This is not one of those, I got this friend who has a problem, but I'm really talking about me, kind of a story. Nope.
Our story begins in a public restroom at a large sporting event in the Messoplex. It is crowded. Many males need to urinate. I'm one of them. Waiting my turn, I notice two spaces ahead of me, a Dad and Lad. The Lad, had to be around Ethan's age. Four for those playing along at home. Standing around, like Men do in a public restroom, not wanting to make much eye contact or accidently look at another man's penis, I was busy keeping my eyes high. At first, I kept my self busy reading the shit house walls (which is full of ads these days, which I find interesting, in a, what a nutty world, kind of a way) I quickly became bored with the hair loss and Skoal ads and decided to watch the Dad and Lad. I surmised, it was just the two of them, thus the Dad had to keep the Boy close to him in the line. I've been there before, with one or two of our Boy(s) and know the difficulties that can arise from trying to urinate in a crowded restroom while your Boy(s) try to touch every nasty surface within reach. Or worse, lifting the urinal cake, because they think it actual might be cake. Speaking of my Boy(s) - they were back at home right about now, which was then, and damn if it wasn't bath time and I was getting out of it. I thought about trying to get a high five from the Man in line behind me, but I thought he might think me a bit queer, both figuratively and literally, so I just kept my happiness to myself and returned to the Dad and Lad show. It was about to get interesting since it was the Dad's turn to pee.
Again, it was very crowded in this restroom. Thus, the Dad wanted to keep the Lad close to him as he urinated. Still, I don't think he wanted the Lad so close that he stood between him and the man to his right. The Lad was so close in fact, that he could quite literally see his business, which is what the Lad did - staring hard. The Man being gawked at was oblivious to the Lad. He was busy reading the ad on the shit house wall in front of him. It was for a gentleman's club. The Lad kept on staring hard at this Man, who was a very large african american gentleman. I guess he was large in other ways too, because before long, the Lad looked up at his Dad, who was busy reading the shit house wall ad in front of him (for a Limo service) and said,
"Daddy, his (meaning the other man) pee pee is big!"
At that point, the Lad paused long enough to give his dad time to give the man next to him a very uncomfortable smile, which the man returned. While they were still giving each other their curious smiles, the Lad finished his thought,
"His pee pee is bigger than yours."
Oh, dear Reader...even though I was in that line for Number 1, I damn near did Number 2 in my pants I laughed so hard.
Until I BLOG again...It's the motion of the ocean.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
I'm Dar!
Quintessential Little Warrior cry. He's actually saying my name, or my name to him, Dad, which is more Daaaaaaaaaaa. Never Daddy. Always Da, and often DAAAAAAA! like here. Reminds me of that oh so bad, it was great, 1982 movie, Beastmaster. The main character was Dar. He'd always say, I'm DAR! from the Jung horde...or some such. That's what I often think of when Wy Wy does his Da! thing...nice, huh. Welcome to my world.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
I'm that pot...
It is funny how the mind works. There I sat in the fancy private dining rooom at Spago, on the final night of our honeymoon - which is what the Elder Boy was calling it - thinking about a younger version of a Boy named Stu. The earlier version of me, circa 8th grade at good old Central Junior High School (LONG LIVE THE BIG TREE) was eating an, oh so healthy start to his day, breakfast of M&Ms. Seriously. M&Ms. At some point I decided it would be more fun to throw them at my friends and an epic M&M fight ensued. It was great fun, we had a big audience, everyone was laughing and having a grand time until a teacher on watch, who did not like me, decided to take action and bust me (note me, everyone else was allowed to disperse.) After a lengthy lecture on the dangers of throwing M&Ms this cat decided to segue into a lecture about my funny guy ways. He said, and I'll never forget it (obviously if I'm thinking about this dick while eating at a world famous restaurant,) mainly because of his mock look of fatherly concern, Stu, are your friends, the other kids, laughing with you, or at you? Touche. I still believe now, as then, that this teacher (who again, was a tremendous, I cannot stress this enough, dick) was telling me all of this out of spite, versus any true concern for my well being. Still, it has stuck in my head for the past 25+ years, and has served as a sort of a guidepost for me, but in backasswards way. I don't think about if people are laughing at or with me, I'm just happy for the most part that they are laughing. I do though, think about if I'm laughing at someone, or with them, because, I don't want to be mean spirited. I don't want to be a dick.
So, there I sat, on my honeymoon, thinking about all of that as this Young Couple at our table ordered their fancy meal at Spago. They were part of our group on this trip which was an advertiser reward type of thing to the Left Coast. Most of the people in the group were in the advertising or marketing business and received their trip that way. Others were business owners who got it based on the advertising they'd done. Then we had this one, sweet couple who were on the trip of their lifetime. I'm going to call them Ma and Pa Kettle, if you dig that goofy reference which works nicely with the idiom I kept repeating to myself, like some crazy ass mantra:
(I'm) The pot calling the kettle black.
You see, Dear Reader, even if I was laughing at the Kettles, I'd be laughing at myself as well. I'm the same guy, who was to cheap to buy mini-bar beer at the Hotel, so I brown-bagged a six pack into my fancy room and then converted my little ice bucket thing into a mini-cooler. Imagine me strolling into the Beverly Hills Hotel, after leaving my car at the valet, strolling on the red carpet, past the doorman, and all the staff, with a sack from Riteaid with a six pack of beer in it. I'm pretty sure they don't see that everyday at the Beverly Hills Hotel, since the look one of the employees gave me when I requested ice, which you can't get yourself at the hotel (it was for my impromptu cooler), was, well, the same look the head waiter at Spago was giving Pa Kettle.
I should back up a bit. Unlike most everyone else in our group, Ma Kettle had won her trip at one of her jobs. She had three. One was as a server at a chain of Italian restaurants, and they had a contest and well she won. She decided that her and Pa (who delivered pizzas back home) would take this trip of a lifetime, leave the kids with her Mom and enjoy a five star type vacation in Beverly Hills. These were hard working folk that had admittedly never eaten at a restaurant like Spago, or stayed at a hotel like the Beverly Hills Hotel. They were approacing it all, with a sense of awe, but were still the same folk they were back home. They weren't putting on the ritz.
So there we all sat, at Spago. The head waiter looking down at Pa, with this, look on his face, that said, how in the heck did you get in here? Pa was having trouble ordering from our set menu. We had two choices. A nice line caught bass or steak. Both choices were fancy. I'm talking food as art, five star dining type dishes. The descriptive romance copy on our set menu had words, well, I wasn't sure how to pronounce a few to be honest and not entirely clear on what some of the stuff even was (and I watch a lot of FoodTV.) Pa Kettle across the table, well, he'd consider the Sizzler a fine steakhouse, so he was troubled by all the fancy stuff that would come with the steak.
Pa Kettle: I just want meat.
Waiter: Sir? You want the steak?
Pa Kettle: Yes, but I just want the meat, I don't want any (using his fork like a pointer on the menu) of that fancy stuff. Just meat. Please.
Waiter: You don't want anything except meat?
Pa Kettle: Yes.
Waiter: Very (with a wry, what the f bomb smile on his face) good Sir, for you Madam (Ma Kettle who was up next in his rotation.)
Pa Kettle: Sorry (as he interrupted the Waiter.) Can I get some ketchup?
Waiter: (Looking like someone just vomited on the table.) Sir? Ketchup?
Pa Kettle: Yes. Ketchup. I like ketchup with my meat.
Across the table, I was trying my best to not laugh, out loud, or at least, to loud. I think the head waiter was either thinking this was some sort of hidden camera gag, or perhaps wondering if they even had ketchup in the kitchen. He was dumbstruck. It was classic.
Fast forward, and the servers (not the waiter, he was sort of the in charge guy that directed everything in this fancy private room) brought out our meals, and along with Pa Kettle's meat, came a fancy silver bowl full of ketchup.
Pa Kettle was not happy though. He looked agitated and whispered something to Ma. Words were exchanged and Pa started to get up, I guess to leave, when Ma pulled him back down into his chair by his shirt sleeve.
Ma Kettle: Tell them.
Pa Kettle. No. I don't wanna...I knew this would happe. I should have stayed at the motel (that actually made me giggle, I mean, it is the Beverly Hills Hotel and he is calling it a motel) and had a burger.
Ma Kettle: Sir...Sir (calling over one of the servers.) Can you get the waiter please.
A few moments later, the Waiter warily approached our table.
Waiter: Yes. Is their a problem?
Ma Kettle: (Speaking to Pa.) Tell him.
Pa Kettle: I can't eat this.
Waiter: Sir?
Pa Kettle: I can't eat this (looking dejected) meat.
Waiter: Sir, I don't understand the problem...
Pa Kettle: Look at it (as he spears a piece of the meat, and holds it up to show the waiter.)
Waiter: Sir?
Pa Kettle: (Still holding the meat up, high, and pointing it, more like jabbing it toward the server) This meat ain't cooked.
Sweet mother of all that is good, the look on the waiters face, was priceless. To be fair to the Waiter and Spago, the meat was incredible. It was cooked a nice medium thus pink, and already precut in perfect slices and artfully presented on the plate.
Pa Kettle: Can you, I don't know, take it back, have them cook it some more? It ain't done. I can't eat raw meat.
Waiter: Yes.
Pa Kettle: (Muttering to himself) I just can't eat meat that ain't cooked.
At which point the Waiter summons one of the servers over who quickly takes the meat back to the kitchen, where Wolfgang Puck probably urinated or spit on it. Meanwhile, at our table, Pa Kettle explained to the rest of the table, that he just can't eat meat like that. His tastes are much simpler, he tells us. In fact, he continued, he had one of the best seafood meals he'd ever ate that very day, at the Santa Monica Pier. Something he'd been afraid to eat before, because it was to exotic for his tastes. But, it was a big vacation so he had went for it, and went on to tell the entire table that he ate fried calamari that very day. We all congratulated Pa for trying something new, which seemed to make him happy. Energized, and perhaps feeling like a foodie, he went on to tell us that the Bubba Gump Shrimp restaurant at the Santa Monica Pier had the best popcorn shrimp Pa had ever ate.
At that point, the Waiter was back with Pa's charred steak. It looked like coal. The Waiter, took a few steps back, and curiously watached and waited as Pa looked it over, before stabbing a piece and dipping it directly into the ketchup serving dish (I guess he assumed we all didn't want ketchup.)
Pa Kettle: (To the Waiter, mouth full of food, and chewing.) Thank You. This is some good meat.
Waiter: Very good sir, enjoy your meal.
Until I Blog again...calling the kettle black.
So, there I sat, on my honeymoon, thinking about all of that as this Young Couple at our table ordered their fancy meal at Spago. They were part of our group on this trip which was an advertiser reward type of thing to the Left Coast. Most of the people in the group were in the advertising or marketing business and received their trip that way. Others were business owners who got it based on the advertising they'd done. Then we had this one, sweet couple who were on the trip of their lifetime. I'm going to call them Ma and Pa Kettle, if you dig that goofy reference which works nicely with the idiom I kept repeating to myself, like some crazy ass mantra:
(I'm) The pot calling the kettle black.
You see, Dear Reader, even if I was laughing at the Kettles, I'd be laughing at myself as well. I'm the same guy, who was to cheap to buy mini-bar beer at the Hotel, so I brown-bagged a six pack into my fancy room and then converted my little ice bucket thing into a mini-cooler. Imagine me strolling into the Beverly Hills Hotel, after leaving my car at the valet, strolling on the red carpet, past the doorman, and all the staff, with a sack from Riteaid with a six pack of beer in it. I'm pretty sure they don't see that everyday at the Beverly Hills Hotel, since the look one of the employees gave me when I requested ice, which you can't get yourself at the hotel (it was for my impromptu cooler), was, well, the same look the head waiter at Spago was giving Pa Kettle.
I should back up a bit. Unlike most everyone else in our group, Ma Kettle had won her trip at one of her jobs. She had three. One was as a server at a chain of Italian restaurants, and they had a contest and well she won. She decided that her and Pa (who delivered pizzas back home) would take this trip of a lifetime, leave the kids with her Mom and enjoy a five star type vacation in Beverly Hills. These were hard working folk that had admittedly never eaten at a restaurant like Spago, or stayed at a hotel like the Beverly Hills Hotel. They were approacing it all, with a sense of awe, but were still the same folk they were back home. They weren't putting on the ritz.
So there we all sat, at Spago. The head waiter looking down at Pa, with this, look on his face, that said, how in the heck did you get in here? Pa was having trouble ordering from our set menu. We had two choices. A nice line caught bass or steak. Both choices were fancy. I'm talking food as art, five star dining type dishes. The descriptive romance copy on our set menu had words, well, I wasn't sure how to pronounce a few to be honest and not entirely clear on what some of the stuff even was (and I watch a lot of FoodTV.) Pa Kettle across the table, well, he'd consider the Sizzler a fine steakhouse, so he was troubled by all the fancy stuff that would come with the steak.
Pa Kettle: I just want meat.
Waiter: Sir? You want the steak?
Pa Kettle: Yes, but I just want the meat, I don't want any (using his fork like a pointer on the menu) of that fancy stuff. Just meat. Please.
Waiter: You don't want anything except meat?
Pa Kettle: Yes.
Waiter: Very (with a wry, what the f bomb smile on his face) good Sir, for you Madam (Ma Kettle who was up next in his rotation.)
Pa Kettle: Sorry (as he interrupted the Waiter.) Can I get some ketchup?
Waiter: (Looking like someone just vomited on the table.) Sir? Ketchup?
Pa Kettle: Yes. Ketchup. I like ketchup with my meat.
Across the table, I was trying my best to not laugh, out loud, or at least, to loud. I think the head waiter was either thinking this was some sort of hidden camera gag, or perhaps wondering if they even had ketchup in the kitchen. He was dumbstruck. It was classic.
Fast forward, and the servers (not the waiter, he was sort of the in charge guy that directed everything in this fancy private room) brought out our meals, and along with Pa Kettle's meat, came a fancy silver bowl full of ketchup.
Pa Kettle was not happy though. He looked agitated and whispered something to Ma. Words were exchanged and Pa started to get up, I guess to leave, when Ma pulled him back down into his chair by his shirt sleeve.
Ma Kettle: Tell them.
Pa Kettle. No. I don't wanna...I knew this would happe. I should have stayed at the motel (that actually made me giggle, I mean, it is the Beverly Hills Hotel and he is calling it a motel) and had a burger.
Ma Kettle: Sir...Sir (calling over one of the servers.) Can you get the waiter please.
A few moments later, the Waiter warily approached our table.
Waiter: Yes. Is their a problem?
Ma Kettle: (Speaking to Pa.) Tell him.
Pa Kettle: I can't eat this.
Waiter: Sir?
Pa Kettle: I can't eat this (looking dejected) meat.
Waiter: Sir, I don't understand the problem...
Pa Kettle: Look at it (as he spears a piece of the meat, and holds it up to show the waiter.)
Waiter: Sir?
Pa Kettle: (Still holding the meat up, high, and pointing it, more like jabbing it toward the server) This meat ain't cooked.
Sweet mother of all that is good, the look on the waiters face, was priceless. To be fair to the Waiter and Spago, the meat was incredible. It was cooked a nice medium thus pink, and already precut in perfect slices and artfully presented on the plate.
Pa Kettle: Can you, I don't know, take it back, have them cook it some more? It ain't done. I can't eat raw meat.
Waiter: Yes.
Pa Kettle: (Muttering to himself) I just can't eat meat that ain't cooked.
At which point the Waiter summons one of the servers over who quickly takes the meat back to the kitchen, where Wolfgang Puck probably urinated or spit on it. Meanwhile, at our table, Pa Kettle explained to the rest of the table, that he just can't eat meat like that. His tastes are much simpler, he tells us. In fact, he continued, he had one of the best seafood meals he'd ever ate that very day, at the Santa Monica Pier. Something he'd been afraid to eat before, because it was to exotic for his tastes. But, it was a big vacation so he had went for it, and went on to tell the entire table that he ate fried calamari that very day. We all congratulated Pa for trying something new, which seemed to make him happy. Energized, and perhaps feeling like a foodie, he went on to tell us that the Bubba Gump Shrimp restaurant at the Santa Monica Pier had the best popcorn shrimp Pa had ever ate.
At that point, the Waiter was back with Pa's charred steak. It looked like coal. The Waiter, took a few steps back, and curiously watached and waited as Pa looked it over, before stabbing a piece and dipping it directly into the ketchup serving dish (I guess he assumed we all didn't want ketchup.)
Pa Kettle: (To the Waiter, mouth full of food, and chewing.) Thank You. This is some good meat.
Waiter: Very good sir, enjoy your meal.
Until I Blog again...calling the kettle black.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Nobody said it was easy
I feel like Bill Cosby on this here BLOG entry, and by that I'm not talking about the cool Dad he played on The Cosby Show. Nope. I suck more than that. I'm talking the Bill Cosby who hosted that goofy program, Kids say the Darndest Things. You see, Dear Reader, last night, the Elder Boy attempted to drown the Younger Boy in the bathtub (I don't think he was actually trying to drown him, but I didn't see it happen.)
My Lovely Bride did though and she freaked out, hard. She freaked out hard, because a few moments before it happened, she had not been watching the Boy(s), but was instead looking at a magazine. I wish it would have been Parents (magazine), just for the irony, but, I think it was actually the latest Entertainment Weekly. At any rate, she freaked out and unleashed on the Elder Boy, who promptly freaked out, and started crying, hard.
I tell you all of that, for this...the Boy was crying so hard, I could see way down into his throat, and well, it looked funky. Red. Little white crap. Sort of what I imagined strep throat would look like. Being the germ fearing, hypochondriac that I am, I quickly put 2+2 together and figured the Elder Boy was sick. My Lovely Bride had complained about him being extra whiny all day. The Younger Boy's voice had been hoarse all evening. Nevermind the fact that the Little Warrior, aside from being hoarse was the picture of health. Happy, playing full tilt boogie. The Elder Boy too, aside from being whiny had been running amok in the backyard all evening. I'm an idiot though. So I soldiered on with my the Boy(s) are sick theory.
"Boy," I said. " Does your throat hurt?"
Still upset about getting in trouble for attempting to dunk his brother in the tub, he gave me a sad, pitiful look, and said, "My throat hurts..." followed by more crying and whining.
Ok then. Not all that sure what to do with this info, I decided to inform My Lovely Bride, who knows that I'm both an idiot and a hypochondriac, that the Boy might have been whiny all day because he was sick. She didn't believe me, or him, but still, being a Mom, and a good wife, went and got an industrial sized flashlight and told the Boy to open wide so she could inspect. Nothing. All looked fine to her.
Still, the Elder Boy continued to whine a lot, for the rest of the evening, and then protested violently when it was time to go read books. By this point, I was tired of the whining and wanted to do nothing more than go sit in my Throne of Impotence and watch Lost on TIVO. So, I said, in my attempt to cut to the chase.
"Boy, two books, pick them out or I will."
Whining hard, "But Daddy, I don't want to go to sleep." Followed by more whining and complaining.
"Son. Two books and I'm done. If you don't get in bed and let me read, you can go to bed right now with NO books."
"But...Daddy..." I could see his mental wheels spinning and then, the light bulb went off over his head, "MY throat really hurts." Which he followed with som whimpering and acting to show me just how bad it did hurt. That's when my light bulb flickered for a brief second, and I decided to try some reverse psychology.
"Really, Son. Well I guess you really do need your rest, we should skip books and let you get right to sleep so you can get to feeling bett...." He cut me off at the pass.
"NO. Two books. Let's read..." And he named his two books and we started reading the first one. About half way into said book, he said,
"Daddy?"
"Yes Son."
"What's a throat."
Until I BLOG again...No one ever said it would be so hard.
My Lovely Bride did though and she freaked out, hard. She freaked out hard, because a few moments before it happened, she had not been watching the Boy(s), but was instead looking at a magazine. I wish it would have been Parents (magazine), just for the irony, but, I think it was actually the latest Entertainment Weekly. At any rate, she freaked out and unleashed on the Elder Boy, who promptly freaked out, and started crying, hard.
I tell you all of that, for this...the Boy was crying so hard, I could see way down into his throat, and well, it looked funky. Red. Little white crap. Sort of what I imagined strep throat would look like. Being the germ fearing, hypochondriac that I am, I quickly put 2+2 together and figured the Elder Boy was sick. My Lovely Bride had complained about him being extra whiny all day. The Younger Boy's voice had been hoarse all evening. Nevermind the fact that the Little Warrior, aside from being hoarse was the picture of health. Happy, playing full tilt boogie. The Elder Boy too, aside from being whiny had been running amok in the backyard all evening. I'm an idiot though. So I soldiered on with my the Boy(s) are sick theory.
"Boy," I said. " Does your throat hurt?"
Still upset about getting in trouble for attempting to dunk his brother in the tub, he gave me a sad, pitiful look, and said, "My throat hurts..." followed by more crying and whining.
Ok then. Not all that sure what to do with this info, I decided to inform My Lovely Bride, who knows that I'm both an idiot and a hypochondriac, that the Boy might have been whiny all day because he was sick. She didn't believe me, or him, but still, being a Mom, and a good wife, went and got an industrial sized flashlight and told the Boy to open wide so she could inspect. Nothing. All looked fine to her.
Still, the Elder Boy continued to whine a lot, for the rest of the evening, and then protested violently when it was time to go read books. By this point, I was tired of the whining and wanted to do nothing more than go sit in my Throne of Impotence and watch Lost on TIVO. So, I said, in my attempt to cut to the chase.
"Boy, two books, pick them out or I will."
Whining hard, "But Daddy, I don't want to go to sleep." Followed by more whining and complaining.
"Son. Two books and I'm done. If you don't get in bed and let me read, you can go to bed right now with NO books."
"But...Daddy..." I could see his mental wheels spinning and then, the light bulb went off over his head, "MY throat really hurts." Which he followed with som whimpering and acting to show me just how bad it did hurt. That's when my light bulb flickered for a brief second, and I decided to try some reverse psychology.
"Really, Son. Well I guess you really do need your rest, we should skip books and let you get right to sleep so you can get to feeling bett...." He cut me off at the pass.
"NO. Two books. Let's read..." And he named his two books and we started reading the first one. About half way into said book, he said,
"Daddy?"
"Yes Son."
"What's a throat."
Until I BLOG again...No one ever said it would be so hard.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Pain don't hurt
So, Stu, have you seen anyone famous? Any celebrities. Movie stars? Aren't they all over the place in El Lay? Well, not really. I've seen more homeless people than stars. Oh, and honking. Everyone here honks their car horn while driving. In Texas, you pretty much honk as a last resort, oh shit, get out of my way, way. Not here. People honk all the time. It is strange. But I digress, back to the star sightings.
On Friday night, while leaving this place and waiting in line for the valet, I walked right in front of Kelley Lynch. Sure, she is no Reese Witherspoon (who I saw on Saturday driving to Santa Monica, she was in her SUV at a traffic light on Sunset in Brentwood,) but Kelley was right there in front of me. I could have touched her. Of couse I didn't, as I don't want to be some creepy guy. In fact, I didn't even say anything, I didn't want to bug her. Instead I just stared at the back of her head, and thought about, what I think is her finest performance in this classic.
Other star sightings. I think, not 100% sure that I saw Chris O'Donnell on Saturday night. I've also been told that Whoopi Goldberg and Tom Selleck are both staying at the hotel right now. I haven't seen them though.
EDIT: Just a few minutes after posting this here BLOG, we did in fact see (we actually ate a few counter stools down from her) Whoopi Goldberg at the Fountain Coffee Room.
Until I BLOG again...Picture this.
On Friday night, while leaving this place and waiting in line for the valet, I walked right in front of Kelley Lynch. Sure, she is no Reese Witherspoon (who I saw on Saturday driving to Santa Monica, she was in her SUV at a traffic light on Sunset in Brentwood,) but Kelley was right there in front of me. I could have touched her. Of couse I didn't, as I don't want to be some creepy guy. In fact, I didn't even say anything, I didn't want to bug her. Instead I just stared at the back of her head, and thought about, what I think is her finest performance in this classic.
Other star sightings. I think, not 100% sure that I saw Chris O'Donnell on Saturday night. I've also been told that Whoopi Goldberg and Tom Selleck are both staying at the hotel right now. I haven't seen them though.
EDIT: Just a few minutes after posting this here BLOG, we did in fact see (we actually ate a few counter stools down from her) Whoopi Goldberg at the Fountain Coffee Room.
Until I BLOG again...Picture this.
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