it's been a zimdoggian summer

(In my best Ali G,) Whuz-bin-gwan! Aight, check it. I iz eah in Tacoma, Washin'ton wiff mah main man, G-Riff, and as always, me Em'ly who jus' luvs bonin'.

Ehh. Impressions always work better in person. I've just had Ali G on the brain since seeing Bruno in Indiana. That was uncomfortable. At many times, I was the only one to be heard laughing in the theater. Others may have been, but homosexuality isn't really one of those things the average person in the Heartland feels like discussing or recognizing. My only hope was that I didn't get any sodas dumped on me. Oh, and my favorite part was the elderly couple sitting a few rows behind. As soon as the full-screen penis shot came up, I heard him say, "That's interesting," and then he and his wife didn't stick around for the rest. Quite honestly, I'm surprised they made it through the hyper-exaggerated parody of gay sex in the beginning.

So, no blog posts in a good while. It just hasn't been that sort of summer. In some way though, I think it has been advantageous for me and Emily to learn the parenting life while on the road for three months straight. And l'il G-Riff's got a story to tell people when he gets older. In the first seven months of his life, he has been in six time zones and 21 states.

Let's see. What else happened this summer? In bulleted form:

- I realized Frank Zappa is the weirdest person to have ever lived. It doesn't matter how many times I listen to his music. I still marvel at the amount of raw creativity that moved through the man in his life. I also admire his ability to not give a fuck about all the unimportant crap that forms the epicenter of man-made existence.

- In one of those rare and exciting lucky moments, I tuned in for the last five minutes (hockey minutes) of the Stanley Cup's Game 7. As the TV picture warmed up, it looked like the Penguins had the season all sealed up. But just as I started scheming insults for B. Doozan (a planetarium colleague and fan of all-teams-Detroit), a Red Wings' defensiveman killed a one-timer to bring Detroit within one goal of tying it up. From there on out, Detroit applied massive pressure, blasting shots on net, with a few near goals, and just generally controlling the puck for those final minutes. The tense ending went right down to the last fraction of a second when Pittsburgh's goalie literally threw his chest in front of a flying puck that would've send Game 7 to overtime. I don't care who your hockey team is, or if you even like hockey. The Penguins earned the right to hold the Cup this year. It was pretty much the best Stanley Cup Game 7 ever.

- To make the long trek west with Griffin, Murphy, and our stuff, Em and I decided to sell the Corolla so we could start payments on a more family-sized roller. Once upon a time, I wondered about SUV drivers. Now I am one. Oh, the things parents do for their children. But don't think us too noble. It's a 2006 Honda Pilot EX-L, which I'm pretty sure stands for EXtra-Luxury. It's got heated leather seats et plurissimae amenitae. Mostly, I'm digging the moon roof and 6-disc changer.

- Life as a parent has made me much more protective. I used to consider myself a pacifist. Now I am coming to consider myself prepared. I now think about what I really need to keep Griffin safe at all times. Thus my collection of tools and weapons has begun. I found the Gerber Gator Axe and Knife combo. The knife slides up into the handle of the hatchet, where it is held in place by a magnet. It's a great camping/survival tool, but mostly I bought it for the size and style of the knife, for which I have yet to rig up a homemade sheath so I can carry it for protection. I am also considering getting a concealed weapons permit and a small revolver. I know the chances of being in the wrong place at the wrong time are slim, but I simply refuse to die (or let Griffin die) a senseless death because some pathetic psycho decides to shoot up a building full of strangers. It seems a strange paradox, especially given the trite anti-gun propaganda that spotlights guns instead of irresponsible gun owners, but I've never felt more responsible and more capable of owning a gun than now that I'm a parent. Griffin's safety is my number one priority, and there's nothing in the world that can make me act so stupid as to treat a gun with anything but respect. That's the reason I want to carry one... because there are too many irresponsible people who already do. And after living in Florida (where five years of bad luck rained down on me like shit from the sky), I now wonder if maybe I'm just destined to be in the wrong places at the wrong times, encountering the wrong people. One can hope to control one's destiny, but to be certain of destiny is to be a cocksure fool. I'm choosing instead to be prepared.

- And probably the most amazing thing to happen all summer is getting to Tacoma. We're in one place... for at least a year! We're not unpacked yet, but we're in an apartment and all our stuff is out of the storage unit. I'll say more once it's all fixed up like it's going to be for everyday life, but we were lucky to have found this place. It's simple and comfortable, with everything we need nearby. Topping the list of awesome finds is a grocery store called Trader Joe's. They have delicious foods at affordable prices (like Whole Foods), and there's one right around the frickin' corner. I think we'll be satisfied here, Murphy included. There are plenty of cats and other animals out back for him to chase and bark at, etc.

zimdog's quote of the fortnight

(from the underside of a Wegman's bottle cap):

The bad news:
there is no key
to the universe.
The good news:
it was never locked.

Swami
Beyondananda

Talking like a man with a paper ass...

My dad and I were standing by the grill earlier talking about health care reform. Pretty standard. I'm no expert, but I do know that the arguments being made against government health care are crap arguments. It's no more socialist than the police force any one of us can benefit from. And there would be no increase in taxes. Or rather, there would be, but gone would be the health care premiums and deductibles making health care CEOs filthy rich. Personally, I think taxes would work out cheaper, and we'd be a healthier nation. Maybe I'm looking at it wrong though.

But let's get back to those crap arguments being made. The bastardization of information in the media is a problem of obese proportions, and some Americans are ready to believe whatever they hear from the idiot with the loudest microphone, which is why I was surprised when my dad told me some of the New Republicans are really getting pissed about the sorts of propaganda being spouted at high volume by loudmouths like Rush Limbaugh and Newt Gingrich. This is refreshing news for freedom of speech. Intelligence might just get its voice yet.

Now the funny part. Our discussion reminded my dad of a euphemism his father often used for describing unintelligent, crap arguments. He described the irresponsible speaker as “talking like a man with a paper ass.” I admit I can't quite figure out what this phrase means, but I like it, and somehow it makes sense inside my head. I hope to keep this phrase handy for regular use. But still I'm curious. Any ideas why it works?

Silly in religion

Driving yesterday, I saw a license plate that read "2CJESUS." My first reaction was: Whoopie! Another asshole Christian trying to ram salvation through my head.

But then the underlying humor hit me. That driver was right then and there going to see Jesus. I had a fair chuckle, and realized how much more I like Christians when they're making jokes instead of playing missionary. This in turn found loose connections with recurring thoughts of late, one of which is the mild sadness I feel from knowing that juvenile humor generally meets disdain. It's like some people have forgotten how to have an innocent laugh. I know my own world is a much happier place when I spend more of it enjoying humor at any level.

Recently, Griffin learned to blow raspberries with his lips... semi-funny in and of itself. Then one night, he made that sound almost immediately after releasing a real fart. I was so proud of my son's very first fart joke. Of course cynic that I am, soon came the thoughts regarding the lack of respect that fart jokes get any more. It's like you're an outcast for enjoying bodily humor (just one of the many arguments supporting ecofeminism's claim that the master consciousness has trained humans to consider the natural world inferior).

Well, I don't give a flying fish. The snobs of the world can kiss my ass, which is that funny-shaped set of lumps halfway down the backside of my body. My body, by the way, is my physical connection to the natural world; nowadays, some consider it "inferior" to the human mind and soul. In my religion, the body, mind, & soul deserve equal attention.

Having said everything I have written thus far, I declare that from this day forth, no human shall rightfully trespass upon my natural right to laugh about turds and their hilarious variety of shapes and exit sounds. I shall not find embarrassment in shifting my rational thought process into simpleton gear for an episode of South Park. (I recently saw the queef episode and just about choked on my own laughter.) Nor shall my soul suffer the narrow moralizing eye of the prideful elites who can't stand being anchored to reality by a crude vehicle that expels waste. Heaven forbid humans learn the powerful energy of recycling!

Em's bathtime tune

(sung to the tune of Funiculi Funicula while dipping G-riff's backside in and out of the water)

Dunk-dunk-dunk-dunk
Dunk, dunk-a-roo
Dunk-dunk-dunk-dunk
I dunk-a you
Dunk-a-you, dunk-a-you, dunk-a-rooooo
I dunk-a-you, dunk-a-roo
Dunk-a-doo

(repeat as desired)

Coda (sung as random, festive silliness):
Dunk-a-doodle! Dunk-a-doodle! Dunk-a-doodle-doodle-doo!

The song came about as a more popular spin-off of Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy on the bed.

Mother's Day 2009

Emily, her folks, Griffin, and I spent Emily's first Mother's Day at Pike Place Market in Seattle.




We tasted cheeses n' jellies, ate a damn delicious lunch, saw the fish being thrown, etc.


from left: zimdog (wearing his new favorite hat), Em the Mom, li'l Grif, Mimi, Gramps

Go west, young man. Go west.

On April 28, Emily and I left the Florida life we've been living since August 2003. The good from the last 5.5 years will stick with me, while the bad became history as soon as I left the curb.

The trip out west took nine days. The overall movements were complicated, but to cut to the chase, I met up with Griffin, Emily, and her parents in St. Louis on May 2nd. (For those musical fans out there, of course I made the "Meet me in St. Louie, Louie" joke at least once before my flight). From there, we made Tacoma in six days of driving. Not bad, considering we did it all with a 4-month old. (Griffin was a real champ, by the way.)

We're now holed up in a Tacoma hotel room, our stuff in storage and the U-Haul trailer safely returned. Already, this place promises more sanity for the zimdog. If nothing else, I'll be living under cooler weather, a fact that leaves me physically and mentally pretty cool.

If you've never been out West, I recommend driving it... if you have the time. Those Florida skies may look big, but they ain't shit compared to big mountains topped by big skies. Here's a visual sample of what one encounters when forging new frontiers. Pioneers, Ho!

Father & Son Reunited in MISSOURI



Somewhere in IOWA


SOUTH DAKOTA







WYOMING






MONTANA








IDAHO



WASHINGTON








Tacoma at last! (>3800 miles traveled)


This one says it all...


It feels good to be still, for a few.