Ferndale Dad

Name:
Location: Ferndale, Michigan, United States

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Jarge 'n Clar Be Damned

Worst. Newfie. Joke. Ever. Perhaps worse than the booklet currently on the tank of the toilet i nthe basement of mammo's house. Comparative scans of vintage Cracked vs. Jarge 'n' Clar Newf cartoon comics to come soon. Awwwww, yeah.
Paul Moth eat your heart oot.

Newfie in Space

There was a newfie and an irishman and a french man that volunteered to go up in a space ship for 10 years. NASA asked each one what they would like a 10 year supply of and the Irishman replied "I would love to have a 10 year supply of all the best whiskey!" and then the french man replied "I would love to have a 10 year supply of all the best food in the world!" and then the newfie replied "Smokes! I gotta have my smokes!" and so then they packed them up and sent them off and then 10 years later they retured.
They asked each of them how they liked their things. The Irshman replied "Oh, I was drunk every second night!" and the French man replied "Oh, I ate like a little pig!" and then the Newfie replied "Uh, gotta light?"

Me 'n' Cal


You know. It's about damn time that I posted a photo of me new nephew Cal. I mean, I have the interweb at me command and me love coookies! huhmwumwumwumwumwumwum! sorry. me got distracted.
Here's me picture of MystaKal Handyside, aka the other Chandy. We'll have words... once he can talk, that is.
The Ferndale Dad Becomes the Oak Park Uncle. Details at 11.

Playground Zen 2: Electric Bugaboo

"With all apologies to Bill Keane's noble exercise in domesticity, the Family Circus, and the wit and wisdom of Little Jeffie."

N
Age: 4
Location: Standing on a decorative dock piling on the shores of Higgins Lake, preparing to jump.

To Wit:
"You have to open your mouth when you're jumping you know."
"Why?"
"So you can taste the flying."

Front Porch Logic In Action!

Status: "The Summer cold Came Blowin' In Across Lake Michigan and Landed in My Sinus Cavity With a Brief Layover at the Foot of My Sleeping Bag "
Current Location: Among the Hostas.

My neighbor Mike came up with the following mind-boggler suitable for the good folks at the SAT, worth 1200 points and a job at the college radio station of your institution of choice:
Bud Abbott is to Mark E. Smith
as Lou Costello is to David Thomas (aka Krokus Behemoth)

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Media Decompression Pt. 1

Influence: Sleep Deprivation
Victories: 2 positive client meetings and an alternator repair on the LeSabre covered under warranty.
Losses: Minimal. Professionally casual trap talker on the 455 SMART Bus down Woodward.
Mood If I Were A MASH Character: Radar with Klinger Rising

It has been widely reported -- at least among the five people who are directly effected -- that I have left behind the Radio Fever radio program. I would like it to be clear that this had nothing to do with a truly entertaining, utterly competent rock 'n' roll band like Porchsleeper having to enter (and win) a shady "demo contest" to get our attention. Nor did it have anything to do with constantly begging on the air for some crappy/some awesome bands from around the Greater Metro Detroit Region and General Area in Which Our Navel Lint Picking Music Culture Operates for records every week on the air. Nah.
I just like me some camping and Dairy Queen. Some reading homework and woodworking projects. Well, truly, the woodworking thing is an "as necessary" deal as the last time I used a jigsaw I broke like five blades and cut my finger -- hold on... 1,2,3,4...four times. Shit. I'll get better.
I hear yoga makes you use power tools better.
Anyhoo. I'm madly planning my return to the turntables at the upcoming block party. See, the cops let us shut the street down, put up tents on our block, set up a moonwalk and drink beer till a good and indecent hour. Yes, yes. I know your question before you ask it wonky: Euchre will be played.
But while the neighbors are busy parttaking in that great opiate of the masses, I'll be slipping wedges of Brainiac, Gordon Lightfoot and the sublime uniting theory of the Wu-Tang's 36 Chambers. No wonder my neighbors drink so much Captain Morgan's. (Well, that or they think they're pirates.
(Come to think of it, that might be the version that obeys Occam's Razor here. My neighbors are pirates. That explains alot. More about that later...)

Saturday, July 16, 2005

TGI Something Something

How does that go again?
Anyhoo, Friday. Friday evening. Here's perfection:
- Cold beer
- Slip 'n' slide
- Cucumber Soup - dill, avocado, garlic, yogurt -- I say god damn!
- An iPod knockoff playing Hasil Adkins and the Soledad Brothers through a road-tested boombox.
- the best damned cucumber soup ever!
- homemmade ice cream sandwiches with coffee ice cream
- 15 or so swell people, lovely weirdos and their offspring
- 84 degrees Farenheit
- Sangria
- Bike riding
- "The Twitch" con Los Flintstones
- Sheepish looks on the faces of cigarette quitters as they light up
- Foxy mamas and non-mamas in Babushkas and hair in buns
- Did I mention sangria? I say dod Gamn!
- "The sand stays in the sandbox"
- Rapidly evaporating social discomfort -- isn't there a little purple pill for that or something? Sangria works, too.
- The new bike lanes on Pinecrest. What's the signal for "left" again? Who took my miner's helmet?

Friday, July 15, 2005

Playground Zen

According to "A", 4, from the 'Dale: "You know where dreams come from? Nightmares. They come from nightmares. Nightmares don't come from dreams, though. And my power comes from here [gestures toward heart]. I have four arms that come from here."

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Cheap Ass=Pain in the Ass

Status: Slogging along
Kids: Reluctantly sleeping
Drinks: Three red wines (Penfold's Retreat 2004, Cabernet Sauvignon)

With all apologies to The Normal, TVOD, plunging the aerial under my skin and letting the transmossion run through my veins 'n' such. The decision to live a cable-free existence is usually offset by the ability to access the interweb via what people call your "wireless access" process. It's so fancy I don't even wanna know. There's an antenna involved. Which is painful, because there's also a set of rabbit ears on toppa the TeeVee, but instead of the panoply of options most Americans enjoy, I've got but a handful.
The sadistic bastards that program newtork and syndicated television have created an entertainment environment where my options at this point in the evening are as follows: Dharma & Greg ('member that 'un? Elfman oughta be hitting OT VII any monute now, right?); some crap-ass BBC "dramedy" featuring Herb Fucking Alpert's "Taste of Honey" as it's theme and with the dude from "The Office" (not playing the Tim, so therefore totally worthless to all) and Ted Koppel's Nightline.
It doesn't take a bored suburban dad staying up late to quaff a couple glasses of wine to tell yo uthat this is cultural desperation. It doesn't help that the Public Broadcasting System is honoring Septugenarian OCD somnabulist Bob Newhart with some sort of American Masters show featruing Tim Conway doing "Dorf" "on Golf." Bitches. All of 'em. What's a Tim Con Weigh? Kick me now. They wonder why I don't give them my hard-earned filthy corporate advertising copywriting lucre? They wonder why I'm spending my spare chump change on Camel Lights and Java (the) Hutt and xhedos bevvies?! I have two words for you WTVS: Fred and Kelly. Take these mid-life-crisis zombie twats off my screen and the check will be in the mail.
Anyhoo, here's the para-quote from Nightline this evening: "We're not going to determine whether global warming is a threat, or that it even exists, tonite. But we are going to show you multiple sets of repeating footage of frogs, butterflies, turtles and polar bears while saying things like 'political football' and 'according to'..."
Then they spend an hour talking about how animals and plants are dying due to, you guessed it, global warming. How about this as an intro, beyotches: According to authorities on the subject of our program, global warming is real and we're screwed. Oh, yeah, not just us, but you know those little kids you see running around the playground and waiting in line at the DQ on Nine Mile? They're fucked. According to our sources.
----------------------------------
On a related note, this blog's gonna get more better and less whatever...My wife's at a Cowboy Junkie's show right now, so I'm understandably distracted. You understand...


Tomorrow: Playground Zen & This is the Day (with all apologies to Matt Johnson)

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Welcome to the Dad Zone

In the next week or so, I'll be opining regularly about all things related to passing as a recovering "rock 'n' roll dork" and regaling readers with the tales of one man and his Birkenstock sandals -- you know, the one pulling the wagon with the 2.4 children in tow, headed toward Geary Park, secretly excited that they have one of those zip line thingies on the playscape, singing They Might Be Giants "Here Come the ABCs" songs to himself. Yeah, that guy.
Oh, and much more, I'm sure...