-very-much.... If you, guy, have every wanted to truly feel like a minority, even if it means plunging even deeper into the minority abyss, do I ever have the gig for you: Go to an Ani DiFranco concert. The LQ is staggering.

Why is this man smiling?

2006-08-20T22:15:00.000-07:00

Is it because:

a) He's being molested by 4 hands of women half his age? Approximately?
b) His son is starting first grade at a Denver Public School and that is not a smile, but a look of concern?
c) His improv troupe is on fire and is performing this Tuesday night?

The correct answer? C. And B. And, okay, A. What the hell, right?

If you're needing a laugh - and with school starting this week, who doesn't? - come down to the Avenue Theater at 417 East 17th Avenue, Tuesday night, August 22nd, at 7:30, for the ROUS "Back To School Spectacular." We'll be doing all kinds of fun things we've never done before and we're expecting a good crowd, so get there early to get a good seat. $10.00 includes a free drink. And, if you're lucky, maybe you'll be molested by hands, too. Choose your seat carefully.

And, yes, the Mixmaster is starting first grade tomorrow morning at a DPS school.
He went to a private Kindergarten at the Auraria Early Learning Center, so he's now going from a student/teacher ratio of 18/4 to one of 29/1. That's right - there are 29 kids in his class with one teacher. One teacher! Needless to say, I'm a little freaked out. I plan on getting involved over there so I can help out. In fact, the school lost his paperwork originally and we went in a couple of weeks ago and they didn't have him in the computer and I developed this attitude like, "Don't you know who I am? Oh, you will. You will. You're going to get sick of me." I did a lot of things with his pre-school and kindergarten: We built a house in kindergarten over several weeks, I went on field trips with them, and Emily and I taught them a bunch of improv games every week for 6 or 8 weeks. Which was really cool. If you've never known the joy of having eighteen 5 year olds respond to your command to "be a sandwich" you don't know what you're missing.

Anyway, one of the reasons I started my own business 6 years ago was just this: To be able to be involved with my kids' schooling. So I plan on investing a ton of time in his school, which, while crowded, has a very good reputation. And is only a block away from our house. But I'm still freaked out. 29 kids? Don't you know who I am?

Oh, and if you're still reading this and you can't make Tuesday or you want a double dose of comedy this week, check out my pals in Monkey's Uncle Comedy Improv Troupe tomorrow night, Monday, August 21, at the new Jazz at Jack's. www.monkeysuncle.info for more info.

Get your picture taken with the King!

2006-08-17T22:38:00.000-07:00

In honor of Elvis's Deathday anniversary yesterday....isn't that a strange thing to celebrate? Anyway, in honor of the 29th anniversary of Elvis Eating One Too Many Roofy-Twinkie-Peanut-Butter-Banana- Sandwiches and croaking on the potty, I'm going to buy one of these: The Elvis Camera. Since I never had the chance to get my picture taken with the King, I'll take pictures of my friends with the King. Then I'll put up a website and post all my pictures of all my friends with the King. Hey, wait, who the hell am I kidding? I have no friends! Just kidding. I have a friend. You know who you are. Did you get my letters? And the fruit basket? I'm sorry about your cat. No more restraining orders, please!

This reminds me a little of the time Mrs. C (my wife) and I went to Memphis on, yes, a job interview (that's a whole other cautionary tale that I'll write up some other time. If you're from Memphis, you should not read it because it will not be nice to your town), and we took an afternoon and went to Graceland and did the tour. Now this was close to this same time of year so there were lots of Deathday flower arrangements and things all over the place and it was CROWDED! But we made it to the end, where they have the eternal flame, and people were standing there staring at the flame crying and Mrs. C and I could barely contain our laughter. I mean, sure, I like the kitsch every now and then. And, hell, I've actually been paid to impersonate Elvis for a corporate picnic and I wrote a play about an Elvis impersonator that I actually starred in and I've been to Elvis-O-Rama in Vegas, so I too am obviously touched by the King. Not in a weird, "Get your hands off of my Heartbreak Hotel" sort of way, but in a cool, embrace the kitsch sort of way. So I get that. But he's dead, people! He's been dead for 29 years! And if you go the Graceland and you see the jungle room and you see the faux-glamour of the entire place and you don't laugh, you don't have a sense of humor. Which I bet The King probably did. "Hey, check this out - I'm gonna make a fried PBB sandwich for the hell of it and let everybody know that I like them and see how long it takes for it - and the Jungle Room, which is hilarious - to become part of my legacy." So I think he was pulling a fast one on everybody. And when we got to the eternal flame and to the grave of Elvis's twin (who died at birth, IIRC) and people were crying, we thought it was funny. Like a picture of you with Elvis. Friend.

Monday Appreciation

2006-08-14T11:55:00.000-07:00

This is my new favorite picture. For more, check out Office Pirates and their "Women Walking Around At Lunchtime" series. It almost makes me wish I worked in the city.

Whack Attack

2006-07-29T20:30:00.000-07:00

I'm out in the front yard today, playing hockey with the Mixmaster on the sidewalk. He's playing goalie. We're using a hockey ball because, well, there's no ice on the sidewalk this time of year and the pucks just don't go when there's no ice. So he's got his stick and I'm shooting the ball towards him and he's hitting it as far as he can. And he starts yelling, as he's hitting the ball, "Whack! Whack off! Whack off! Look daddy, I'm whacking off!" Then he hits it towards the neighbor's garden. "Look, daddy, I whacked off to the bush!"

I could not stop laughing. And I could not explain to him what was so funny. Which made him mad. But one day, 15 years from now, when he's in college and I'm on my yacht in the Riviera, I'll video conference call him and tell him all about it.

Why in Lucifer's name can't you leave me alone in a urinal?

2006-07-28T05:26:00.000-07:00

Flod's last post made me think of this. It's sort of a spin-off blog. Think of it as the "Three's Company Too" of the Crazy Pops blog:

When I used to work for the man, many many years ago, or 5 years ago, anyway, I had a boss who I loved dearly. He was a great guy - genuinely cared about his employees, great personality, and he had a fantastic rapport with clients. That's the word of the day, by the way: rapport. Taste it. Chew it. Sprinkle it through your conversations like salt in a pre-prepared package of pork loin bought at Safeway. Why the hell do they have to put so much freaking salt in that thing? Anyhow, this boss was great in every way, except one: He liked to talk in the bathroom. And not as in, "I believe I'll sit here on my throne and call everybody I know on my cell phone" talk, but as in, "talk to you personally." So many times I'd be standing there at the urinal, taking care of business, emptying out the hull of my aircraft carrier, as it were, and I'd hear the door open behind me and I'd hear, "So, Jeff, how's the ABC project going?" Which, as you probably know, stops the flow of the might river Ganges faster than you can say "innappropriate." Maybe Flod can handle a conversation while he's dipping his noodle; hell, I bet he can give a speech while he's doing it. He's that kind of guy. Me? Not so much. My Airforce One seems to stop flying when it's up in the air and all of a sudden my brain has to come up with a proper response to "Where are my TPS reports, Jeff?" And with this particular boss, it happened a lot. Probably once a month. It got to the point where if I were heading to the bathroom and I saw him heading to the bathroom I'd change my route to the fax machine or the elevator. Which meant I always had to pee when I was at the fax machine, but if I had to become "that weird employee who always has to pee when he's at the fax machine" to ward off the constant conversations with my dick out, so be it.

I always felt like it was an invasion of personal space. Isn't it? I mean, you ladies don't really have the same problem, because you're in a stall all the time. And your boss wouldn't know you were in there unless he or she recognized your shoes. Which, come to think of it, would be really weird. Anyway, I started thinking about it, and I started thinking about the invasion of personal space and how I could get him back and show him how it felt. So I went to his house while he was having sex with his wife. "So, boss, how about that raise I'm supposed to get?" No, okay, I didn't really go to his house while he was having sex with his wife. But that's the fictional punchline to a non-fiction story. That's literary license. Which you can lose if you drink and write.

Have a fantastic day.

Why in CHRIST'S name can't you piss in a urinal?

2006-07-27T14:50:00.000-07:00

So I walk into the bathroom on our floor at work, like 10 seconds behind a guy who just went in. I'm in a bad way. I gotta deuce like the devil. There's nobody else in the bathroom. The dude walks into the ONLY stall, right next to the ONLY urinal, and proceeds to simply piss.

WTF?!?!? I see dudes doing this all the time. Why in Christ's name can't you use a urinal, dudes? It's RIGHT THERE! Does pissing in the toilet make it feel more like you're pissing at home? Is it some kind of security blanket? Do you LIKE watching water and urine splashing from the bowl to the lid?

Good Lord. What the hell is WRONG with you dudes?!?!?!?

I Would Welcome 500 Visitors and I Would Welcome 500 More Just To Be The Blog Who Welcomed 1,000 Visitors And Fell Down At Your Door

2006-07-22T14:27:00.000-07:00

Holy Moly! We've had 500 visitors to the blog! Wow! Of course, 400 of them were me checking to see if anybody else had written anything, but still: Thanks for visiting, you 100 other visitors!

I just read that the Southeast corridor light rail in Denver is opening November 17 - my wife will be able to take that line to work from downtown to DTC. And that reminded me of this story: A couple of years ago, The Mixmaster and I were walking downtown and I saw the light rail tracks down there and I said to him, "Someday we'll be able to take this light rail to Mommy's work." And he got real quiet and real thoughtful and then this gem popped out of his mouth: "But how will we hold it?"

Butt out!

2006-07-19T22:22:00.000-07:00

Somebody got caught spanking somebody else!, originally uploaded by katwell.

The Rodents and I went downtown tonight to take some new pictures, since we have a new lineup, and this one is quite blog-worthy. Yes, that's me grabbing ass with 4 beautiful and talented women. It's like a teenage fantasy come true! Ah, hell, who am I kidding? It's like a 40 year old male fantasy come true! I am such a lucky bastard.

If you want to see more grab ass with a 4 to 1 female to male ratio, come on down to the Avenue Theater next Tuesday night, July 25, 7:30 pm, for our next show. It'll be great! If I can get my hand off of Emily's ass by then. Hey, if you ask nicely and bring your friends to the show, we'll recreate this pose for you. But only if you ask nicely. And bring your frineds to the show.

Death, Dr. Seuss Style

2006-07-17T14:47:00.000-07:00

Jeff, Jeff, Jeff. You had to go and call us out. Well, since I'm really the only OTHER one who's written anything (okay, maybe Dukey wrote one), I guess you're calling me out. You're #19 and I'm in the low slot. Okay, I'm out. (I can hardly wait for the "I'm out" jokes to start.) This is me getting you--and your mamma--back, for dropping me in the low slot. (That's how she likes, it, by the by--your mamma: from the back.) DOH! Wait, are there kids who read this? Sorry about that. Note to kids: Kids, just so you know, Jeff's mamma likes it from the back.

Now that that filth is outta my mouth, on to something more innocent.

So my 7-year-old daughter, The Bop, came out with this in the car yesterday:
_______________________________________________________

Bop: Mommy?

Mommy: Yes, Bop. (This was like the 25th "Mommy...." in the past 2 minutes.)

Bop: Do you know why I keep all my Dr. Seuss books?

Mommy: Why, Bop.

Bop: Because he's dead.

[daddy starts laughing hysterically]

Mommy: What about other authors who are still alive?

Bop: They don't write Dr. Seuss books.

Monkeys monkeys everywhere! Tonight!

2006-07-17T09:01:00.000-07:00

Happy Hot Monday!

My ass hurts today. Yes, my ass. I got knocked down on my ass during my hockey game twice last night by #19, who found it important to clear me out of the low slot. With his body. Dude slammed me to the ice, twice! Of course, being a hockey player, I gave it back to him pretty good. So, hey, #19, sorry about tripping you. And about your mom. Send her my love. Oh, wait, I already did that! Hahahahahaha!

If you like your comedy on the simian side or just need a real laugh after that lame joke, check out our pals in Monkey's Uncle Comedy Improv tonight at the new Jazz at Jack's at 8:00. www.monkeysuncle.info for more, yes, info.

Lunch, anyone?

2006-07-14T11:36:00.000-07:00

All of a sudden, I'm quite hungry. Wings, anyone?

Son of a Beach

2006-07-13T21:26:00.000-07:00

All right already! "Is the blog over?" "Are you quitting the blog?" "Did you die a horrible death in a strange Metamucil accident?" Enough with the questions!

Actually, nobody's asked. Interesting. Because, really, while this is the alleged "Crazy Pops" blog, I went out of town for 11 days and nothing happened with it. Even though there are 3 of us "writers." Interesting. There have been 39 posts and I've written at least 30 of them. No he didn't! Yes, I did. I called you out. Really, we should change the name of this blog to something like "One Guy Who Gets An Occasional Stick Up His Ass And Has To Write About It To Stay Sane." Because that's what it is.

Anyhow, I've been at the San Diego beach with my kids for 11 days (okay, my wife went too!) and am just assimilating back into society. That's your word for the day, by the way. "Assimilating." Touch it. Love it. Sprinkle it throughout your conversations like bacon bits on a salad. I have lots of things to write about, and I'll start with them this weekend. So stay tuned for my reviews of Sea World and Lego Land and another episode of "Crazy Yet Poignant Things Kids Say." Because when you take a 3 and a 5 year old on a plane for the first time and to the beach for the first time, they have lots to talk about. And so do I.

- The Lone Crazy Pop.

Rock and/or Roll

2006-06-30T08:51:00.000-07:00

I try to expose my children....okay, that didn't sound right. I try to talk to my kids and tell them about all kinds of different things. Important things. Like music, for example. The Mixmaster loves the Curious George soundtrack, for example, and the G-Man loves all the songs from the Thomas the Tank Engine shows. But I try to occasionally play some other things for them, so as to mix it up and to keep me sane. Because, sometimes, I think if I hear "Oh yes it's great to be an engine blahblahblah" one more time I'm going to go into a fetal position as I'm driving. And then I'd crash. Anyhow, so I plug my Zen Jukebox into my Jeep stereo and I let them hear some good music - some John Eddie, some Dramarama, some Flogging Molly, some Kings of Leon - on occasion. And we talk about it so they know what they're hearing.

So yesterday I picked them up from school, and it was obvious that the G-Man had had a long day. It was "Splash Day," after all, and I could tell he was fried like a high school kid the morning after Grad Night. So I put them both into the Jeep and I got in and the G-Man, from the back seat, says, "Daddy, I need some rock and roll. I need some rock and roll now."

I'm so proud.

The Funny Five

2006-06-26T18:54:00.000-07:00

Well, here we go - tomorrow night, it's the first show with the new incarnation of the Rodents of Unusual Size. You see, we had 7 of us a month ago, then we lost 3, and we've picked up a new person (she's quite good!), so now there are 5. It should be a very good time - I've written a new sketch and a new music sketch and I'm doing my rant and Howard's doing his rant, so come check it out. Here's the PR - it's in two parts, because I sent out an original e-mail (below) and a follow up e-mail (above):

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Hi friends,

Just a reminder: Tomorrow is "Rat Tuesday" - see below. Also, this just in: Opening for the ROUS tomorrow night will be Tina Gill, doing her "Oddville" winning smash, "Rindercella." Okay, so we all went to the "Oddville" show (www.oddville.us) last month at the Avenue and performed one of our ROUS sketches. We met Tina there and asked her to open for us, because "Rindercella" is really cool and because she won the "Oddville" competition with it. You'll just have to see it to believe it. Remember - we have a good track record with our opening acts. Rubi Nicholas, who opened for us in December, went on to win the "America's Funniest Mom" title with Nickleodeon Television, so come on out tomorrow night and see the next star in the making!

Also, look for another episode in the continuing saga of Clippy, the Microsoft Office Assistant, at tomorrow night's show. And a brand spankin' new music sketch. We're pulling out all the cheese, just for you!

Details below. See you at the show.

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The Rodents of Unusual Size Comedy Improv Troupe is very proud to announce their new totally regular gig. Not "totally regular" as in "they've been eating a lot of fiber" but "totally regular" as in we're booked through the end of the year for the 4th Tuesday of each month at the Avenue Theater! That's right, the 4th Tuesday will now be known as "Rat Tuesday" in these here parts, so saddle up your varmints and come on down Tuesday, June 27, to the Avenue for an evening of splendiforous amusement. Okay, those are big words, and "splendiforous" isn't even really a word, but it's Monday and I'm just coming off an excellent Father's Day (happy belated Father's Day to all you dads out there), so my mind isn't quite back up to speed just yet. Forgive me. And come to the show anyway.

If you come to the show, you'll get to hear the now infamous "rant" that I did for the "Radio Avenue" show on radio station KGNU Friday morning. Infamous, you ask? Why infamous? Because it was beeped. That's right, I used a semi-"dirty" word or two and my "rant" was censored, like so many famous comedians before me. Hahahaha! I can't even say that with a straight face. Anyhow, I'll be presenting my raw rant uncut and uncensored Tuesday night, and, as a special bonus, Howard Semones of Monkey's Uncle will be presenting his own rant as well. You do not want to miss it. It was on the radio! How close to being semi-famous can we get? Show details below.

See you at a show!

- Jeff
Tuesday, June 27, 2006.
7:30 pm: Rat Tuesday begins!
$10 cover, includes one drink

The Avenue Theater
417 East 17th Avenue
(303) 321-5925
www.avenuetheater.com

Sunday Random Sunday

2006-06-25T22:12:00.000-07:00

- Tonight, in my hockey game, I scored a goal. Off of my calf. Not my stick, my calf. Not as in, "my baby cow," but as in, "the back of my leg." It was surreal.

- Today, for the first time, the G-Man started peddling his bike. Up until now, he's been Flintstoning it, using his feet to go, but today he started peddling. Stay off the roads, ladies and gentlemen. A 3 year old is on the loose. A very dedicated 3 year old. Because once he figured out he could do it, he spent the entire day doing it. Sort of like the first time I had sex. Or not.

- Last night I had asparagus with my dinner. So today, every time I step into the bathroom, my olfactory senses have been tingling with a new, yet slightly familiar, odor. It's refreshing, in a "what the hell is - oh, yeah, I had asparagus" sort of way.

- Yesterday I watched "The Wizard of Oz" for the first time since, well, since it came out. I'm that old. Anyhow, I watched it with the Mixmaster, because he's at that age where he really enjoys movies, and I just have one question: Where the hell does the red brick road go to? I mean, sure, the yellow brick road goes to the Emerald City and, eventually, to the guy behind the curtain. But where does that red brick road that you see in Munchkinland go to? Is that some kind of Yellow Brick Road Frontage Road? Or is it more sinister than that?

Mommas, don't let your babies grow up to be Raider fans...

2006-06-22T12:34:00.000-07:00

Act your age, old man!

2006-06-20T22:58:00.000-07:00

I'm 41-3/4 years old. Yep. 41. And three quarters. Whoo-freaking-hoo.

And, yet, somehow, I keep finding myself doing things that, on occasion, make me think to myself, "Act your age!" For instance, I play ice hockey in the RMHL. It's really fun, and there are lots of older dudes who play, so I don't feel totally out of place, although it is quite funny to have younger dudes call me names. I've been called "college boy" before and I actually had one goalie say something like, "nice shot, bitch." I, of course, told him to say "bee-yotch" the next time. But that's not what this post is about. Here's what it's about: I have a hockey coach that I see once a week. That, in itself, gives me a little pause. I wonder if it's too late to start learning hockey. I wonder if I forget how old I really am. I wonder if I should be doing something more productive, like filling out my AARP application.

Then, today, I started taking weekly guitar lessons from a guy who's played with James Brown. Granted, I've "played" guitar for 20 years now, but it's all been sort of on my own. I've never really taken lessons from anybody and my guitar playing has felt stagnant for some time now. Besides, if I can learn how to funk like the JB band does on "Sex Machine," I'll be the funkiest white boy in Denver. That's worth going after. Isn't it? At the ripe young age of 41 years old? Is it too late to follow the funk?

Seriously?

Why do I do these things? I'm old. I'm crusty. I should really be reading "Reader's Digest" and taking my Metamucil. Is it a mid-life crisis sort of thing? Most guys my age having a mid-life crisis either buy a convertible or start banging their 20 year old assistants, and I've already got a Jeep and my assistant is Emily and she's 27. So that's out of the question.

Then I realize I do them because I can, really. I work for myself, so taking an hour out of my week to go learn how to do backward cross-overs on ice skates isn't a big deal. And neither is taking an hour out of my week to learn that you can flat the fifth in a blues scale for some awesome new sounds. And, really, I do these things because they keep me interested. Sure, kids and wives and engineering careers are all interesting, but I always find myself wanting to stretch out a bit, ya know? Try something new. Learn to do something better. Or good, even. Or, hell, even adequately.

Does anybody else have this problem? No, not a problem, really. Does anybody else have this, um, predilection to learning new things? That's your word for the day, by the way: predilection. It's a good word. Use it. Love it. Sprinkle into your conversations like jimmies on a donut.

Monkey? Hockey? Hockey? Monkey?

2006-06-19T16:10:00.000-07:00

If you like your comedy on the simian side, and funny, go see our pals in Monkey's Uncle Comedy Improv tonight at the new Jazz at Jack's in the Denver Pavilions. They do a fantastic show and my friend Howard is in their troupe. And if Howard's in your troupe, the whole world's smiling. Man, where the hell did that come from? It must be a Monday.

I, unfortunately, won't be there because it's Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals tonight. I'm torn, really, because the two great loves of my life outside of family, friends, and engineering.... hahahahaha! Okay, scratch that last one, and add "guitar playing." Anyhow, the two great loves of my life outside of those things are comedy and hockey. So I'm a bit torn. But I can see the Monkeys next month and the month after that. I can see a Game 7 of the chase for sports' greatest trophy once every, what, 7 or 8 years? So I'm skipping the comedy and going with the hockey tonight. If you go see the comedy, please shout out "tribadism" for me at some point. You'll have to read Howard's blog to learn about it, but it's damn funny.

Radio Radio

2006-06-16T14:51:00.000-07:00

Well, I was on the radio today. Not as in, "Boy, there's a radio, I think I'll sit on it," but as in actually on the radio airwaves. The Avenue Theater had a thing last night where they recorded a radio pilot called "Avenue Radio" at their theater, and I was invited to do a 90 second "rant." So I took a couple of jokes I had laying around and I came up with this:

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You know what really fries my clams? Trying to keep up. Sure, when I was younger, a long long time ago, I was hip and cool and all that. With my Flock of Seagulls haircut and my Jordache jeans, it was easy to be hip and cool and with it. Now? Now I have responsibilities. And children. And a wife. And no time to keep up. The other day, I go to my grandparents house. They’re getting quite old, but they just got cable ‘for the golden years.’ I get over there and my grandfather’s sitting in his easy chair watching “Best Week Ever,” laughing at something some celebrity did, and I ask him, “Where’s gramma?” And he replies, “She’s out back pimpin’ the garden.”

So, realizing that my grampa is more hip than I, I study. I read. I go on this thing called the “Internet.” I try to keep up. But that’s hard to do when you’re balancing being a conscientious parent with being a hip playa, ya know? The other day, my 5 year old was walking around the house, looking for me. And I hear, clear as day, from the other room, “Daddy, daddy, where are you, bitch?” Um, what? “What’d you say, son?” “Where are you, bitch?” “What’s that word, son?” “Bitch?” “Yes, son, that word. Where’d you learn that?” “It’s just a word I know.” Wow. Um, I gotta do something, right? I mean, he can’t say that. He just can’t. So I call him over, I give him my best “Daddy’s gonna lecture you” look, and I say, “Son, you can’t say that. It’s be-yotch. Be-yotch. Unless you want to be thought of as a dizz-ork or a gizz-eek at the playground, you better say it right. Now go back and try it again.”

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The funny thing? That's almost a true story. The Mix Master actually said that. The rest of it I made up (with a little help from my friend Deletta, who came up with the "pimpin' the garden" line). Anyhow, so I got up in front of the live studio audience last night and I read it and got some laughs...and it was on the radio today. But it was cut. That's right, my shtick got neutered. So to speak. And it bums me out a little, because I don't think the piece flows as well the way it came out on the radio. Here, you have a listen, if you'd like. Go here and click on the "Metro" show from 6-16-06: Avenue Radio

Subpoena Envy

2006-06-15T19:41:00.000-07:00

Ah crap, I got a subpoena today. Yes, a real one. To go testify for a guy who's suing a contractor that I did some work for blahblahblah. Yipee-kye-freaking-yay. Nothing like getting in the middle of an argument between people who have lawyers, huh? Why can't we all just get along? Or you - you, there, you with the loud voice - you just take your ball and go home and the rest of us'll go to DQ and get a dipped cone and everything'll be hunky dorey once again. In fact, I think I'll do that - I'll show up to court in two weeks with dipped freaking cones for everybody. Then maybe they'll all see the error of their argument and beautiful music'll start playing and we'll all have a picnic on the grass, with our dipped freaking cones. And people'll say they're sorry to each other. And I can take my ball and go home. 'Cuz my work there will be done.

I'd be really bothered by this except I've already been an expert witness twice and I just served jury duty. And I was somehow the jury foreman during that. Which I should really write about. Okay, I will - this weekend. Look for it. It was a good time. In a sarcastic sort of way.

Faux Pas or Foxy Pass?

2006-06-13T18:59:00.000-07:00

I told one of the neighborhood moms that she's a MILF today.

Is there some kind of social law against that? I mean, in context, I said it sort of jokingly, because she had gotten her hair done up and I noticed. So I told her she's a MILF and she laughed it off and I quickly went to some other line of witty conversation to cover up the fact that, yes, I told her that, in the strictest definition of the word, she's a Mom I'd like to, uh, plow a few fields with, if you know what I mean. Which isn't really the case. I mean, she's a fine woman, certainly, and I'm a dirty old man, but still. Our kids play together.

The King of Glory

2006-06-13T16:17:00.000-07:00

Wow. This is pretty damn funny: http://markmossasj.blogspot.com/2006/06/do-little-dance.html. Steve is truly multitalented.

Strange Dreams, Episode 1.

2006-06-07T22:41:00.000-07:00

Okay, this is freaking weird. I had a dream last night that I was making love with my wife....that's strange, really, in and of itself, because, really, I should probably be dreaming of making love with Salma Hayek or Rachel McAdams or somebody like that. But I dream of making love with my wife. When you've been married 11 years and have two kids and two careers, it really doesn't happen often enough, so you dream about it happening. Anyway, so, in my dream, I was making love with my wife and I looked down at her beautiful ass (it really is a nice ass) and it had a bunch of corporate logos on it. I don't know which ones, specifically, because I was so freaked out about it I woke up. But it might have been Dunkin' Donuts, KFC, AutoZone, and Starbucks, all corporate logos, all right there on her ass!

Should I seek professional help?

My penis or my wife?

2006-05-31T12:56:00.000-07:00

This is just plain wrong:

Man severs penis to prove faithfulness

Firstly, OUCH! Secondly, how stupid can somebody be? If you sever your penis, you can't really do the tube steak boogie with your wife anymore and, even if she was faithful to you before, she's gonna get tired of your uniquely eunechian existance and go find somebody a little more, well, built. And thirdly, who the hell decided that it was more important to be more faithful to your wife than your penis? Seriously! Let's examine the ways in which your penis is better than your wife:

Your penis has been around since you were just a kid. In many ways, your penis is your best friend.

Your penis LIKES to get in your pants.

Your penis knows when you are horny.

You don't have to buy your penis dinner and drinks and watch a chick flick with it to get it all warmed up.

You don't have to make small talk with your penis. My penis, in fact, only likes long talk. Bah-duh-dum!

Okay, that's enough of that. But you get the picture. The next time any of you, ahem, "men" out there get the urge to lop off your John Thomas as some sort of sign of "solidarity" or "faithfulness" to your wife, stop and think. Think about who you really owe your allegiance to. I think you'll find him in your pants. In fact, I think you should pledge allegiance to your penis right now. For which it stands....

What's Magic?

2006-05-23T21:10:00.000-07:00

The other day I was feeding the Mixmaster and the G-Man some Mac and Cheese for dinner and, being the fully conscientious parent that I am, I had mixed some peas in it for greenery. And because, frankly, feeding straight Mac and Cheese to my boys makes me feel guilty, as much as caving in to their demands for Happy Meals makes me feel guilty (I'm afraid that one of them might end up like of Don Gorse, that guy in "Supersize Me" who's eaten a Big Mac every day since 1972), I have to mix in something pseudo "nutritious" with Mac and Cheese to make it palatable to, yes, my conscience.

Anyhow, the problem with the above scenario is that if the boys catch on to it, it backfires. "Dad, what the hell are these? I thought we were having Mac and Cheese! Mac and Cheese doesn't have little balls in it that taste like - yuck - vegetables! I'M NOT EATING THIS CRAP!" So, being the fully conscientious parent that I am, I offer an explanation to this reasoning: "Son, those are magic peas."

Which, as you can imagine, always works. What kid doesn't want to eat magic peas, right? And last week it didn't work, as usual. But then the Mixmaster said something that belies his five long years on this earth and made me stop and ponder for quite a while. His response to my magic peas? "Dad, there's nothing magic in this whole world."

Now literally, we all know that's true. But figuratively, it's not true at all. And I'd like to be able to tell him that, without it being a total "Daddy Lecture" which, more often than not, gets tuned out faster than a Captain and Tennille song in my Jeep. So here's what I'd like to do. Let's start a list. On this blog. Please comment with things that are 'magic' to you. After a month or two of commenting, I'll print the comments out and put it in his 'box' where we keep all the souvenirs of his early life. That way, when he's older and really feels that there's nothing magic in this whole world, he can pull the list out and get some good examples of what is truly magic. And, maybe, some perspective as well.

I'll start. And I'll add more later:

----------------------------------------

Springtime is magic, especially the part where you can spend a day putting fresh plants into the ground in hopes that this year your green thumb shows itself instead of your black thumb.

River pools are magic.

An appreciative look from somebody you care about is magic.

A smile from somebody you've never seen before is magic.

Watching real live trains with your children is magic.

Learning how to play a musical instrument is magic.

Comedy improvisation, when it's good, is magic. When it's bad, it's torture.

Live theater, when it's good, is magic. When it's bad, it's torture.

Neil Finn songs are magic.

What happens in Vegas now has a reason to stay there

2006-05-17T21:12:00.000-07:00

Well boys, another Vegas weekend has come and gone. Nothing to do now but keep reluctantly jiggling the handle on the proverbial toilet that is life so that it's ready to receive the next load of crap. But for three days it was all song, sun, and sin. And I'd like to pause a moment to thank Seth for turning our Vegas vacations into something we can now truly be ashamed of. I mean, we used to go to Vegas and I could come home and tell my wife all about the trip. Not anymore. When Jeff and I used to go we'd have a lot of fun but it was all PG-13 or maybe an R the same way "Barton Fink" was. Then Flod started coming along and it started getting a little uglier but a lot of that was attributable to the fact that Flod is just a harmless eediot who just naturally creates problems for himself. After all, it's not like he MEANT to call his wife from the strip club; the stripper sat on his cell phone and made the call (true story by the way). Anyway, like I said, things were all fun and games but now that Seth has joined, well, I now gotta make up stuff to cover the crime scene. So when the wife asks, I wind up adding 10 extra hours to the amount of time spent in the pool, 100 extra lost dollars and 4 extra hours to my gambling exploits, and I found myself telling my wife that we actually commit one full day in Vegas to merely "walking around". Oh, and if she asks, John Eddie started playing at 6:00 PM on Saturday night. But hey, great weekend once again. Thanks for letting me tag along.

Momma told me there'd be weeks like these

2006-05-08T17:47:00.000-07:00

Monday morning. 5:00 am. Your oldest son comes in to your room; "Daddy, it's time to get up." At 5:00 in the morning? He persists, you lose the battle, and the week begins. From there, it's all downhill. You forget to put the coffee pot back on the coffee maker and the freshly brewed coffee spills all over the freshly cleaned floor. The idiot ahead of you in the left turn lane decides he'd rather sight-see in the middle of the intersection than actually turn left. The chicken you make for lunch smells like foot fungus so you throw it away and opt instead for a bowl of cereal. The Monday noon drop-in game at the ice hockey rink, which is usually hurting for players, is full by the time you get there at 12:05 so you aren't allowed to play. You drive to your favorite CD shop on the way home from meetings for a little serenity and it starts to rain while you're in there. And you've left the top down on the Jeep so everything in is soaked when you bring your new purchases out.

To top it all off, your head is congested, you're sneezing all day, and your oldest son informs you, after you get home, that yet another squirrel has taken up residence in your Jeep. What the hell is going on?

You look up at a calendar. Oh, yeah, it's Vegas Week. That's what it is. The week before a Vegas trip. It never fails. You'll pay and pay and pay and pay all week long; it'll be a surprise if you don't end up in a Turkish prison or in a bathtub full of ice with your kidney missing this week. And, at the end of it, you'll get on a plane and you'll go to Las Vegas and you'll eat and drink and gamble and read and write and hang by the pool and it'll all be worth it. Because, really, the pre-trip torture (not to mention the post-trip torture!) just serves to remind you that you're alive and that you should not take these trips for granted.

Sometimes you gotta work for things. Apparently.

The 11 year itch

2006-05-06T21:28:00.000-07:00

Today I've been married to the same woman for 11 years. 11 freaking years! I've been trying to think of some way to appropriately blog today and mark the event, but, really, simple words are not going to be enough for such an occasion. I'm not sure my brain is even able to wrap itself around the concept: 11 years with the same person. Wow. I am a lucky, lucky man.

And, really, if we stop to consider the humble beginnings of this relationship that has become the foundation from which the rest of my life springs, it's even more amazing. We've been together since 1992, we have two fine young sons, a mortgage, two careers, good friends.....and it all started like this:

I was 28 and Dukey was my roommate - we shared a two bedroom apartment
in the UTC area of San Diego. He was dating his future wife; in fact, he had just started dating her. We had formed our band, The Snipehunters, and had played two gigs. I had hair down to my shoulders because I was in a band. I was a commited single man; commited because I had been through some "interesting" relationships with women and was trying to step back and not date those kind of "interesting" women anymore. I worked for a large architectural firm in San Diego. A large architectural firm that had been slowly going out of business for some time. Most of my friends had gotten laid off, but I was still there, for some reason. Probably because I have this strange penchant for being underpaid and overworked.

Then, one day, the news came down that I was getting laid off. Fine, I thought. I'll take a vacation and find another job. Well, on my very last day at that place (the place shall go nameless to protect the guilty), I noticed the woman answering the phones for the first time, even though she had been there a week. Obviously, I was distracted by my impending vacation. Anyhow, I thought she was gorgeous and, feeling like I had nothing to lose, I decided to see if I could get her number. So I came up with a plan, and I went up to her at the front desk with a notebook in my hand and said something like, "Hi, I'm in a band and we're collecting phone numbers from people to let them know about our next show (this was before e-mail made that type of thing so much easier) and I'd like to get yours." And she had apparently been taking lessons from her sister on "how to be available" so she gave me her number! I was shocked. We started chatting a bit, and I quickly found out that not only was she gorgeous, she was well read and well travelled and well mannered and delightful to talk to...all the things the women I had been dating were not. Which, as you can imagine, blew me away. I was not even in her league. This long-haired guitar player with no job could never stand a chance with such a fine woman. Still, something spurred me on (I like challenges) and, by the end of the day, after chatting with her several more times, I asked her to lunch "after I get back from vacation." She said, "I'd like that."

So I went back to my apartment and Dukey was there and I couldn't stop gushing about this woman that I had met. It was one of those days where you stop and think, "Wow, I really outdid myself this time." And, really, I couldn't stop thinking about her. Something about her face and her smile and her soul filled me with joy. So I cancelled my "vacation" the next week and I took her to lunch and then I took her on a hike on our second date and by our third date she asked me to kiss her (I was going slow so as to not screw it up; too slow, apparently) and I had no choice but to oblige. After all, if you're a career minor leaguer and you get called up to the majors, you don't say "no, thanks."

And here we are, 13 years later, with two fine sons and a foundation from which to live our lives. We're growing old gracefully, for the most part. We put up with each other and our foibles and quirks, we know that our kids are the most important thing in our lives, and we find time to get out once in a while and be a couple. And she's still out of my league. I am a lucky, lucky man.

When Fake News Imitates Life

2006-05-05T12:13:00.000-07:00

Back when Dukey and I were roommates, this could have been a true story. About me.

Roommate Deemed Too Imcompetent To Clean Bathroom.

As it stands, change "Roommate" to "Husband" and it could still be about me. Sigh.

Oh, hi, um, guy.

2006-05-04T16:11:00.000-07:00

You know what freaks me out? This: The other day, I was with the G-Man and the Mixmaster at the ice rink at their skating lesson - more on that later. And I was out on the ice with them and their cute instructor. Okay, look, I'm a 41 year old graying flabby guy, and it's really okay if I find a hot 20 year old female college student on ice skates cute, alright? I think that's one of Flod's "rules." Anyhow, we were out there on the ice, and the boys were playing with hockey pucks, because the cute instructor wanted them to, and we were by the door where you enter the rink, and this guy looks in and says, "Hey, Jeff, it looks like you've got a couple of hockey players on your hands." I look over and I swear I had (and still have) no idea who he was. Yet he said my name. Now I'm no celebrity - although I was once congratulated in an airport in Atlanta on an improv show I did the night before at a 3-day Atlanta tournament, which was very cool - so I check my clothes to see if I'm wearing a name tag. Which I don't normally do. Unless I'm at some engineering function or something. So I look all over and, nope, all my clothes say is "Guiness," like the beer. But he didn't call me "Guiness," he distinctly called me "Jeff;" I'm sure of that, because the two words aren't even close. They don't even have the same number of syllables, so it'd be impossible to confuse them. So, realizing that the guy must know me from somewhere, I make small talk with him. "Oh, yeah, ha ha, I'm hoping I can retire on their NHL contracts, ha ha. Daddy needs a new house." Whatever. Then he goes away and we keep skating and, after our 40 minute lesson is over and we're taking off our skates and helmets and gloves and kneepads, dude comes by and says, "See you later, Jeff." "Uh, sure, guy. See you at the next, um, function. Yeah, that's it." I felt like such an ass. Because we all know that I'm going to run into this guy somewhere and he's going to be like the most important guy in my life at that particular time; like maybe he's a client that I forgot about or maybe he owns a theater or something. And I'm going to want something from him, like a project or a place to perform, and I'm going to be highly embarrassed because he's going to say, "How are those hockey players doing, Jeff?" And I'm not going to know that the hell he's talking about.

I can't even grow my hair long anymore

2006-05-02T16:02:00.000-07:00

Not that it ever looked good long. But come on. So I've had this, let's just say, thinning area in the yarmulka region, where you can kinda see scalp through hair. And it hasn't gotten any thinner in at least a decade. But there it is. And when I grow my hair out a bit, I look like freakin' Rob "Meathead" Reiner in All in the Family. So now I have to keep my hair shortER to keep from looking completely stupid (as opposed to mostly stupid, which is how I look anyway).

I have buddies who, due to serious deforestation upstairs, have gotten out the #1, or worse, the razor, and just cleaned house based on the same principles. But if I do that, I'm gonna look like Zippy the Pinhead.

Big frickin' deal, right? Especially to somebody who's seriously follically challenged. They'd just get pissed off at me for whining about a little "thinning." Wouldn't they, Dukey. But it's all the same. Whether "thinning" or losing it all due to hormonal Agent Orange, you're sunk. You're losing physical options that you're going to have to make up for with character enhancements, unless you happen to have some quirky NEW physical trait that turns out to be strangely sexy, like bushy eyebrows.

But however it works out, one thing is certain: It ain't happenin' at the Hard Rock pool like it would have a few years earlier. Good thing it's mostly dark at the Voodoo Lounge.

How would anybody be able to tell?

2006-04-29T11:47:00.000-07:00

Keith Richards Suffers Concussion

Thinking myself drunk

2006-04-26T18:35:00.000-07:00

Ya know what I’ve found? I’ve found that if I think enough about beer that I can actually think myself into being drunk. I did it today. I’m oversimplifying here, but when I came in to work I was faced with an ongoing issue that many people (including myself) wanted me to handle in one particular way. Not only did they want it handled in this manner but our procedures allowed for it. But because it’s not necessarily the right way to do it I was taking the moral high road and vowing to do things the way they SHOULD be done. Then I started thinking about, well, drinking. A lot. This place was and still is making me nuts and I REALLY want beer. And ya know, the more I thought about beer the more I kept hearing myself saying things like, “Man, I’d like to put this problem to rest”, and then, “I should put this puppy out of its misery” and then “Screw it let’s just do it”. And I did it. Isn’t it great? I can now mentally drink myself drunk. Plus I don’t have to worry about a hangover, excess calories, and I can still drive. Of course I’m sure tomorrow I’ll be paying for doing something stupid the night before but that seems to be the only drawback to mentally drinking to excess.

Flod on the loose

2006-04-25T08:48:00.000-07:00

I saw this headline and wondered, "Did Flod go to Vegas without us?"

Police Arrest Nude Man Stuck In Chimney

Heaven in a styrofoam cup

2006-04-23T19:33:00.000-07:00

This would have been my favorite website in college.

http://www.ramendepot.com/

Stupid is as Stupid is. Does. Is? Does? Wait, what?

2006-04-22T23:16:00.000-07:00

Every time we go to Vegas – which is twice a year, these days – we have an award. A Stupid Award. Not “stupid” as in, “let’s give the winner a cheese ball as a trophy,” but “stupid” as in, “The winner is whoever does the most overall stupid things on this trip.” I’ve won it once, when it was just Dukey and I, because I puked in public at a monorail station one morning, but Flod’s won it both the other times we’ve awarded it, for reasons that probably can’t be discussed. Sure, I was in the running, what with my spilling beer on waitresses and dropping gift shotglasses off of escalators and such, but Flod’s ultimately gone waaaay off the charts and taken the prize each of the two times he’s been with us.

Well, I’d like to announce my early candidacy for The Stupid Award, 2006. That’s right – last weekend, I had such a Stupid Weekend that I think I’m easily going to be standing at the podium, talking over the “Please get the hell off the stage music,” as I thank my mother for making me so stupid and accepting The Stupid Award 2006. It all started like this:

First of all, Saturday morning I took my two boys (who I’ll call The Mixmaster and The G-Man) to a “learn to skate” class at 10:40 am the University of Denver ice arena. The Mixmaster has been skating several times and likes it and the G-Man is typically a daredevil anyway, so I thought that would work out well. It didn’t. We got there just before class, because The Mixmaster and The G-Man’s mom had an errand to run prior to class, and their father (yours truly) had failed to sign them up for class because he couldn’t make up his freaking mind about whether or not he wanted to tackle this particular project at this particular time. Anyhow, so we went, with my wife, and we got to DU, and I had to sign the boys up for class and I got them skates and gave them to my wife to get them ready, and then I went to the desk and the people who worked there were a little frantic. Which, given that there were about 180,000 3-6 year olds and their parents running around trying to sign up for classes and put on skates and not kill each other, was understandable. So it took me a while to sign them up. And, by the time I got back to the boys and the wife, they were crying. Well, not the wife, she was just glaring. Apparently, the boys both melted down whilst waiting for me. Great. But I don’t necessarily believe in giving up on things, particularly with children, so I soldiered on. But The Mixmaster, who likes ice skating, absolutely refused to go on to the ice with the 179,999 other kids. He doesn’t like crowds, at all. Fine. I told him, “then you’re taking swimming lessons starting in two weeks, you little bastard!” Then I put The G-Man (who’s almost 3) on the ice with his little helmet and his little ice skates and he just started crying and crying and nobody could console him. So I asked the instructor if I could come out on the ice (I had my skates in the car, just in case) and they said, “There’s a parent-tot class at 10:00 that you can come out on the ice for.” Great. So I cancelled the Mixmaster’s class and signed The G-Man up for the parent-tot class, starting the next week, because I’m not about scrap the entire thing and get the, “Are you sure that was a good idea” scolding from the wife about it. Her glare told me I might get that, and I’ll go a loooong way to prove that I know what the hell I’m doing. Even when I don’t.

So then we went home. And it was a very nice day, the kind of spring day that makes you happy to be alive. And it sure looks like the weather is going to hold, with no more freezing, so I went out to turn on our sprinkler system. I turn it on, start checking things to make sure it’s working, and I notice water all over the place directly under the valve thingy. Sure, that’s a technical term; I’m a sprinkler expert. So much so that apparently I didn’t drain the pipes properly last fall and now I have a busted water pipe just below the valve thingy and it leaks and I had to turn it off. Great. My wife, who’s glaring again, asks me, “Can it be fixed?” “Sure, honey, let me get out my pipe wrench. I’ll go out, pull the piece out and go get a new one.” So I get out my pipe wrench, and I go out to take it apart and the thing is freaking soldered to the other pipes! I can’t fix it! I have to freaking HIRE somebody to fix this mistake. Fantastic. More glares from the wife. Oh, this is going to be a fantastic weekend.

The squirrels think so too, apparently. Just a few moments after realizing that I was probably going to spend a couple hundred bucks paying somebody to clean up my stupid pipe mistake, my wife says, “Do you realize that squirrels are going in your Jeep?” I took the hard top off of my Jeep a couple of weeks ago and am driving around with a “flip top,” where the front part of it flips back, like a sun roof. Because I don’t want to burn The Mixmaster and the G-Man as they sit in the back of my Jeep, but I do like to feel like I have some sort of Tropical Island Lifestyle in the summertime. Mid-life crisis be damned. Anyway, apparently, if you leave your Jeep out on the street in the spring with the flip-top flipped back, squirrels jump in, looking for God knows what. In this case, I hope they like Tootsie Pops. ‘Cuz that’s what I have lots of in my Jeep. So I, under the watchful glare of my wife, go out and put the top up on my Jeep so it’s closed. Can I get a drink at this point?

No, because the fun’s not over. I go out to the backyard to clean the back patio. It’s really a nice day and I’d like to clean up a bit, so I can spend more time outside. So I move all the patio chairs and table and market umbrella off of the patio and I sweep the patio. It’s a flagstone patio, which is a detail that doesn’t affect this story, but I’m just sharing. Anyway, I put the table (it’s a glass top table with metal legs) back and the chairs, and then I go to put the umbrella back in the center of the table, where it goes, and I mishandle it, and it starts to lean over while the bottom of the umbrella pole is in the table and the next thing I know, CRASH! The table has freaking broken. That’s right. A 3 feet by 8 feet glass table has shattered, into a bazillion pieces, all over the patio that I just cleaned. At that point, I sat down, muttered several curse words, and had a drink. Because, really, I’m stupid.

And then on Monday my hockey team lost in our championship game (we got smoked, really, like salmon) and on Wednesday my improv group put on a crappy show – our first crappy show in some time, actually. So, really, I guess it was a Stupid Week. A whole week. Great. Fantastic. Swell, even. I’d like to thank my Mom, for making me stupid, and my sisters, for beating me about the head and face when I was a child, and and and….

The Rules

2006-04-21T14:13:00.000-07:00

Following are the rules. I don't know where they came from, but they are indisputable truths. Pay particular attention to #62. Tim and I are definitely okay, because we're related. But the two of you..... Well, according to the rules, we'll get to call you both "Princess" the entire trip.

1. If you've known a guy for more than 24 hours, his sister is off limits forever! Unless you actually marry her.

2. When questioned by a friend's girlfriend, you need not and should not provide any information as to his whereabouts. You are even permitted to deny his very existence.

3. Unless he murdered someone in your immediate family, you must bail a friend out of jail within 24 hours.

4. A best man's toast may not include any of the following phrases, "down in Tijuana", "one time when we were all piss drunk", or "and this girl had the biggest rack you ever saw".

5. You may exaggerate any anecdote told to your friends by 50% without recrimination, beyond that anyone within earshot is allowed to yell out "bullshit!". (exception: when trying to pick up a girl, the allowable exaggeration is 400%)

6. Under no circumstances may two men share an umbrella.

7. The minimum amount of time you have to wait for another man is 5 minutes. The maximum is 6 minutes. For a girl, you are required to wait 10 minutes for every point of hotness she scores on the classic 1-10 scale.

8. Bitching about the brand of free beverages in your buddy's refrigerator is forbidden. But gripe at will if the temperature is not suitable.

9. A friend must be permitted to borrow anything you own - grill, car, firstborn child - within 12 hr notice. Women or anything considered "lucky" are not applicable in this case.

10. Falling on a grenade for a buddy (agreeing to distract the skanky friend of the hot babe he's trying to score) is your legal duty. But should you get carried away with your good deed and end up getting on the beast, your pal is forbidden to ever speak of it.

11. Do not torpedo single friends.

12. On a road trip, the strongest bladder determines pit stops, not the weakest.

13. Before dating a buddy's ex you are required to ask his permission. If he grants it, he is however allowed to say, "man, your gonna love the way she licks your balls"

14. Women who claim they "love to watch sports" must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game and the ability to pick a Buffalo wing clean.

15. If a mans zipper is down, that's his problem, you didn't see anything!

16. No man shall ever be required to buy a birthday present for another man. (in fact, even remembering your best friends birthday is optional)

17. You must offer heartfelt condolences over the death of a girlfriends cat, even if it was you who secretly set it on fire and threw it into a ceiling fan.

18. While your girlfriend must bond with your buddies girlfriends with in 30 minutes of meeting them, you are not required to make nice with her gal pal's boyfriends- low level sports bonding is all the law requires.

19. Unless you have a lucrative endorsement contract, do not appear in public wearing more than one Nike swoosh.

20. When stumbling upon other guys watching a sporting event, you may always ask the score of the game in progress, but you may never ask who's playing.

21. If your girlfriend asks to set your friend up with her ugly, whiny, loser friend of hers, you must grant permission, but only if you have ample time to warn your friend to prepare his excuse about joining the priesthood.

22. Only in a situation of mortal danger or ass peril are you permitted to kick another member of the male species in the testicles.

23. Unless you're in prison, never fight naked. This includes men who aren't wearing shirts. If your buddy is outnumbered outmanned, or too drunk to defend himself, you must jump into the fight. Exception: if during the past 24 hours your friends actions have caused you to think "what this guy needs is a good ass wuppin", in which case you may refrain from getting involved and stand back and enjoy.

24. Friends don't let friends wear speedos. Ever. Case closed.

25. Fives must be called at all times when getting out of your seat. If not, your seat is up for grabs. However, "house rules" may come into effect, in which case it is left up to the owner of the seat.

26. Shotgun can be called on anything where a shotgun applies., as long as you are in eyesight of the object, or it is at a reasonable time.

27. When picking players for sports teams it is permissible to skip over your buddy in favor of better athletes- as long as you don't let him be the last sorry son of a bitch standing on the sideline.

28. If you ever compliment a guy's six pack, you better be talking about his choice of beverage.

29. Never join your girlfriend in ragging on a buddy of yours, unless she is withholding sex, pending your response.

30. Phrases that may never be uttered to another man while lifting weights:
"Yeah, baby, push it!"
"Come on, give me one more, harder!"
"Another set and we can hit the showers"
"Nice ass! Are you a Sagittarius?"

31. Never hesitate to reach for the last beverage or pizza, but not both. That's just mean.

32. Never talk to another man in the bathroom unless you are on equal footing: both urinating, both waiting in line for all other situations an "I recognize you" nod will do just fine.

33. Never allow a telephone conversation with a woman to go on longer than you are able to have sex with her. Keep a stopwatch nearby, hang up if necessary.

34. You can not rat out a friend who show's up to work or class with a massive hangover, however you may: hide the aspirin, smear his chair with limburger cheese, turn the brightness on his computer way up so he thinks its broken, or have him paged every seven minutes.

35. If you catch your girl messing around with your best friend, let your states crime of passion laws be your guide.

36. If your buddy is trying to hook up with a girl, you may sabotage him only in a manor that gives you no chances of getting any either.

37. Before allowing a drunken friend to cheat on his girl, you must attempt one intervention. If he can get up on his feet, look you in the eye, and deliver a "fuck off" then you are absolved from all responsibility. Later on it is ok that you have no idea what his girlfriend is talking about.

38. The morning after you and a babe, who was formerly "just a friend", go at it, the fact that you're feeling weird and guilty is no reason not to jump on her again before there is a discussion about what a big mistake it was.

39. If a buddy has lint, an eyelash, or any other foreign object on his hair or face, under no circumstances are you permitted to remove it. However an appropriate hand gesture may be made to make him aware of it.

40. An anniversary is recognized on a yearly basis, under no circumstances will anything be celebrated in an interval other than a year

41. When using a urinal in a public restroom, a buffer zone of at least one urinal will exist at all times. If the only empty urinal is directly next to an occupied on, then you are still required to wait. (Exception: at a sporting event where a line has formed to use the pisser). Here's more guidance on this.

42. When coming to a room which you know is occupied by your friend and possibly another girl, you must knock and wait for an adequate response. If no response occurs, and the door is locked, a 10 minute period is required before knocking again.

43. The only time dicking over a buddy for a girl is legal, is when the girl ranks a 8 or above on the 1-10 scale. (exception: a girl may rank from 5-7, as long as there is oral sex involved).

44. A mans gotta scratch what a mans gotta scratch. This applies to picking as well. Let the man be.

45. No man shall ever watch any of the following programs on TV:
Figure skating
Men's gymnastics
Any sport involving women (unless viewed for sexual purposes)

46. If you accidentally touch or brush against any part of another man below the waist, it is an understood accident, and NO apologies or any reference to the occurrence is necessary.

47. No man shall spend more than 2 minutes in front of a mirror. If more time is required, a three minute waiting period must be allowed before returning to the mirror.

48. Any dispute lasting any longer than 3 minutes will and must be settled by rock, paper, scissors. There is no argument too important for this determining method.

49. No man will ever willingly watch a movie in which the main theme is dancing, and if a man shall happen to view such a movie it is only acceptable if its with a girlfriend.

50. Only acceptable time when a man is allowed to cry:
when a heroic dog dies to save his master.
after being struck in the testicles with anything moving fast than 7 mph.
When your date is using her teeth.
The day Anna Kornikova chooses a husband.

51. If a bet is made, and the challenge is completed, then the bettor may recoup his money by immediately completing a more daring challenge. If he refuses the challenge or chooses not to propose one, then and only then, must the money be paid.

52. Masturbate often. (exception: if your roommate is due back within the hour)

53. If a hot girl shall happen to pass by while you are in an arms reach of your buddy, you must, and will, tap him on the shoulder to make him aware of the babe.

54. A man's shoes may not intentionally match any other article of clothing on his body.

55. No comment shall ever be made to a man about how much he is sweating. In fact, there is no need bring notice to any body part which he may be sweating from.

56. No man shall ever allow anyone to speak ill of The Simpsons or any Rocky movie. (Exception: Rocky V)

57. You have not made any mistake if you find that there are extra pieces after reassembling or assembling an object. In fact, you have just found a way to make that object more efficient.

58. There are is never an occasion in which any shirt without buttons may be tucked in. (Exception: when you are participating in a organized sporting event)

59. Unless you are under the age of 11 or wearing a bathing suit,, DON'T wear whitey tighty's. It still escapes all reasoning as to why they even make them in adult sizes.

60. Any object thrown with reasonable speed and accuracy, MUST be caught.

61. No man shall ever keep track of, or count, the amount of beers he has had in a night.

62. Under no circumstances may two non-related men share a bed or anything which can be perceived as a mattress.

63. In an empty room, car, ect., a man can not ask another man if he is mad because he isn't talking.

64. If you jiggle more than twice, your playing with it.

65. A man shall never help another man apply sun tan oil.

66. The guy who wants something the most is responsible for getting it.

67. If your friend says "Lick my nuts" as a way to put you down, don't try to be funny by saying "OK" and moving your head towards his crotch, two homosexual references in a row are just plain scary...

68. If you say ouch, you are a pussy!

69. It is the God given duty of every man to assist any other man that may be in need of assistance in obtaining every guys dream (threesome with two girls)

* with every set of laws, there are appropriate punishments. If any man shall happen to break any one of these codes, he will be found guilty, and will, for 24 hours from the time of the violation, be considered NOT A MAN. During this time he will not be referred to in any masculine way, and he shall bear the name Princess

Rodents of Unusual Talent

2006-04-20T16:05:00.000-07:00

Jefe - Hope your show--and your pre-show concert--was BLISTERing. There probably wasn't a box big enough to hold all the panties that were thrown onstage.

By the way, if the rodent in your posting below needs a drummer, I think I've found one...

By the way, regarding lower back tattoos, GO FOR IT! There's a product to get rid of them if you don't want them!

If this guy showed up at your door, would you let him play with the girls?

2006-04-20T14:23:00.000-07:00

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060420/od_nm/breasts_dc_1

The really big shoe.

2006-04-18T20:56:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow night's our big third anniversary show, and, because we haven't scheduled an opening act (our last two shows we've had opening acts, because, well, frankly, they bring their friends to our shows and we'll do just about anything to get butts in seats), I'm going to "sing" and play my guitar. And, because it's our third anniversary show, I'm going to play a medley that combines together the following number-oriented songs. I'm calling this medley "Numerical Shnumerical":

"Three Is A Magic Number" from Schoolhouse Rock.

"99 Luftballoons" by Nena(?)

"40" by John Eddie.

"867-5309" by Tommy Tutone. They played at my high school grad night. Oops! Have I just given away my age?

"One" by Three Dog Night.

And, lastly, "Three Times a Lady" by the Commodores.

You really should come check it out. 'Cuz I'm only going to do it once. That's my favorite kind of art: Disposable. The kind of art where you say, "You really should have been there." Or, perhaps, in this case, "You're really glad you weren't there." 'Cuz, honestly, I don't know how to play half of those songs. By tomorrow night, however, I still won't know how to play half of those songs. But I'll have enough pre-show adrenaline running through me that I'll be able to fake it.

Also, for my bio in the show program, I wrote the following:

Jeff C's turn ons are warm summer days, bubble baths, and back tattoos. His turn-offs are rude people, that incessant telephone that won't stop ringing in his office, and anything having to do with Ashlee Simpson. All kidding aside, he does like back tattoos, and may get one on next his trip to Vegas if he's plied properly. He is the proud father of two fantastic little boys and can be found blogging at http://crazypops.blogspot.com with his also-in-heavy-denial-about-their-age friends. Quite seriously, Jeff thanks you for coming to tonight's show. And, if you want to show him your back tattoo, he'd like to see it.

I'm so going to serve these at my next wedding:

2006-04-17T07:30:00.001-07:00

http://www.tastetheexcitement.com/

Happy birthday Tristan

2006-04-10T21:54:00.000-07:00

Well here we go, I'm going to try once again and create a message or a post-it or a sub-blog or whatever you call the component messages that make up this running diatribe. The one thing the world in general has to realize is that while I'm not the oldest member of this group I am the dinosaur. Computers are the devil. The world was much better when we all thought for ourselves, drew our animated movies by hand, and immediately spoke to a human upon dialing a phone number. So I'll contribute what I can but I ain't gonna kill myself trying to figure this all out consarn it.

Now Jeff has assured me that all I have to do is write about whatever happens to be going on at the time and everything will be fine. Sorta reminds of a book I once heard about but we won't go there. Anyway, all I really wanted to do tonight was to wish my youngest son, Tristan, happy b-day. He's asleep already. I came home from work and found him curled up in Mommy and Daddy's bed. He was sleeping on my pillow although Mommy assured me that she put him down on her side of the bed. Apparently he just sorta migrated over to my side out of habit. Admittedly I'm kinda bummed because he usually waits until I get home to fall asleep. Mommy isn't crazy about him staying up until 10:00 (I work swing shift) but it's nice to have someone other than the dog go nuts when I come home at night. At 4 years old Tristan is our baby and, barring a medical procedure to restore fertility that I was told would hurt more than the initial procedure to stop fertility, he's going to be our last. Believe me, he's going to be our last. Anyway, that's okay because, in my opinion, we went out on top (at least she did anyway, BA DUM BUM).

Anyway, a few things I would like Tristan to know about himself on this, his fourth b-day:
Favorite food- Junk
Favorite toy- Daddy
Favorite song- John Eddie's "Family Tree" (an aside to the administrator of this blog, we really should link to JE's website)
Favorite TV show- Spongebob. Okay, that's actually my favorite TV show but I make Tristan sit and watch it with me.
Favorite movie- "not Zurg Toy Story"
Favorite activity- playing on the swing
Least favorite activity- going to bed

Typical little boy in other words. But uniquely special in that he's my little boy who, sadly, isn't going to be little much longer. Anyway, I guess all I really want to say to Tristan is thank you for everything you've given me in the last four years and that I love you. You're an amazing little guy. Hope you enjoyed your b-day as much as I enjoy you.

Freakin' kids 2: Corporate Bugaloo

2006-04-09T11:06:00.000-07:00

My family and I live in an urban Denver neighborhood with a little shopping and restaurant area where the only “chain” stores are Peaberry’s Coffee and Chipotle. We don’t go to WalMart, we try to patronize locally owned shops and restaurants as much as possible, and our kids don’t watch a whole lot of TV outside of PBS. Still, they pick up on things:

Yesterday was one of those days where we all feel incredibly lucky to live in Denver: The sun was out, it was warm, trees were starting to bud…it was a perfect spring day. So the family and I decided to go over to the Old South Gaylord District, to my favorite sports store, to get the boys some ice skating/skiing helmets – they’re going to start “Learn To Skate” classes at the University of Denver soon, so I want to pad them up. Anyway, over at Old Gaylord, we were walking around and we stumbled on this place called “Devil’s Food,” which has pastries and cinnamon rolls and coffee. So we walk in, grab some pastries and coffee, and sit down for a nice leisurely snack on what is absolutely the most beautiful day of the year. We’re sitting there, eating, drinking coffee, and my two year old looks up with his big eyes and says, “Daddy?” “Yes, boy?” “Is this Starbucks?”

Then he starts singing “The Latte Song.” Which goes something like this (to the tune of “The Chicken Dance,” as best as I could tell):

“Latte Latte Latte,

Latte Latte Latte,

Daddy Daddy Latte!”

My First Bra

2006-04-07T12:05:00.000-07:00

The question struck me across the head somewhere near the sock section in the department store. It was a statement, actually. But my brain still holds onto it as a question, because as the dad of a 9-year-old going on 30, I like to think that I still need to be asked rather than told about these things.

"Daddy, I want to try on a training bra."

Because this question came on the two-day heels of such questions as "I know what sex is" and "Tell me about periods," I was able to whip the correct response out of my pocket right then and there.

"Uhhhhhhh....."

"Come on, let's go try one on."

Let's?!?

"Sweetie," I said, frantically looking around for my wife who was somewhere trying on swimsuits, "You don't have boobs."

Yes, you're right. That indeed was the wrong thing to say. But as she stood there, looking down and admiring her desert of a chest, as if little cacti were about to sprout at any moment, she said, "I know. But I wanna do it anyway."

Good Christ, fine. She'll remember this daddy-daughter bonding fondly the rest of her life.

I didn't know what a training bra looked like. And of course, the store didn't have any. The only thing they had was something called a "pre-A." Which to me doesn't even make alphabetic sense. Similar to the new math, some kind of new English. But the thing had cups. They were small cups, but cups nonetheless.

"Yes. That one. I wanna try it on."

"Can we at least look for something that might work better?" sez I.

"Okay. But if we can't find anything, I wanna try this one."

So I got a bit smarter. I started asking around the store for "something like a sports bra, you know, for little girls." Silly me. So we end up back in a dressing room, my 30-year-old-9-year-old, her 6-year-old sister, and me, staring at this pink "thing" like Xixo the bushman stared at the Coke bottle that just fell out of the sky and thoinked him on the noggin.

You'd have thought she was a blushing bride, the way she tried that thing on. She couldn't even fasten it herself. (It's amazing, I thought to myself, how I can fasten a bra in 3 seconds, but I've never been able to take one off in under a minute.) But once on, the pink cups falling forward, empty, like pink sails against her lake of ivory skin, and her giggling the whole time, it hit me how deeply and badly I had it for this girl--especially when, still barely stifling her complete joy, she said that it probably wouldn't work. "But pretty soon," she said.

Truer words were never spoken. As it is, if they made bras for personalities, Dolly Parton's would be too small for this girl.

"Can I try it on?" her sister asked (she still knows how to ask questions the right way).

"When you're older," her big sister patiently said.

Her first bra experience. And without mommy (and where the hell was she, anyway?). Plus I figure it's money in the bank. With any luck, she'll return the favor when I have to go get fit for my first manzier.

Happy Birthday Flod!

2006-04-06T17:38:00.000-07:00

Well, today's Flod's birthday, and while he may, at this point, appear to simply be a figment of my imagination, he is real. I think. Anyway, earlier today he claimed to be the only Crazy Pop who's a Gen Xer. So I went to wikipedia, which is pretty much where I get all my information these days, and here's what they say:

"A popular starting year of Gen X is 1965 when North American birth rates had dropped into what is frequently called the "Baby Bust" that followed the Baby Boom span of 1946–1964. But since many notable people who are normally thought of as clearly Gen-X, such as Courtney Love, Janeane Garofalo and Eddie Vedder, were born in 1964, this year is often cited as the beginning of Generation X."

Okay, first of all, the fact that I was born the same year as Courtney Love is almost enough to make me off myself with a shotgun. Almost. Secondly, at what point does claiming to be a Gen Xer go out of style? When you get your first hip replacement surgery? And thirdly, if 1965 is the beginning of Gen X, what the hell am I? Pre-Gen Xer? Or just plain old?

Happy Birthday, Flod. Welcome to middle age. It's fun here. Until Courtney Love shows up, anyway.

Crazy Pops are going to Vegas!

2006-04-04T22:25:00.001-07:00

Well, it's official - 67% of the Crazy Pops are going to Vegas May 13-16 - and we're staying at the Hard Rock Hotel! That's right - two 41 year old dads, one with little hair and one with graying hair, both with the fashion sense of a cheese stick and the hipness of an eight track tape, are staying at the center of the MTV Generation in Las Vegas. Fish out of water stories always make for great comedy, so we're putting ourselves right on the side of the pool (get it? Fish out of water?) just for you! Stay tuned afterwards; I'm sure we'll have some stories to share. Or not. What happens in Vegas is supposed to stay in Vegas, but I have the feeling that this is going to be funny...and we're all about the funny.

Love is patient, love is kind...love is stupid!

2006-04-02T22:37:00.000-07:00

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20060401/ap_on_fe_st/fish_wedding_1

This reminds me of the time a couple of years ago when 67% of the Crazy Pops were in Las Vegas for one of our semi-regular “Vegas Culture Expeditions,” where we go in search of art, literature, and opera in the City of Sin. Hahahaha! I can’t even say that with a straight face. Anyway, we were in Vegas, and we were getting ready to go see the Avs play the Kings at the MGM in their annual preseason “Frozen Fury” game. So we went to the MGM to get some pre-game dinner and drinks at a Mexican food place in the hotel. And we stumbled upon a wedding reception. And this wedding reception took place while we were eating sitting there, a few tables away, eating chile rellenos and quaffing margaritas. And this wedding reception, all kidding aside, was NASCAR based. Although the participants in said reception didn’t look NASCAR based. Of course, I am making assumptions based on their appearance which, in most cases, would be wrong, but when you stumble upon a NASCAR wedding you typically look around to wonder if a) Ashton Kutcher is punking you and b) if the people in the wedding look like rednecks. They didn’t, and it occurred to me later that they were all dressed up as if they were at a wedding, which probably made it hard to make shallow judgments about them based on appearance.

Anyway, the best man, I’m not making this up, got up and gave a toast that went something like this (I’m paraphrasing here. Or outright improvising. But this’ll be close):

“N is for the knowledge that you’ll gain in your years of bliss,

A is for always loving each other even when something’s amiss.

S is for the jacket that Jeff Gordon wears when he races,

C is for the cars Jeff drives and your 3 future kids who’ll all need braces.

A is for, um, always watching NASCAR cars when they turn left always,

R is for really really really really loving each other, um, always.”

It probably wasn’t that exactly, but the best man actually gave a toast that spelled out N-A-S-C-A-R. I choked on my relleno, fell out of my chair, spilled my margarita and almost got kicked out of the restaurant because I couldn’t stop laughing. Easily one of the top 5 most surreal experiences of my young life. Okay, old life.

Freakin' kids

2006-04-01T14:43:00.000-08:00

My two year old was taking a bath the other night - obviously, he needed it - and we were finishing up, and he stood up in the bath and looked directly at me and said, "I'm freakin' cold, dad. I'm freakin' cold." My TWO year old.

Kids. Where do they freakin' get it?

Blah blah irie?

2006-04-01T12:45:00.000-08:00

Does anybody really know what they say at the beginning of "Come on Eileen?" It's like, "ruh-ruh-eye-ree!" Those Dexy Midnight Runners sure had their own language. What about "Too-la-roo-la-roo-la-roo-la-ey?"

Am I showing my age? Or am I just listening to too much 1980s Internet radio? You be the judge.

Crazy Pops on the loose!

2006-04-01T11:51:00.000-08:00

Uh, yeah, hi. I, uh, guess we're "blogging" or something.