It’s Wednesday. My dad and stepmother are coming to town today to hang out with the baby. Pretty good stuff, I suppose. The day they leave (Saturday), my mom and stepdad show up, so this baby is really stepping raft to raft, paternal grandparent wise, this week, I guess. Cool.
Currently, the baby is crying in his room. This leads me to all sorts of questions. Is he stuck between the slats of his crib? Hungry? Being pecked at by some sort of bird? The answers are probably no, no and no. He’s just a grumpy little shit sometimes. I have my writing class tonight, and I’ve already finished my skit, which is a good thing, since when my dad gets to town there will be no time for anything. Jesus, baby. Shut up for a second, huh? Man. Dumb babies…they’re such fucking babies.
There’s absolutely nothing going on today. I think it’s time for a positive list. Things I love? Things I can’t live without? Things I hate but can’t live without? Nah…I don’t feel like being negative today. That’s for tomorrow when I have to work. Today, it’s just me and a baby, which, actually, is a pretty good time. I always thought that when people would say shit like “having a baby is so great. It’s so much fun,” that they were bullshitting. As in, I always figured that they were REALLY saying “man, this sucks, I have to take care of this fucking thing all day and I can’t go out after six thirty…You should do this too so I don’t feel like I’m missing out on as many fun and debaucherous good times.” That’s always been my take…and I know I’m not alone in this interpretation. It’s one of those things though. They weren’t bullshitting. It really is fun. I KNOW!!! Yeah, I’m one of them now. Now it’s me who sits home watching Mario Lopez on TV and asking questions about what happened at the bar (she fucked THAT GUY?) and at the same time hyping up how fun it is to be a dad. I get it. You don’t believe me either. I wouldn’t believe me either. I mean, fuck. This time last year I was gearing up to ride a bus around the country and play music while people gave me money and free beer. This year I’m wiping butts and making bottles and sneaking out for a beer at the bar about once every five weeks, and I know more about baby bottles and diapers and swings and all that shit than you could possibly imagine. I’ve been to Babies R Us, man. I’ve BEEN there. Talk about a harrowing experience.
Here’s what they don’t tell you about Babies R Us. The women that work there, they’re pregnant too. So here’s the scene: All these catty pregnant coworkers constantly undermining each other’s recommendations, giving tons and tons of unsolicited advice about everything from what you need (everything) to what the husband is doing wrong (again, everything) to which stroller is the biggest death trap and on and on. Now, they’re dealing with a bunch of nervous, irritable pregnant women who are in the frantic throes of nesting, totally irrational with fear/anxiety/excitement/the joy of shopping/the bewildering nature of shopping for all sorts of new and unfamiliar things, and they’re dragging their husbands along behind them. The husbands can only shut up and try to hang on. Don’t offer advice. Don’t suggest an alternative item that you actually like. It will be immediately filed as completely unacceptable and dumb. Husbands at Babies R Us share a lot of knowing sympathetic glances in passing.
Now, add to this mix the DUDES that WORK there. These poor fucks are trapped in gestation like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. I’d rather get hung from the dungeon walls at the Hanoi Hilton a la John Mccain than work at Babies R Us. These guys are so browbeaten that they make the husbands seem downright decisive and dynamic.
Anyway, it sucks…but you know what? That’s not being a dad, really. That’s being a husband. I mean, if I had this kid on my own, he’d literally sleep in a drawer with pillows in it. No two ways about it. There’s a reason that god decided to put the babies in women and not men. Also, probably squeezing a baby through your dickhole would present some health concerns…but I think it’s mostly so we don’t have a whole species that grew up sleeping in pizza boxes under TV guides. Maybe.
Okay, so some shit I like. Here we go.
Bill Bryson- This dude is, hands down, my favorite active American non fiction writer. He takes complex ideas and synthesizes them to a ‘we’re just bullshitting and drinking beers’ kind of level. You’ll be laughing out loud before you realize you’ve learned a ton of shit. At the risk of sounding like a total jagoff, (but in the spirit of full disclosure), I went to Northwestern and graduated on the dean’s list and I can honestly say that reading Bill Bryson’s books made me vastly more erudite and sophisticated sounding at parties than anything I learned there. So there you go…Sound like a nancy college boy at social gatherings in 3 weeks, just read these nine or so books. Talk with authority about everything from Australian flora to the history of Pepsi. Nice one. Start with Mother Tongue, a Brief History of Nearly Everything or Made in America, but read them all…they’re all good. (Oh, and Made in America has nothing to do with that movie starring Whoppi Goldberg and Ted Danson, in case you were wondering)
Miller High Life- I don’t know what it is, but I’m in love with this beer. I never used to like it, but suddenly, I can’t get enough. It’s so drinkable. I find myself literally going “oh god, it’s so good” when I take the first sip. I know. It’s crap. Whatever. You’re ugly.
Public Farts (the ‘not mine’ category) Nothing makes me laugh like some old lady blowing a fart right there in the Walgreens.
Public Farts (mine) You walk by a group of dumb looking chicks drinking Effen black cherry and sodas, and you fart when you’re right next to them, so they’re all standing in it just wondering which one of them broke the rule. My friend calls this ‘cropdusting.’
Alexandre Orion- He’s the best. My favorite living artist, for sure. His shit is on another level, to put it mildly. Check out Alexandreorion.com and look at the renegade shit, not the gallery stuff. No joke here. Just a recommendation.
Austrailians- Such polite and funny people who get shitfaced enough to fuck the knothole of the crabapple tree in your grandma’s front yard every day. I mean, in my experience.
Bikes- This one’s tricky. I love bikes, but I hate bike snobs as much as I hate, oh, I don’t know, racists. It’s a bike, dickweed. You’re not doing anything that cool just because your bike doesn’t have brakes. You know who cares? No one but the other worthless dildos you roll around with. What a thing to get stuck up about…You know who rides bikes? Everyone. You’re not special. Also, I hate that guy who has the sticker on his bike that says something like “I’m saving the earth by not driving a car. Aren’t I sweet?” Nope, you’re a smug asshole that makes me want to buy a Humvee out of spite and convert the engine so it runs on baby seals. But, I’m getting negative again. I love bikes. Riding a bike is the best way to travel, for sure. As long as you live somewhere with bike lanes and no hills. Which I do. So there. So. Many. Periods.
Whatever, I could go on, but I’m hungry. I’m getting lunch. And maybe a High Life.