Somewhere Around Barstow

Saturday morning and the wife has abducted our child and run off to Baltimore. What shall I do with my freedom? First up, the book store. Apparently, the website I used to write for All Music released a book a few years back and my reviews are part of the collection. Being an avid narcissist I roll into Borders like I'm a regular goddamn Hunter S. Thompson. Of course the book isn't in stock so I roll out of the music section like the regular goddamn douche that I am.

I can never find shit in bookstores, maybe it's related to growing up on the Dewey Decimal system, or the fact that there are 9000 sub categories of genres these days. I end up wandering around aimlessly like an anorexic tween at an all you can eat buffet.

I read the blog Dad Gone Mad pretty regularly and he just wrote a book, so I figure I'll check it out. Of course I can't find it and I end up asking the overly well-read condescending sales clerk to help me. "Sir you are looking in Self Help and that book is in Biography & Memoires which is over next to Mind, Body and Spirit." My mouth said "oh cool thanks", but my eyes said, "well fuck me, how could I have ever been so stupid, thank you for showing me the error of my ways fucktard". Maybe the Dewey Decimal system wasn't so bad after all.

I finally find the book and meander over to the cash register, which is another nightmare of epic proportions. There is one overweight scholarly guy working and he is Mr. Chatty Kathy. "Ma'am this book is a great choice, but you should really read his early work when he was a bartender in a small Ethiopian village. His prose is just superb for a boy who was raised on just 19 cents a day." Dude c'mon, you have a line going here that rivals Hands Across America and you're chatting up this suburban house frau like you're long lost pen pals. I've played entire games of Monopoly that have taken less time than getting out of this store. My freedom is slipping away, and all I can do is stand here and watch your sweaty upper lip move up and down.

Finally, I get up to the counter make absolutely no eye contact and conduct my transaction with as little engagement as possible. I head out to the car excited to have yet another book that will end up sitting on my coffee table for months completely unread.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to hit up Chipotle and spend some quality time watching football sans pants.

There's a Football in the Air

My Uncle works for the Pittsburgh Steelers, so being one of his favorite nephews I get some sweet benefits out of the relationship. One of which, is occasionally getting to work in the locker room. For the pre-season game against the Redskins at FedEx field, I was assigned the job of ball boy.

We got to the stadium around 3:00 and made sure that the locker room was all set for the players when they started arriving around 4:30. The players filed in, started getting dressed, and it was immediately apparent who were the veterans and who were the guys trying to make the team. The rookie guys had that deer in the headlights look in their eyes. You could tell they needed something, but weren’t really sure who to ask for what. After hanging with the team for an hour or so I had my meeting with the officials.

The Redskins ball boys were all veterans who had been doing it since Theismann and Riggins were playing. This was actually a good thing, because there is a whole system to getting balls in and out of the game that I was completely unaware of. We all huddled up outside of the official’s locker room and the side judge explained the deal to all of us. If the ball goes out here, you get me the ball here. Make sure you have enough Steelers balls at all times. You have to toss the balls in underhand, no overhand throws. On long passes you have to sprint down the sideline to make sure I have a ball for the next play. Holy shit, guys! I expected to hang out with Jeff Reed as kicked into a net on the sidelines all game, and suddenly I have all of this responsibility.

I headed out to the Steelers sideline for the start of the game and the Redskins guy looks at me and says “Do you have the balls?” Panic! All of the introductions are going on, the crowd is going nuts and I’m running through the pyrotechnics and stiff-arming cheerleaders trying to get back to the locker room to grab the game balls. I finally get back to the field and the main Redskins ball boy who has been doing this for 20 years looks at me and says have you been practicing your throws. Practicing my throws? I was informed about the ball boy thing two hours ago! He looks at me and shakes his head like he just found out the hooker in the front seat next to him had TMJ.

The game starts and when the Skins have the ball I get to chill, which is nice. I get to watch the game, see how the coaches work and check out the cheerleaders. When the Steelers have the ball I need to stand about 12 yards from scrimmage and wait to see which side of the field the play ends up on. It’s raining so I’m trying to keep the three balls I’m holding dry, I need to stay out of the way of the coaches and cameramen all while not getting killed by the players who are two feet away from me. Head on a swivel my friend, head on a swivel.

Because of an ankle injury Big Ben isn’t playing, but a few minutes into the first quarter he comes down the sidelines and asks to see the Steelers balls. He says that Batch said they were a little flat. I toss him a couple and he pushes in a good sized dent. When I got the balls back I tested them and I couldn’t push the ball in at all, and I click a mouse all day long, so you know my fingers are tough.

By the end of the first half I start getting into a rhythm, but the amount of concentration involved took some of the fun out of being on the sidelines for the game. Right before the first half was over, Jeff Reed is about to kick a field goal and Troy Polamalu leans over to me and asks how long the kick was. I say 54 yards like he and I have been poker buddies for years. He smiles and says “It’s good”. That’s a drawback to working the locker room and sidelines, you don’t get to be a super fan. You have to act like the guys you’d sacrifice your first born child to watch play every Sunday are just average dudes. Kind of hard to do when they are in the locker room talking about how “these are my Super Bowl pants, make sure you get these back to me for my trophy case”. Shit dude, I might have to steal those for my trophy case.

The locker room is pristine before a game, but afterwards it gets ugly in a hurry. Media, very large sweaty men and equipment guys are everywhere. I started grabbing bags of gear and piling them up to be loaded onto the trucks. Excuse me Ed Bouchette of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette, step aside man with an extremely large black penis, I’ve got a job to do. It takes about an hour to get everything done and then it’s time to call it a night. I’m sweating like the new white guy in prison, exhausted from my first exercise of 2009 and extremely excited to sit in FedEx traffic smelling like an offensive lineman’s jock.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need re-watch the game, so I can catch a glimpse of myself sporting extremely white tennis shoes and pacing the sidelines like a Chris Rock stand-up routine.

Scars of Pain

A couple of weeks ago the wife and I made the trek out into the Atlantic Ocean to spend a few days in Bermuda. As many of you know, I don’t mess around with injuries when I’m on vacation, I like to knock them out on day one or two, so that they have the best chance at ruining the rest of my trip. In this particular instance day one was the winner.

After a morning of snorkeling in the warm, crystal clear blue-green waters, I came home to take a quick shower before heading into town. With a face full of soap I reached down to grab the bottle of shampoo and whickety-whack it felt like I took a Mike Tyson round house to my right eye. I touched my hand to my forehead hoping for the best but expecting the worst, and there it was a nice handful of blood. Apparently, the hot water knob on the shower wall didn’t like the cut of my jib, so it decided to open me up. I started screaming for Amy and she pulled back the curtain to a scene from Psycho. I was sitting naked on the floor of the shower, soaking wet with blood running all over my face. Go ahead and take a moment to soak in that visual. So sexy!

She handed me a towel and I held it to my face with one hand while drying off enough to get dressed with the other. At this point I look at the cut in the mirror and I am thinking stitches all the way. I had an injury in Aruba several years ago, and the doctor made me pay $300 cash on the spot, so I wasn’t looking forward to another tropical island hospital visit. After getting the cut to stop bleeding and letting a few people look at it, the decision was made to wait and see how it looked the next morning.

The next day I got up and it seemed pretty good. It officially put an end to my snorkeling expeditions, but at least I was still able to swim in the ocean and the pool for the last few days. Yet another vacation scar for the collection. Between my knee, my hernia surgeries and now my eye, I have a sweet Frankenstein look going. A few more trips abroad and I’ll be the only guy still alive who is guaranteed a closed-casket ceremony.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to work on a better story than smashing my face on a shower knob. Maybe something along the lines of a knife fight with a surly lesbian over a bullshit Scrabble word or head-butting a tiger shark who had his jaws embedded in a Bermudian princess’s torso.

Cover Me

Over the years I’ve seen several tribute bands for groups like Rush, AC/DC, DMB, Jimmy Buffett, U2 and it’s always a strange phenomenon. So when Sunday night rolled around and the Guns-n-Roses tribute band “Appetite for Destruction” was playing down the street I agreed to go because it was cheap, it was close and I felt like channeling my late 80’s white male testosterone into rocking out to some old school G-n-R.

We rolled to club and grabbed some seats about half way back in the venue. We were there about ten minutes when this black chick struts in wearing full on Gene Simmons, God of Thunder, over-sized, KISS boots, tights and an old Guns t-shirt. On my list of things that I expected to see at the show that night, a sister sporting old school hard rock gear was just below a drag queen dressed as Dolly Parton carrying a dwarf in a Baby Bjorn.

The opening band came out, and they had an L.A. Guns meets The Crow vibe going on. It must be weird being a band playing original music trying to make a name for yourself and you have to open for a group that plays dress up and mimics an already successful band. “Dude, I heard that you’re opening for Guns-n-Roses, that rocks!”… “Uh, not really, we’re opening for a Guns-n-Roses tribute band.” *Crickets*

Show time! They open with “Welcome to the Jungle” and they sounded great and looked the part. They tore through most of the Appetite for Destruction and Lies albums, although one of the few songs they didn’t play was my personal pick track for the night “My Michelle”. What a gip! For most of the evening we were three rows back on the Izzy Stradlin and Duff McKagen wannabe’s side of the stage. After a couple of hours reveling in our throwback rock and roll fantasies, the night came to a close and I have to admit that they were actually tighter than the real G-n-R I saw back in ’91.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to find my way out of this jungle because I don’t want to die.

The Price is Wrong, Bitch!

Ok, now that I’m retired from the music game, I have some free time to immerse myself in the iTunes app store. If you have an iPhone or iPod Touch then this post may be of interest to you. If you don’t, then maybe it’s time for you to put down your outdated piece of shit phone, grow a pair and head on out to the Apple store to get hooked up.

Here is a list of my top 10 apps. Keep in mind that I am not a full fledged app geek, and I’m sure there are a ton of great apps that are not listed here. Please feel free to leave a comment with your favorites.

I am omitting the obvious stuff like Google and Facebook and trying to dig just a smidge deeper into the catalog. Did I really just say smidge? Am I a 50 year old housewife who got her own cooking show? “Bake at 425 and then add a smidge of cinnamon to top it off”. Shoot me now!

10. FML (Fuck My Life) – I like this app when I need a little pick me up during the day. Here is one of my favorites: “I was messing around with my boyfriend who was ignoring me and I said to him ‘you could at least pretend to love me’ and he replied ‘I pretend to love you all the time’ -FML”

9. The Price is Right – This app has everything except the fat fucks with the retarded homemade t-shirts sloppily rolling down the aisle to contestant row. You get to “come on down”, play some classic games like Plinko, spin the big wheel and rock the showcase showdown. What more do you want for the sale price of $.99. Just don’t bid a dollar for this one or you’ll get the dreaded “ehh-ehh-ehh, sorry you’ve all over bid”.

8. Toobz – Even though I often have a large exposed crack, I am not an actual plumber. In this puzzle game, you connect various shaped pipes to try and get the water off of the grid. Just like in real life, don’t lay your pipe the wrong way or things could get drippy.

7. Lyrics+ - This is a new one for me, but it shows the lyrics to the songs you play from your music library. This is a great app for settling disputes over misheard lyrics. “Did he just say ‘tip them in the bacon cut?” “Uh, no he said “tip ‘em and they make a cut”. Good, cuz a dollar bill jammed into your bacon cut might pinch a little.

6. Stone Loops! - I have to admit I was skeptical of this one at first. It sounded, for lack of a better phrase, really fucking gay, but once I played it, I was in the game. It has the old Space Invaders game concept of destroying all of them before they destroy you. If you have a nice long drive or flight coming up, this one will kill the time like a bullet to Morris Day's temple!

5. Flight Control – I always thought that I had the personality to be a air traffic controller, but it’s obvious after playing this game that I’ve killed way too many brain cells to be in that profession. This game makes you land various aircraft of different sizes and speeds onto the appropriate areas of the screen. Just like learning a foreign language, it seems easy at first but after a few minutes you are fucked.

4. iheartradio – I’ve lived in various parts of the country over the years, and in each city I’ve found at least one radio station that wasn’t total dog shit. This app lets you listen to radio stations from different cities. It really takes me back in time to when I was a poor Mexican child listening to La Bomba while picking oranges in East L.A.

3. Wurdle – Change the settings to 6x6 and make the shortest word 4 letters and you are ready to rock this Boggle rip off. My grandmother just turned 169 and she stays sharp by doing crossword puzzles. Well, that and masturbating twice a day, but hey who doesn’t do that right? I use this game instead of doing crossword puzzles to focus the mind, and make myself feel smart while making the wife feel dumb.

2. Paper Toss – This is yet another app that my brother turned me onto. If Wurdle sharpens your mind like a number two pencil, then this will break the point off and make you dumber than Daisy from VH1. This game is addictive like huffing paint, and it kills about as many brain cells, but you find yourself coming back to it over and over again. You flick a wadded up paper ball into a waste basket while adjusting for wind that comes from a fan. Like my daughter says while quoting Yo! Gabba, Gabba “Try it you’ll like it!”

1. Shazam – This is the fucking rock star of the app store. You click it, hold your phone up to any music that is playing and it gives you the artist, album, lyrics and lets you buy it immediately. I was on the shitter the other day and a commercial came on with a tune that I liked and I had the song on my iPhone before I flushed. That my friends, is what you call a cock strong, game changing app, and get this, it’s free.

So there you have it my top 10 apps. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to pass on this showcase showdown and pray for a new car and a Broyhill Dinette set in the next one.

Time to Move On

It’s official, my career as the music guru is officially over. Last week on a message board I was called out to suggest some new music and for the first time since I was 16, I had nothing to say. I’ve only been to two concerts so far this year, and they were both company sponsored events with bands that I had little to no interest in seeing. I listen to talk radio more than my iPod these days, and when I do play the iPod it’s more “Chicken Dance” and “Itsy Bitsy Spider” than it is “For Those About to Rock We Salute You” and “Mama Kin”. Like Bret Favre, I still want to play, but the time has come to hang it up.

Gone are the days when I’d look forward to new releases like Kate Moss looks forward to her next coke score. Gone are the days when I’d sleep out in the snow at the local mall for concert tickets, waiting for the music store geek to let us in so that I could crash next to the Orange Julius until the tickets went on sale. Gone are the days when I’d spend hours on a Saturday afternoon at the used CD store rummaging through the plethora of Ace of Base and Hootie and the Blowfish discs looking for that elusive Doors import that you couldn’t buy in the US. Gone are the days seeing up and coming bands in old asbestos infested warehouses crammed together with the other 50 who were “in the know”. Gone are the days hanging backstage drinking beers with the band and mingling with the music industry folks. Gone are the days writing reviews for music sites, and pretending that my opinion meant something.

I had a good run. I’ve seen hundreds of great shows and I have enough music to last me a lifetime. I used to manage a record store and I had this guy working for me who was ten times the music lover I will ever be and he would always say with that kid on Christmas morning look in his eye “Dude, you have to listen to this album it will take you to worlds”, and he was usually right.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to put on my headphones, crank up the Tom Petty and re-organize my concert ticket stubs. After all I’m not dead, just retired.

“It's time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It's time to move on, it's time to get going”

Wake up Maggie

Warning, this will be a Daddy post for all of you non-breeders.

The other morning Maggie discovered the differences between boys and girls. I was trying to sneak into the guest bedroom when I heard “Daddy I’m Awake!” So I went into her room, sans clothes, and she immediately points at my junk and goes ‘What’s that Daddy?”. I said “Honey this is a giant cock”, well that’s what I thought, what I actually said was “That’s a penis”. She then paused for a brief second grabbed her crotch and said, “Daddy, I don’t have a penis”. Which was pretty impressive, considering she had her pajamas on which blocked her visual. Using the famous Kindergarten Cop quote I went on to explain that boys have penises and girls have vaginas.

Then we had to go through the entire family trying to figure out which were boys and which were girls. It’s 6:45 AM on a Tuesday morning and I’m naked talking to a two year old about everyone’s genitalia. “Yes honey, Uncle Bruce has a penis, except when he orders the ‘light and fancy’ at the Virginia Kitchen” “No sweetie, even though Aunt Jen excels at sports and could probably pin a small bear in a wrestling match, she does not have a penis that I know of.” Finally, I just broke into her favorite song, Oh Canada, she lost her train of thought and I was able to slip into the shower.

With the penis confrontation behind me, it appears that another battle is brewing at my house between my OCD and my daughters. I thought it was cute when she needed to touch pictures on her way out of school, and it was cool that she and her Mommy had a morning routine, where she has to do things a certain way, but now her OCD has conflicted with mine and it is on like Donkey Kong.

As you may know from a previous post, the lamp post in our front yard has a rod through it and I need it to be centered, after all I am a Libra. Well, my little miss sunshine gets out of the car the other day and yells “Daddy stick”. So I take her over to the lamp post and she pushes it all to one side. We start towards the house and I reach back and push it to the center. “Daddy NOOOO!” She then pushes it all the way to one side again. I give in and leave it be, knowing full well that it will bug the shit out of me until she goes to bed. The next day we get home and the same thing happens. I’ve decided to keep the peace for now, but if she starts turning over the change in my car from heads to tails, then she better be wearing comfortable shoes for her walk home.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to prepare for the closing ceremonies of my week long tribute to the man with one glove who liked to grab crotches. No, not Michael Jackson, I’m talking about my hernia doctor. Turn your head, cough, and then give me a hee-hee-oooh!

The Bang Blended in with the Day

Fourth of July means only one thing for the Crawford clan, a week of alcohol and mayhem at my Uncle’s house in Pittsburgh. We had representatives from nine states come together in an effort to kill brain cells, get fat on crazy delicious eats and catch up on the latest family gossip. There was also a lot of rough housing going down. I was throwing half naked kids around the pool so often that I expected Chris Hanson to sit me down at any minute.

During our visit, my uncle Vince introduced my brother and me to this little beer joint that was an oasis in the desert of jean shorts and mustachioed men who love their Iron City. From the outside it looked like a little hole in the wall until you walked inside and realized that the micro-brew gods had smiled upon Natrona Heights, PA. Here’s the deal, you grab any beer from the cooler and for $2.50 you can sit at this little bar in the back and imbibe. They track all of the beers you consume and after you drink 25 unique beers you get your name posted. My Uncle said that getting his name on the wall was more rewarding than earning his PHD.

As we headed out of the store I saw a random box of lighters and after picking through a few I saw the Holy Grail. A Daisy Duke/Dukes of Hazzard Zippo lighter. Katherine Bach may not have aged well in real life, but her redneck “come pound me in the back of a car while listing to the Charlie Daniels Band” look from the 80’s was preserved forever on the cover of my new two dollar lighter. SCORE!

Now that I had my lighter it was time to find something to catch on fire. Pack it up boys, it’s off to the liquor store and the fireworks stand. Per my redneck handbook you must always visit the liquor store first, so that your liquor and your explosives are in the proper ratio. On the back of the fireworks box it said, light a fuse, take a shot, count your fingers, repeat. Words to live by my friend. The grand finale of our hillbilly fireworks display ended with me soaking the front row of viewers by doing a cannon ball into the pool ala Shamu. The only way it could have been better is if someone tasered me as I got out of the pool.

Finally, I’ll leave you with an EZ Cheez fail that I realized over the weekend. On the back of the can, it says “For best results, first remove cap.” Absolutely, fucking priceless. I’m not sure what was more sad the fact that they had to print that on the can or the fact that I was eating EZ Cheez and reading the directions.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to open up an ice cold Tommyknocker Maple Nut and fire up the Daisy Duke a few hundred times.

The Old Man is Down the Road

Holy shit what a weekend!

Friday:
The Pens went dancing with Lord Stanley. I watched game seven with the wife alone in our basement to avoid all distractions. I’m not sure how many of you watched it, but in the opening sequence they had members of the NBC crew give their versions of the pre-game speeches in the team’s locker rooms. I’m pretty sure if I had been watching the game with Richard Simmons he would have turned to me and said “Wow, this is really fucking gay” and I would have nodded and said “It sure is. Now pass me my next Deal-a-Meal card bitch, and it better say nachos on it.”

NBC’s awful coverage aside, the game delivered three hours of gut-wrenching drama. I paced, I screamed, I pounded on doors, I prayed to the hockey gods, I lost my mind when Talbot lit the lamp twice and I added yet another layer of disgusting sweat to a jersey that hasn’t been washed since mid-February. Finally, when Crosby lifted the cup I sunk back into my couch and basked in the afterglow, like I just banged a super model.

Saturday:
If you stop by here often enough then you know about my previous TV purchase debacle. Well Saturday morning rolls around and we stroll into Costco for margarita mix, soft pretzels and EZ-Mac, then we leave with a 32” TV for our bedroom.

They don’t have any salespeople at Costco, but they up-sell me every time I go in there. I go in for steaks and come out with a couch. I go in for milk and come out with a Wii. I go in for wine and come out with a monkey that teaches you a foreign language. How does this shit happen? It’s like they brainwash you and by the time you get home it’s too late. You end up just saying fuck it and keeping everything. Because of Costco I find myself saying stupid shit like: “Honey, I need to pick up some day laborers to help move this couch have you seen the goddamn bilingual monkey?”

Sunday:
The day started innocently enough, we went to the grocery store, picked up some lunch and then I sent one little text message to the family “Margaritas and cornhole anyone?” and it was on. In a matter of minutes I had a cold drink in one hand a cornhole bag in the other. After a few games, and a few drinks, the competition escalated into a two-on-two game of whiffle ball. Now, its 85 degrees, we’re playing on blacktop, I’ve had a bunch of sugar and alcohol and I haven’t exercised regularly since Clinton was President. In other words it was the perfect storm for a hospital visit.

My first at bat, I step up to the plate in flip-flops and when I swung my foot rolled over and I jacked up my big toe. It turned bright red and had a nice pool of blood forming under the nail. I called time-out and borrowed some shoes. Being competitive males, we ended up playing a full six inning game. I’m pretty sure that Helen Keller’s Easter egg hunts took less time to complete than this stupid game. In fact I think the girls went inside and watched every single episode of ER and then came back out and we were still in the fourth inning.

We finally called it a day and I rolled inside looking like a black man coming from an Alabama Klan rally. I was sweating, I felt nauseous, there were blisters all over my feet, my big toe was fucked up and I’m pretty sure I was within inches of a heat stroke. I pounded some water and then grabbed a shower that was so cold my junk looked like a stack of dimes. (My brother-in-laws description not mine. I mean his description of his own cold shower experience not of my junk you sick bastards)

We ended up winning the whiffle ball game and all but one round of cornhole on the day. So, let’s all raise a glass to all of the old men who can still bring the heat, even if it means they end up feeling like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. If we keep up this weekend routine I may need to start juicing.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go out and get some Ben Gay, a Penguins Stanley Cup shirt and a banana for that damn monkey.

Trapped

Last night Amy and I attended her company’s summer event, Elvis Costello at Wolftrap. I quickly realized two things, Wolftrap has become my second favorite concert venue behind Red Rocks and Elvis Costello was one of the worst shows I’ve seen there.

Because I’m a glass full kind of guy let’s start with Wolftrap. As you walk into the venue from the parking lot you pass a series of tents. One is a restaurant, one is for VIP’s and the others are for private events. Because I am VRP (Very Regular Person) and not a VIP we hit the restaurant tent where her company supplied copious amounts of wine in addition to a ridiculously delicious buffet. I had the pork tenderloin and this mac-n-cheese that I would have made sweet love to all night had Amy’s CEO not been there. Don’t even get me started on the dessert tray, I’m getting half a stalk just thinking about it.

The food and drink is all well and good, but here is why Wolftrap is Matchbox Twenty money. They treat you like a fucking adult! You can bring in any kind of alcohol and you can bring in any kind of food. They have picnic tables all over the place and the venue is set against a backdrop of huge ass trees that would make Bob Ross premature ejaculate. You know, if he were still alive and got over his erectile dysfunction. Ok, I made that E.D. part up, but he just looks like a poster child for Viagara. Sometimes you gotta pop a little blue pill before you can successfully touch little boys. Oh snap! Wow, I’m really pissing all over Bob’s grave today. Sorry Bob!

Now that we’ve established the greatness of the Trap, let’s turn our attention to why Elvis Costello sucked dingle-berry covered donkey balls. First off, I like approximately six EC songs and of those tunes maybe 3 are essentials (Veronica, The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes and Peace, Love & Understanding). So he takes the stage and like most aging performers he has a group of about eight other guys with him, and they launch into a series of tunes that would give Bill Monroe a hard on. I seem to be obsessed with dead guys and their junk today. David Carradine must be in my subconscious. Hey, if a guy likes to wear women’s clothes and hang from a noose in a hotel closet while rubbing one out, who am I to judge.

As Costello is plucking away on his third ditty, I fire up the iPhone and look up his setlist from the night before. Well spank my ass and call me Charlie this fucker is going to play 32 songs and we don’t get to a song I know until the encore. Look, I like a little bluegrass as much as the next guy, but if I want to bluegrass out with my huge ass out I’ll go see Sam Bush or David Grisman. Amy is a much bigger fan of EC than I, but luckily she was getting bitter at his back woods versions of the songs she likes too, so we quickly said our good-byes and made a bee line for the exit after an hour or so.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to throw on the Pens Jersey, goalie equipment and prep the noose in my garage for a little ‘Carradine' tribute before the game 7.

Nice Day for a White Wedding

Sorry, for the long ass post amigos, but it was a loooooong weekend…

The Wedding’s Rockin’ Eve
The ride to Pennsylvania went relatively smoothly. No tickets, very little traffic and being Mr. classy I consumed a bottle of Chateau St. Michelle Riesling from a Gatorade bottle. Sometimes it really is hard to believe that I’m 37 and not 17.

Anyway, we arrived to find everyone out on the patio drinking like it was nickel beer night at a frat house. We were at a golf resort, so one of the non-wedding attendees stumbled over to our table. Obviously, unaware of how much the family likes to fuck with people, he struck up a drunken exchange with our group.

By the end of the conversation we knew that his name was Paul, he was from south Buffalo, he liked Amy’s cousin’s legs and the blacks in Buffalo were only good for emptying garbage cans. In turn, the grandfather of the aforementioned cousin with great legs, informed Paul that she had five kids by five different fathers and that one of them would qualify for emptying garbage cans in south Buffalo. Feeling a little embarrassed, he bought us a pitcher of beer and stumbled back inside. Then, we all laughed and laughed because we totally lied to him, she only has four kids by three different fathers and they were all Hispanic, not black. High-larious!

Our little party started to break up, leaving just a few of us guys to finish off the beers. As we were about to call it a night, he showed back up with his buddies, whom he must of told there were a bunch of hot chicks on the patio. The look on Paul’s face when he realized that it was just a bunch of dudes at our table was priceless. His buddies started crushing him as if they’d caught him on his knees in the men’s bathroom.

The Wedding
Trying to contain my two year old in a big church during the ceremony, was a lot like wrestling a midget covered in baby oil, only my daughter didn’t have the stubby sausage fingers and oversized head to grab onto. In addition to being uber-squirmy she also took the opportunity to test her outside voice by constantly yelling, “I see Kenny! I see Kenny!”

I think I spent approximately eight minutes inside the actual wedding, and the rest of the time I was in the lobby trying to keep my little anti-Christ from desecrating everything sacred that was below four feet high. Honey, please take Mickey Mouse out of the holy water. Yes, I know he’s dirty but that’s not a bath. C’mon baby, please stop pounding on Jesus’ feet like you’re taking part in his crucifixion. Sweety, it’s cute how you sang happy birthday before blowing out all of the candles, but those are prayer candles and beloved Uncle Steve is probably not going to survive his motorcycle accident thanks to you. Darling, I know you’re a big Kathy Griffin fan, but this isn’t the place to be yelling “Suck it Jesus!”

After we went up and down the church steps 19 times, I marched her into the men’s bathroom, so that I could shake the dew off the lily. As I was taking care of business, the anti-Christ walked up to the urinal next to me and proceeded to grab the urinal cake. I screamed NOOOOOOOO! Then, I zipped up and turned around to see her putting a goldfish in her mouth. I immediately turned into an audience member at the Apollo. “Ooooh damn baby, no you di-int just do that. Ohhhhh snap! Yo mamma’s gonna kill me.” I immediately took her to the sink and scrubbed her hands like I was Lady Macbeth, but by then the damage was done and I could only pray that the confessional upstairs was open for business.

Maggie, Someday you will be on your therapist’s couch and you’ll have this nagging memory about something bad happening to you involving a father and a church basement bathroom. For the record I want you to know that you weren’t touched inappropriately by a priest. You gave yourself First Communion using the water and a deodorizing cake from a urinal while your father stood next to you pissing and screaming at you like a little girl. Um, yeah, good luck with that.

I’ll give you all a minute to choke down that little bit of throw up in your mouth before we move on.

The Reception
The Crown was flowing and the band led by a cross between Patrick Swayze and Richard Dean Anderson AKA MacGyver, was pumping out your standard list of wedding favorites. After the festivities started to wrap up the party moved to the patio where a man sporting an accordion got the Polish version of the reception underway. Standing across the way was a woman who had one of those disposable cameras and she was just cranking out the pictures of her accordion hero.

Like J.D. in scrubs, I had one of those cutaway moments in my head to the drug store photo counter, where the sarcastic teenage clerk was like “It’s Monday, here comes Alice again. I’m guessing it was another crazy weekend. Wow, what a shocker, 24 glossy prints of a man playing an accordion. These are going to look great in her scrapbook next to the other 685 photos that we’ve processed this year of her musical idol.”

Also, I’m pretty sure someone said the guys name was Jim, so for the rest of the night the phrase “Accordion to Jim” was running through my head. For the record, how has that show been on the air for eight seasons? I don’t know a single person who watches it, yet every week I flip through the channels and there’s Jim Belushi saying something not funny and collecting a nice fat paycheck. Hey Jimbo, I bet you’re glad that your much more talented brother did himself in. Now you and Joaquin Phoenix can toast to your success at your brothers expenses. What? Still too soon?

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go give my daughter her penicillin bath, while saying a few Hail Mary’s.

Here's your moment of zen. Mr. classy rockin' the Pens jersey at the reception:

Excuse Me Please, Just One More Drink

Memorial Day weekend is now within reach, so we will be packing up the family truckster and heading to Pittsburgh for a wedding that has the potential to reach epic proportions. I like to think of this event as the alcoholic Super Bowl. Some of the best drinkers in the family will come together in one place to push their imbibing limits. Instead of a guest book they are just going to have a sign up sheet for a liver transplant. Yeah, it’s going to be that kind of weekend.

The only part of the trip that I dread is driving on a holiday weekend. Gas is more expensive, the po-po will be out in full force and so will the slew of pain in the ass drivers. You know what? I think I need to make an executive decision right here, right now. I am just going to let Amy drive, while I pre-game in the front seat. That my friends, is a money fucking call. Strap in the knee-biter, hand the keys to the Mrs., pop the cork, and enjoy the ride.

One of the best road trips I’ve ever had was the drive we made to Atlantic City a few years ago. My brother-in-law and I sat in the back of his Jaguar with an iPod in each of our hands and a cooler between us. We proceeded to get tanked while going song for song for three hours straight. When we got to the hotel, I ran inside to get the room keys and the manager asked me the color and make of the car I was driving. I told him to hold on, that I had to go outside and look.

Then, we proceeded to head up to our room on the illustrious 30th floor. The elevator door opened and we heard a bunch of loud loud voices coming from the penthouse next to our room. As we turn the corner, BAM! A pod of large black hookers looked at us like Maury just announced that we were not the father of their babies. We headed into the room and chilled for approximately 12 seconds and then headed back down to get another room.

Back on the elevator, we found ourselves in a rap video, starring the Three 6 Mafia and a couple of women with questionable morals, sporting dresses that required two hair-do’s to wear out on the town. I’m wedged in the corner with my pillow in one hand and a blue Igloo cooler in the other, not making eye contact with anything but the floor. In my mind I went through my survival techniques, but I couldn’t remember if you make yourself look bigger or play dead when confronted by rappers and ho’s. Ahhhhh, the good times of road trips past.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go create my big-baller playlist for the ride to the Keystone state.

You know it’s hard out here for a pimp
When he tryin’ to get this money for the rent
For the cadillacs and gas money spent
Will have a whole lot of bitches jumpin’ ship

Cult of Personality

Keep your hands and feet inside the rant ride at all times because it’s go time!

What’s up with women and these product parties they have all the time? The old standard used to be Tupperware, but now they have parties for jeans, jewelry, purses, lingerie, make-up and even sex toys. Although, my wife never gets invited to the sex toys party, she really needs some sluttier friends. I digress.

Last night the wife came home from one of these scarily cultish gatherings with $40 worth of protein shakes. MFWTF? My wife is like 5’ 5” and maybe a buck-twenty soaking wet, which is exactly how I like her. I don’t want to come home from work and find her bench pressing the couch, roid-raging on our daughter and getting zits all over her back. It’s not like my wife even enjoys these parties, she just has a hard time saying no to people, which is what these organizations count on.

The thing that really sucks about these cults/pyramid schemes is that they pray on the naïve and use them to exploit their friends and family. Amway used to be the worst. These people would hold meetings at the pizza place where I worked, and they would give these motivational speeches like they were the goddamn coach in Remember the Titans. The people at these meetings would lose their shit. You could see in their eyes that they were totally brainwashed, kind of like the attendees of those mega-churches on TV. After witnessing a few of these meetings, the Manson murders suddenly started to make a lot of sense.

And surprise, surprise, my military career having, bible-thumping, everyone’s going to hell, Aunt used to sell Amway out of her home. She had an entire basement full of these totally shit products. Every time we visited we got to go into the basement and select something. Ooooh, what a treat! Thanks for the chocolate bar that tastes like an oompa-loompas asshole.

It just blows my mind that so many people have this need to belong so badly that they’ll participate in these scam-driven organizations. I hate to sound misogynistic, but it’s mostly women who buy into this bullshit. I’ve never been playing soccer and had a guy say to me after the game “Hey Erik do you want to come over next Tuesday I’m having a wallet party. It’s going to be great. Just us guys drinking beers, hanging out, and you can pick yourself out a nice new leather tri-fold for only $60.” You don’t see guys driving around in Cadillacs with company messaging all over them and a personalized license plate that says something clever like GR8SALZ, and if you do, then you know their douche-baggery is boundless.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put on some porn and crank up the volume to scare the shit out of these Mormon kids that just came to the door. It’s always a good time when you have adolescent kids dressed alike on bikes talking to you about the joys of finding Jesus with Jenna Jamison screaming "Oh God, fuck me” in the background.

Hey Man, Nice Shot

I was rolling down the highway at lunch today when an old Collective Soul song came on the radio. So I started thinking about one of the many “Wanna Get Away” moments that I’ve experienced throughout the years.

Back in the mid-nineties I won this radio contest for an autographed guitar from the radio friendly, guitar driven band, Collective Soul. The wife and I arrived at the venue a few hours early and ended up waiting backstage to meet the band. Sitting across from us was a mother and her ten year old son, who had a bandage on his arm and staples in his scalp line. He was one of those kids who had zero athleticism, the kind of kid who strikes out at tee-ball. Skinny, big ears, glasses, buck-teeth, you get the idea. Well apparently he had been mauled by a dog and through some welfare version of Make-a-Wish he was afforded the opportunity to meet his favorite band.

Because I’m an asshole and have very little empathy for goofy kids who get eaten by dogs, I sat there and feigned concern, while they told their story to anyone who would listen. Finally, the band was ready to meet us, so we went into the main concert area as they were finishing up their sound check. “Whoooaaaaaooooaaoooooaaaa heaven let your light shine down….” One by one I made small talk with each member the band and had them sharpie up my new guitar. Then it happened.

As I was getting my last autograph, I blindly swung the guitar around and cracked this kid right in the fucking head. I’m pretty sure he took a tuning peg to one of his staples. Wanna get away? Everyone gasps, my heart falls into my shoes, and his mother looks me in the eye and says “Don’t worry about it, he’s so hopped up on drugs he probably didn’t feel a thing.” I wanted to just give this kid my guitar on the spot, but in addition to being heartless, I am also selfish, so I just apologized profusely and quickly made my way out to the car.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to dress Maggie up as a steak and have her antagonize the Rottweiler down the street so that I, I mean, so that she can meet her favorite progressive rock band, Rush.

Saturday Night and You’re Still Hanging Around

Saturday night might be alright for fighting, but this past Saturday night it was all about rocking out. I joined a cover band called the Herndon Thugs and we played from eight to midnight at Payne’s Billiards and Lounge. In fact we were so well received we ended up playing a special impromptu set on Sunday for all of the fans who didn’t get enough of us the night before. We tore through a set list that included everything from Duran Duran to Radiohead to The Killers. A lot of you might be thinking to yourselves, “Erik in a band? He is virtually tone deaf, has the vocal skills of Linda McCartney and his formal musical training ended with him playing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ on the recorder in fourth grade, how could he possibly be in a band?” I’ll tell you how, through the magic of Rock Band for the Wii.

That’s right folks, I channeled my inner rock star for two days of peace, love and music in a basement in Herndon this past weekend. I started off the evening drinking my new concoction “The Crawdaddye” (Absolut Citron, Peach Schnopps, Mailbu Rum and Cranberry juice) Yes, it’s a foo-foo drink, but it’s perfect for sitting on the back porch on a warm spring day. Don’t judge me people! As the darkness descended upon us we put the little one to bed, mixed a few more adult beverages, did a shot of Goldschlager and the rock band was ready to get come out swinging. Then we all dropped some peyote and went out the desert to become a tribe of musical warriors. Oh wait, that wasn’t us, that was The Doors in that Oliver Stone flick.

For the next four hours we all took turns wailing on guitars, thumping the bass, pounding the skins and shrieking out the vocals to popular songs from the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s. As a general rule, when the entire family is eating pizza and wings at midnight on a Saturday to avoid the morning hangovers, you know it’s been a good night.

As good as the evening was, I would like suggest a few upgrades for the next Rock Band release.

1. A Keyboard. WTF? Without a keyboard you basically eliminate all Billy Joel and Elton John tunes and 90% of the hits from the 80’s. I certainly can’t run so far away without a keyboard. At the very least hook me up with a keytar!

2. A Cowbell. You just can’t give “Don’t Fear the Reaper” or Mississippi Queen” the justice they deserve without a cowbell. Besides I have the perfect look and musical prowess for cowbell rock. Is there anything sexier than a burly, bearded guy wearing sunglasses and a wife-beater while synchronizing his cowbell beats with pelvic thrusts? Of course there isn’t!

3. Backup Singers. What Motown song is complete without backup singers? At the very least hook me with a second microphone so that we can add an Oates to the Hall, a Ridgely to the Michaels and a Captain to the Tenille. Please give me the option to do a “Your Kiss is On My List” – “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” – “Love Will Keep Us Together” medley.

Finally, on the way home there was this car in front of us with two guys in the backseat wearing cowboy hats. The car was swerving a bit in my estimation, but the wife said that maybe my eyes were swerving because she didn’t see it. I told her that anytime it’s after midnight on a Saturday and there are cowboys packed into the back of a car, they’ve definitely been riding the Red Bull and vodka for more than eight seconds and singing “It’s Five O’ Clock Somewhere”.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go purchase some makeup, leather and spandex for the next Herndon Thugs gig.

Return to Sender

Now that the trees have bloomed and the temperature has steadily climbed, it’s time for that late spring tradition, playoff hockey. To celebrate the Pens run in the playoffs, the wife and I agreed to get a new TV, and by agreed I mean I held a pillow over her face until she tapped out. Obviously, two iPhones, three iPods and three flat-screen TV’s are not enough for two adults, we needed to get just one more. The Sharp 52” Aquos had become to me, what the Red Ryder Ranger Model Air Rifle was to Ralphie in A Christmas Story.

Ever since my brother-in-law picked one of these bad boys up last summer there was an indescribable tingling in my nether region every time we walked by it at Costco. With the permission slip from my wife in hand, I proudly walked into the warehouse grabbed the “big” slat cart, you know the one reserved for all of the Asians who own restaurants, where they pile so much food on them they look like they’re preparing for a UN mission to Somalia. Then, I rolled over to the TV area where a gaggle of dudes were just staring like 10 year old boys seeing their first pair of boobies. I loaded it up as the rest of the men looked at me and then started the slow clap like at the end of Revenge of the Nerds. I’m pretty sure I even heard one of them yell “Way to go Paula” as I walked away. (That was An Officer and a Gentlemen reference in case you aren’t up on your Richard Gere movies. I celebrate his entire catalogue.)

After checking out, I wheeled the big dog to the car only to discover that it didn’t fit in the backseat. Bitter! With the rain pouring down on me, my joy turned to stress. Fuck it, I shoved two thirds of it into the back of the car and then left the hatch up for the drive home. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a big deal, but the rain was soaking the box and the Lexus beeps constantly if you leave a door open. If this weren’t annoying enough, getting out of the Costco parking lot on a weekend is like playing Frogger while navigating the maze of hedges in The Shining. Fucking move people!

Finally, we get the holy grail of TV’s into our house and like a Geek Squad tech on crystal meth I have it set up in the basement in a matter of seconds. I plop down onto the couch, hit the on switch, and then it happened. Just like Ralphie, I shot my eye out. As much as I wanted it to work, this TV was just too big for the room. Then, I started trying to re-arrange the furniture to force the issue. If we just move that desk, scoot the couch, get rid of the recliner, knock down that wall and look through binoculars backwards we can do this. C’mon people work with me!

In the end, even though the hoo-oars tits on Rock of Love looked spectacular, we decided to box it back up and return it. Watching a grown man return a big flat-screen TV is like watching Vada at the end of My Girl yell “His glasses, he needs his glasses!”. You try to choke it down, but you just have to tear up a bit.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go and re-write my theme on what I want for Christmas. “What I want for Christmas….Well, I wanted a Sharp Aquos 52” TV, but we just couldn’t make that work now could we? So instead, I am getting granite countertops. I’m pretty sure that I can’t watch hockey in HD on a granite countertop, but I can dice some onions and peppers, so at least I got that going for me.”

I Eat More Chicken Any Man Ever Seen

The 14th wedding anniversary was quite the special one for the little lady. To kick off the evenings festivities we had a guy come in to measure our countertops. Which you’d think might take 10-15 minutes at most, and you’d have thought wrong. First off we told the guy at the store that we wouldn’t be home until 4:30. When the appointment was confirmed the day before, we told the guy we wouldn’t be home until 4:30. Then the day of the measuring he calls me at 3:30, “I’m at your house!”. Uh, yeah dude, I have a meeting and have to pick up my knee-biter, so I’ll see you at 4:30, like we discussed. Then I get home at 4:30 and this jagoff doesn’t show up until 5:00. MFWTF?

After he gets there, I’m thinking he whips out a measuring tape and bickety-bam it’s done, not so much. He measures and measures and measures and then brings in this laser thing and measures some more. There are questions about backsplashes, overhang and sinks. All of which I am unprepared to answer, because this is the wife’s project. Per the handyman’s guide to procrastination, he goes to his truck five times, and each time Maggie says “Buh-Bye!”, then I explain that he’s coming back and she goes “No coming back!”

Finally, he rolls out and Amy rolls in with some KFC, and not just any old KFC, but absolutely free KFC thanks to their internet promotion. This high society, black tie affair has just been taken to another level. We inhale the dead bird, taters, slaw and biscuits like we were in training to be competitive eaters.

After Maggie went to bed the romantic evening continued down in the man cave. We cuddled up on the couch, stared into each others eyes, and settled in for a quiet evening of playoff hockey! I whispered little sweet nothings in her ear like “The last time I saw a fucking hook like that it was in a fishes mouth!” “C’mon Eaton force him to the corner and bend him over like the little bitch he is!” “Billy G is not my lover, unless he scores the game winner!”

Once the thrilling overtime game was in the books, we headed upstairs to find that Maggie had soaked through her diaper onto her bedding. We sprang into action like Dale Jr.’s pit crew. “You get the bed and I’ll get the kid. Grab me that fitted sheet! Diaper is on, jammies are in progress. Bed is ready! Drop the kid in the crib. Done! Go! Go! Go!”. We are a well oiled machine when it comes to late night bedding changes. I think Amy might have been a maid a La Quinta in her previous life. Of course it took us 8 years to get pregnant, so then again maybe not.

Well that about does it for the big 14th anniversary. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go practice my hospital corners and try to get the maid to fluff up my pillow. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Don't Take That Attitude to Your Grave

I don’t want to turn this forum into one of the many “Daddy” blogs that are out there, but since I spend over half of my free time servicing this kid, I do need to bring her into the mix every now and then.

Tuesday night, we’re in a nice deep sleep and we hear “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”, per the parental handbook I ignore it and hope that she goes back to sleep. A few minutes pass and then there it is again “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”. I go into her room and she is staring through her crib slats at the dresser where her shoes are sitting. “Daddy shoo-oo-oo-es!”. Really? It’s 2:30 in the morning and you woke me up because you wanted to wear your shoes? Then, I start projecting motivations on to her. Well, maybe she wants to be prepared in case there’s a fire, or maybe she plans on running a half marathon while we sleep. Here you go honey, just remember to shut the garage door when you leave.

Like most of my parenting decisions it ends up that I let her do what she wants and wait to see how it turns out. I realize that this is not the best strategy, but being a micro-managing parent really isn’t my style. Hey, if she wants to eat grilled cheese for dinner every night for a month, so be it, at least she’s eating something. There’s a reason the same four items are on every kids menu, it’s all they will fucking eat. Although, some places try to be clever and throw in some random uppity dish for the snobby parents. “Honey, you can have chicken nuggets, spaghetti, a hot dog, mac-n-cheese or a plate if unagi.” Really? My kid won’t eat a green bean, I’m pretty sure she’s not going to knock down a plate of eel rolls.

Then, last night we’re in her playroom and Amy tells her she can’t stand on the couch and in the blink of an eye she turns around with her chest out, head cocked to the side and she goes “WHY?”. There it was. Three little letters hanging in the air for an eternity. Her first “Why”. It wasn’t so much what she said, but how she said it. It had that white trash “You don’t know me!” attitude to it. She may as well have told my wife to go fuck herself with a Marlboro red dangling from her lips. The sarcastic asshole side of me that always questions authority was proud of her, but the parent side of me knew that we were on a slippery slope.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a grilled cheese to make and a toddler who is in training for next year’s Boston marathon.

Indian Outlaw

I wanted to let everyone know that Maggie is doing well and on her way back to a full recovery. In fact, we watched the critically acclaimed, Slumdog Millionaire together the other night. Maggie just loves the Oscar winners. I always say “Mickey Mouse or Schindler’s List?”, and she goes with Spielberg over Disney every time. It’s so cute the way she whispers in my ear “The list is life”, before she goes to sleep. I smile, shake my finger at her and say “Achtung Juden”, and then we just laugh and laugh.

Anyway, I thought that Slumdog Millionaire was as good as advertised, but it also reminded me that I never want to visit India. I’m ready to start mowing people down after going to Costco on a Saturday afternoon, so it would take me about five minutes in New Delhi before I snapped and started shooting anything that smelled like curry.

I guess it’s all about the lifestyle that you become accustomed to. Once you have certain luxuries, there’s no going back. Here is a short list of things that I have become accustomed to, that I now can’t live without:

1. An iPod - Being able to access every song my heart desires with the flick on my finger is super delicious. If I want to play “Fuck Tha Police” into “Friends in Low Places” into “Don’t Fear the Reaper”, while playing Flight Control I can make that happen.

2. HD - You just can’t appreciate Barbara Walter’s camel toe or how much make-up John Madden has on during MNF, without the clarity that HD provides.

3. High-Speed, Wireless Internet – If I can’t update my Facebook status while sitting on the toilet, then life isn’t worth living.

4. The Victoria Filet at Outback – My standard order goes as follows: The nine ounce Vicky fill-it, medium, yes I know that’s a hot pink center and its money. A house salad with mustard vinaigrette and a baked potato loaded up. Let’s get it on!

5. Texting – It seems like a waste of time to dial the phone just to tell my brother-in-law that Ryan Miller is a big pussy, but with texting not only can I call insult his favorite sports teams I can also include a picture of me wiping my ass with a Buffalo Bills t-shirt. Livin’ the dream!

Finally, I’ll leave you with my random thought of the week:
I was in the grocery store last weekend and I saw an NBA coloring book. The first thing that popped into my head, was that they should sell it with four extra large black crayons and one regular size white one.

Me: Honey, what color crayon do you want to start with?
Maggie: White!
Me: Ok, but remember it only works on the guys behind the 3-point line.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go put on a holocaust flick and break out the big black crayons.

Intergalactic Planetary

Well, well, well, I hope that most of you enjoyed the spring-like weather today. I was in the bowels of Reston Hospital submitting my child to the E.N.T. gods. As with most couples, my wife is the nurturer and I am assigned the dirty work. So Amy got to hold Maggie all day, then I came in and took her to the O.R.

Before I was able to go into the operating area I had to put on a rockin' see-through jumpsuit. As I was suiting up, I looked at Amy and said "How awesome would it be if I were naked underneath? Just walking around pediatrics in my see-through jump suit waving to everyone like Bozo the clown on Saturday Morning TV." She said, that would so not be awesome, and might even be a felony. So I aborted the plan and posed for some Beastie Boys inspired photos instead.



In the O.R. Maggie got the gas, but it wasn't sealed tight, so I got a nice inhalation of the magic vapors. As I was fighting through the knockout gas, this cougar of a nurse was pressed against me holding the mask and my hands were inches from her "area". Now, I'm trying my hardest to be an adult, but in my head I'm just thinking, aaaaaawkward! A few seconds later Maggie was on the table in la la land, the cougar nurse was setting up shop, and I was headed for the door.

I got some lunch with the wife, while Maggie got her surgery on. After an about 90 minutes she was done, and so were we. Time to roll on up to the room. WTF? This was no Loudoun hospital. No flat screens, no DVD players and no PS3's. Just a 15" TV and a VCR. A fucking VCR! How am I supposed to watch Survivor on this thing? C'mon Reston, let's get in the game. How is a child supposed to heal under these conditions? How can a child truly mend it's broken spirit watching 1980's VHS tapes of violent cartoons? The Horror! The Horror!

Well, that about does it from here. Maggie survived the long day, as did we. Amy is in for a rough night at the hospital, while I am at home writing to all of you. In a few days her drain will be out and the final healing will begin. Hopefully, by the time her birthday rolls around at the end of the month this will all be a distant memory, and everyone will be back in the land of rainbows and unicorns and see-through jump suits.

That's right, you know I kept that bad boy, and will be sporting it every year as a tribute to Reston Hospital!

Cause the music is live like an electric shock
I am known to do the Wop
Also known for the Flintstone Flop
Tammy D getting biz on the crop
Beastie Boys known to let the beat...... drop

It Cuts Like a Knife

The day we have dreaded is finally upon us. On Wednesday morning Maggie goes in for surgery to remove her cyst and part of the bone in her neck. Ouch! The weird thing is that she has no idea what is even in store for her. She’ll wake up in the morning thinking she is going to daycare and then bam! No breakfast, no morning routine, just whisked into the car, taken to the hospital and within an hour she’ll be prepped and ready for her procedure. It’s good that she doesn’t have to worry about it, and she won’t remember it as she gets older, but on some level that has to fuck with you a little bit.

Can you imagine if your spouse said, “Hey, I need to get something at Target, do you want to come?”? So you get in the car, and then they take you to a hospital, drug you and cut open your neck. The next time your spouse says “Hey, do you want to go to Target?” you’re going to be like; “Fucking nooooooo! In fact from now on I’m driving everywhere to avoid these little surgery games you like to play. I’m just glad you didn’t ask me to go to Dick’s Sporting Goods or I probably would’ve woken up neutered.”

On the upside, to make myself feel better for allowing a stranger to dice up my kid’s throat, I picked up an iPhone this week. If you need to alleviate any guilt for causing your kid’s pain, there’s an app for that. If you want to become more involved and actually assist the Dr. performing the surgery, there’s an app for that. If you want to see what the hot nurse looks like naked, well there’s no app needed for that, just a dirty mind, so I’m in luck.

Well, it’s about time for me to jump on the medical rollercoaster, I promise to keep my hands and feet inside the ride at all times and I’ll try not to vomit on the person next to me. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to put on some Bob Marley and download the fast forward 24 hours app. ---

Rise up this mornin',

Smiled with the rising sun,

Three little birds

Pitch by my doorstep

Singin' sweet songs

Of melodies pure and true,

Sayin', "This is my message to you-ou-ou:

"Singin’, "Don't worry 'bout a thing,

'Cause every little thing gonna be all right."

Blinded By The Light

On my way home I was listening to the radio and they were talking about movies, TV shows or books that traumatized you as a kid. So here are a couple that come to mind.

The movie that traumatized me the most growing up was Invasion of the Body Snatchers. If you haven’t seen the movie, the premise is that aliens plant these pods and they grow a clone of you when you sleep. Then you die and your clone becomes part of society until all of the humans are gone and only clones remain.

Apparently, my baby-sitter felt this was perfectly appropriate viewing material for a seven year old. As much as I love Donald Sutherland, to this day I don’t want to get with 100 yards of him. Although, it’s a toss up as to which is more traumatizing his screech at the end of the movie or his bare ass in Animal House.

The TV show that scarred me the most as a child was Little House on the Prairie. There was an episode where Mary Ingalls wakes up in the middle of the night and she is totally blind. She wasn’t kicked by a mule, she didn’t fall on a rake, she didn’t masturbate too much, that I know of, she just went blind for no good reason at all.

As a kid, I was like holy fucking shit you can just go to bed all la-dee-da-dee and then wickety-wack, you’re blind? She just woke up and started screaming “Pa! I can’t see! Pa! I can’t see!”. A couple of weeks later I woke up in the middle of the night and the power had gone out, so I started screaming “Pa! I can’t see! Pa! I can’t see!”.

Finally, I will leave you with my embarrassing moment of the day. I was meeting Amy at Chili’s for lunch and I was a few minutes early, so I decided to fix the driver seat in our car. It had become difficult to move back and forth, so I sprayed some WD-40 onto the tracks. As I got out of the car I smelled my fingers to see if they had WD-40 on them. I looked up there was this hot young chick in her car who gave me the biggest “I can’t believe you just did that, you disgusting pig!” look of all time. I guess from her point of view it looked like I reached down between my legs and then got out of the car and took a big ol’ sniff. I wanted to yell at her “I didn’t scratch-n-sniff!”, but figured that would be even creepier.

Does this shit happen to other people or just me? Well, if you’ll excuse me I need to go wash this misguided judgment off of me and try to picture something other than Donald Sutherland’s crack. Here's a picture of Mary Ingalls for you. I can't tell if she is blind here or not, because she pretty much wore that retarded grin on her face for the entire series.

Brain Droppings

Good Friday! I came to the realization this morning that I am too old and too big to play Jesus in the re-enactment of the crucifixion. Not that I am religious in any way, nor have I ever wanted to participate in such an activity, but this is some of the weird shit I think about when I’m in the car alone. Do you think if Jesus had lived another 10 years or so he would have let himself go, kind of like Elvis? Would there be a debate as to what image of Jesus to use, old, fat Jesus or young, skinny Jesus? Michelangelo what are your plans for the Sistine Chapel? “Dude, it’s a big ceiling so I am going to go with the old, fat Jesus to cover more space, maybe put him on a plush, cross-shaped couch eating a greasy turkey leg and drinking some righteous wine.” And yes, it is a little known fact that Michelangelo was the Renaissance’s version of Jeff Spicolli.

Being Mr. Observant, I noticed for the first time that my dryer has a light inside of it. This struck me as a bit unnecessary. I don’t know about you crazy bitches, but I tend to do my laundry with the lights on. I’ve never been standing in front of my dryer going; “Are there clothes in there? Is that Amy’s underwear or a dryer sheet? Hello? I can’t see shit, if only this thing had a light in it.”

Before I fall asleep every night I have these weird thought progressions that usually end up with me asking Amy some random question. Last night I was thinking about having to refill the gumball machine on my desk with Reece’s Pieces, which led to E.T., which led to Drew Barrymore, which led to the documentary “My date with Drew” where the guy gave her a Snoopy Snow Cone machine, which led to thinking about what kind of dog Snoopy was, which led to beagles, which led me to Amy’s roommate in college who had a beagle, which led me to think about the time we went with her to a Billy Joel concert, which led to other concerts I saw in college which led to the random question:

Do you remember when we went to see Jimmy Buffet in college and that drunk chick beside us was blowing that guy in the rain? And he gave us a look like “I tried to stop her, but a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do”. Good times.

Finally, I’ll leave you with this gem:
http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1905976

Now, if you’ll excuse I need to beat the church traffic, so I can get my cheeseburger on at Fuddruckers.

19 Things I Think I Know

Hola amigos. Here is my first installment of "19 Things" for '09. enjoy!

1. I hate myself for watching Rock of Love on VH1, the same way that fat chicks hate themselves for eating an entire box of Krispy Kremes.

2. I tweeted on twitter using twhirl and it twasn’t all it’s twacked up to be.

3. My daughter is addicted to the chicken dance song, which means I have to listen to it over and over and over in the car. Not only do I have to listen to it, but I have to do the dance to appease the little one. Amusing for her, creepy for other drivers who can't see her through the tinted windows.

4. Having Comcast as my cable and internet provider makes me want to strangle kittens. Verizon Fios, you are on my speed dial as soon as hockey season is over.

5. When you and one other car are speeding together down the highway and a cop pulls out, it is always better when they pull the other guy over. Sorry, to the dude with the blue tooth headset in the silver Acura, but you got the short end of the stick.

6. Eating Long John Silvers twice in one day catches up with you… Arrrrgghhhh!

7. Anytime you are doing shots with strangers after 11:00 PM on a Thursday night, Friday is going to be one long ass day of struggling to survive.

8. I have to start watching what I do around Maggie. I faked a smack to Amy’s face with a plastic baseball bat and then Maggie proceeded to pick up the bat and beat Amy down like she was Rodney King.

9. Buying a digital camera that actually takes a picture without a 3 second delay is soooo worth the money. My porn site, I mean my pictures of my daughter are going to be so much better now.

10. At Chipotle the most underated protein is the Carnitas. Just because Jules from Pulp Fiction doesn't dig on swine, doesn't mean you can't enjoy some piggy. You can thank me later.

11. In a state of intoxication I rocked an old school boy band dance to “Poison” by Bell Biv Devoe, much the same as Turk did on Scrubs, except that I’m white and have no rhythm. I wonder how long this ‘L’ will be on my forehead.

12. The “Welcome to Virginia” signs might be the worst in the country. They have this stupid cardinal on them and they look like they were painted in some remedial art class at the state penitentiary. C’mon Virginia, tighten up and at least put something on the sign that represents the state like never-ending traffic or a drunk, frat guy smoking a cigarette.

13. It might be sad, but often my biggest challenge of the day is trying to come up with something witty for my Facebook status.

14. Panama by Van Halen is the greatest work out song of all time, and anyone who says otherwise is just fucking wrong!

15. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve driven on the PA turnpike when it hasn’t been raining or snowing.

16. Ever since I saw Mickey Mouse going off on the Jonas Brothers on South Park, I have a hard time watching the Mickey Mouse club with Maggie. I keep expecting him to lose his shit and tear Donald Duck a new asshole.

17. I just found out that my cousin’s brother-in-law is dating Ginnifer Goodwin AKA Margene from Big Love. I wonder what it would take to get him to bring her to Pittsburgh for 4th of July. Lucky bastard!

18. A guy on my team at work grew a Fu Manchu mustache. I’ve always wanted to shave down to that form, but one guy on the team with a Fu Manchu is sweet, two guys on the team with Fu Manchus and the Mrs. might start checking my pockets for receipts to the Backdoor Leather Company.

19. Maggie fell down a couple steps the other day and a small part of me wanted to say “See, I told you so”.

Smokin'

So, how was your Sunday night? Did you expose your junk to any Hindus? I did. Yesterday, Maggie had a fever and was pretty listless all day, so we put her to bed early and settled in for a night of Tivo. After, a few hours of awesomely bad TV, we walked through the usual nightly routine and crawled into bed. Goodnight Ben. Goodnight Erin. Goodnight Mary-Ellen. Goodnight John Boy! All is peaceful at the Crawford abode.

Fifteen minutes later the smoke detector chirps. Maybe it was a fluke, let’s wait it out…chirp. Uggghhh! I get out of my warm bed, throw on my boxers and run down two flights of stairs to get the ladder from the garage. Our detector is about 12 feet off the ground on a vaulted ceiling, nice call home builders. I manage to stand with one leg on the top rung of the ladder and the other on the top of the door frame. I glance down and notice that my blinds are open, so the Indians across the way (dots not feathers) have a great view of my Bahliwood. I look at Amy and say Slumdog Millionaire, more like, Slumdog Underwear. HAHAHA, see what I did there, I changed Millionaire to underwear, because they’re Indian and I was in my underwear. Let me know when they create a show called “I Know I Am Funnier Than a Fifth Grader”, because I would totally win that shit.

Anyway, I manage to unscrew the detector and get the battery out. Victory! Put away the ladder and crawl back into my bed. Two minutes later…chirp. Son of a bitch! It’s midnight, I am half naked, sweaty, wearing my glasses and growing oh so bitter by the minute. I go downstairs to get a new battery, but we are out of 9-volts. I steal one from the baby monitor and of course I have to test it by putting my tongue between the two nodes. Oh, that familiar tingle, we are in business. Now that it’s wet, I also have to check it on each of my nipples. Ooh yeah, we have a live one here, but no time for simple pleasures, its fireman Craw time.

I climb the ladder, replace the battery, connect it back to the ceiling and jump back under the covers. Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…chirp. This time, my mind starts messing with me, was it this detector or was it one of the other three that are within five feet of each other on our top floor? Let the hearing test begin. Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…chirp. Ok, I don’t think it was in here, close that door and let’s listen again. Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…chirp. It was definitely in here! So I break out the ladder and go into my Cirque du Soleil balancing act. This time I press the reset button on the detector, it shrieks like a ten year old girl playing dodge-ball and then it’s silent. Ok, let’s see if that worked. Wait for it…chirp! Fuck me, back up the ladder I go.

This time I take out the battery, disconnect the detector from the ceiling and throw it on the bed. Once again we shut down shop and get ready to sleep…chirp. Really? Much like Dick Clark, this thing just won’t die. I take this piece of shit alarm into the bathroom, grab the scissors, and like a rookie bomb expert I start randomly cutting wires, red. black, gray, white, anything that looks like it’s connected to something. I throw it away, turn off everything and settle back in. Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…silence. That’s right smoke detector, say my name bitch! I love taunting inanimate objects with irrational requests.

I wish I could say this was my first time in the ring with a smoke detector that wouldn’t die, but that is not the case. I’ve gone many rounds with these circular white discs that seem to do more harm than good. It’s like they sit up there on the ceiling, draining batteries, just waiting for me to cook up some bacon, or settle in for a night’s slumber, and then they scream “Hey, look at me. I am going to annoy the shit out of you for then 20-30 minutes, good luck shutting me off, fucker!” ---

Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go apologize to the neighbors and buy a future adversary.

Big City Nights

My team at work hit our revenue goal last year, so we were treated to a night out in DC. The plan was to leave at 2:30 PM, rock a happy hour for a bit and then roll to the Improv for some comedy, but you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men. That phrase always struck me as odd. I seriously doubt that mice have plans and if they do, there is no way that they are best laid plans. It’s not like mice sit around and work out detailed instructions on how they are going to get the cheese off of the trap, or maybe they do, what the fuck do I know about the plans of mice?

Anyway, it was a rainy afternoon as we rolled out of the office, and before we hit the happy hour we made a pit stop at one of my co-workers pads that he rents from friends of his parents. From the moment we pulled up to this high-rise tribute to the glitz of 70’s excess I knew the inside would be spectacular. The place was a perfect hybrid of the Jefferson’s apartment building and the interior decoration from the hotel in The Shining. Long gone were the days of key parties, disco music and copious amounts of chest hair, but the stench of cigarettes and bad cologne was etched into the vibrantly patterned carpeting.

After pounding a few beers, we rolled downtown and met up with the rest of the crew. As the drink orders came around I ordered my chardonnay and I could feel the douchy looks, so the next go round I took off my skirt and ordered a Jack and Coke. (Sorry Andy, I know I should be drinking Evan Williams) I’m not a big whiskey guy, but after numbing my taste buds with the first one, the others when down easy, like Drew Bledsoe after 3 seconds in the pocket.

Once we were all liquored up I somehow ended up walking several blocks arm in arm with our order processing chick, who was stumbling like a newborn deer. Once we got to the Improv, I was ready to get my ha-ha on. I ordered another drink and some quesadillas, and as I took my first bite the drama started going down. “Everybody get your stuff we have to go”. WTF? Apparently, the manager felt we were all too intoxicated to be served. So 30 of us got up and emptied out about a third of the joint.

Dude, this is a comedy club with a two drink minimum. Ok, maybe I shouldn’t have been on stage dancing, and yes, maybe taking off my shirt was a little gratuitous, and when I grabbed the microphone and called everyone in the audience a bunch of pussies, I may have gone a tad over the line, but c’mon people have a sense of humor. As a comedian don’t you want your audience to be a little sauced? And as a business owner do you really want to just write of 3-5k in sales for a Thursday night? So what should have been a win-win-win situation turned into a long walk back to the original bar where they were glad to serve us. What a gip!

Well, that’s about all for now. The 70’s just called and they need me to return the mirror and razor blade I procured from George and Weezy’s pad.

Fathers Be Good to Your Daughters

Yesterday was my final day as a single Dad. I have to admit, it was a very solid week for everyone. In fact, I think that some alone time with the old man may have even helped my daughter become a more well-rounded, and biologically informed individual.

Here are 3 things that Moo learned while Mom was away:

1. Everybody has nipples, usually two.
After dinner we were doing some rough housing when she threw up a little bit, so we went upstairs to change our clothes. As I was pulling her arm out of her sleeve she gave me a titty-twister, and then started poking my nips like she was a waiter using a touch screen. I went into a detailed explanation about erectile tissue, blood flow and how they were useful on Mommy’s but pretty much just decoration, like a bedazzled jean jacket, on Daddy’s. I’m not sure she understood my explanation, but she did say “Daddy two nipples”, which also happens to be my mafia name. And yes my daughter talks only using nouns like a foreigner, but hey, titty-twisters are like saving money on car insurance…so easy, even a caveman can do it.

2. Daddy will never be on the Bravo reality series Shear Genius
Maggie’s hair covers her eyes if you don’t pin it back. If you put a baseball hat and a Chico’s Bail Bonds t-shirt on her, she looks a lot like Tanner from the Bad News Bears. The remedy to this situation is to put a small pink band in her hair, wrap it three times, then clip that sectioned piece of hair so tight that even if she is in a knife fight like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, it will stay in place. The first day I only wrapped it twice and when I picked her up from daycare she looked like Nick Nolte’s mugshot. The second day I only used clips and once again Nick Nolte was waiting for me. My final day of hair care I went all hardcore on her and bickety-bam, that shit was tighter than Arte Lange’s pants at Thanksgiving. This time when I went to pick her up everything was in its proper place, thus saving me from reaching for the staple gun.

3. The difference between pooping and farting.
When I fart she says “Daddy Poop” and when she farts she says “Maggie Poop”. With potty training in the near future, I wanted her to have the skills to make the call as to when she needs changed and when she just needs to blame it on Mommy. So I pulled out the fart machine, I purchased from Spencer’s a couple of years ago, and we discussed in great detail, farts vs. poop. As a result of this conversation we also discovered that the keyless entry on the car keys also sets off the fart machine. Now, all I have to do is hide the fart machine in my mother-in-law’s purse and when she goes to open her car, voila, instant hilarity. We didn’t cover sharts this week, because I think that would be beyond her comprehension level, and I don’t think they’ve written a children’s book on sharting yet. Million dollar idea alert: Write a book called “Everybody Sharts”.

That wraps up my week as a single Dad. Now, it’s time to turn my focus to the NCAA tourney and perfecting my French braid technique during the commercials.
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Livin' La Vida Loca

Hi! Remember me? I used to be the guy who would post here 2-3 times a week. Production has been a little slow at Craws Words these days, and I blame the economy. I had to lay off several Oompa Loompas down at the factory, so I’ve been spending a lot of my time dragging fat German kids out of the chocolate river. Luckily, I have a lot of crazy events coming up, which means I should have a lot of blogalicious material to bitch, I mean, blog about.

Ok, let’s talk about the awesome new TLC show where an annoying couple adopts eight little people and then enters them into beauty pageants, it’s called Jon and Kate Plus 8 Little People in Tieras. In the pilot episode Kate bitches out Jon because he loses one of the little people in a pothole while crossing the road to get to the big Miss Bucks County competition. It’s called “Where’s Phil?”. Then, tune in next week, when one of the little people gets blown away at the beach and once again Jon is on the hot seat. It’s a very special episode of Jon and Kate Plus 8 Little People in Tieras, titled “Where’s Sandy?”

I think I need my own reality show. Although, to get a reality show these days you need to be jacked up in some way. Maybe, as a family we could all amputate one arm and call it Six Legs, Three Arms. I could get all upset watching people clap at a concert. They could show Maggie trying to do Itsy Bitsy Spider. Amy could talk about how much she used to love to drive stick shift. Of course we’d also talk about the advantages. How much easier it is for us to spoon on the couch, and how we only had to buy two pairs of gloves for the three of us. We could also throw in some old comedy bits like: How do you get a one armed man out of a tree? Wave to him. Or we could be at a football game and the wave would come to a halt when it got to us. You know a bunch of PG rated shenanigans that somehow passes for funny in this dumbed-down society we live in.

Well, I better run now, I need edit the intro for our new show:

“Hi, we’re the Crawfords and we had voluntary limb removal to get our own reality TV show. You may think that we’re retarded, but hey, we’re on basic cable and you’re not. So who’s retarded now? We may have to do some things differently, and it may be a crazy life, but it’s our life.”

In a Garage by the Motorway

Now that we have the new car, a major task lies before me, cleaning out the garage so that we can use it for vehicles rather than just storage. After living together for 16 years, the wife and I have accumulated a lot of useless shit. Luckily, we’ve moved a dozen times, so most of that stuff has been donated to Goodwill or tossed into a landfill (Sorry Jason). Unfortunately, I still have those four or five boxes that I can’t bring myself to let go.

Box #1 – Keeper!
I have a box full of childhood trophies that impresses no one but me. “Wow Erik, you won first place in baseball, soccer and football in 1984, you sure were quite the athlete. Now I bet you couldn’t run a hundred yards without your wife having her finger on the final 1 in 9-1-1.”. Of course I can tell Maggie when she gets older, “When I was a kid we actually had to win something to get a trophy, not like this everybody wins bullshit that goes on today.” I think the weakest award I have is a medal that I won in cub scouts for running 10 yards and hammering a nail into a board. I came in third place. That’s right folks, I am a bronze medal winner in the short run / basic carpentry event for 10 year olds, now kneel before me and kiss my ring bitches!

Box#2 – See ya!
I have a box full of pants in various sizes. In fact I’m pretty sure that I have the standard issue khaki Dockers in sizes 34, 36, 38 and 40. Unless I somehow get stranded on a desert island or acquire a severe illness, my ass will not be seeing the inside of size 34 pants in this lifetime. I’ve moved this “brotherhood of the traveling pants” box at least four times, including a trek across the country. It’s time to put an end to this madness, and kick these “skinny man pants” and my dreams of being a smaller human being, to the donation box.

Box #3 – Reluctantly Toss!
I have a box of music memorabilia; tour books, box sets, autographed pictures etc… This shit would be the bees knees if I were 16 and lived in my parents basement, but since I have a job, a wife, and a kid, these treasures will never see the light of day. Before our move back East, I got rid of all of my CD jewel cases, which was tough. Then, I tossed my concert T-Shirt collection that included, a bitchin’ stone-washed Van Halen, a smokin’ tie-dyed Robert Plant and the crème de la crème a three-quarter sleeved Rush, Power Windows bootleg t-shirt that I bought in the parking lot of my first concert for $10. If I can get rid of my first concert T, then maybe it will be OK if I toss my autographed Collect Soul picture. “Whoooooaaaa, heaven let your light shine down, whoooooaaaa, we’ll be lucky to get a gig when the state fair comes to town…”

Box #4 – Reluctantly Keep!
This one has haunted me for years, but there’s no good way to tell your wife, and her most generous family, that several ceramic music boxes are only cool to people who were alive before the Wright brothers set up shop in North Carolina. I have been hauling this box of assorted collectors plates and music boxes for a solid 15 years. Every time we move or I go into the garage to do some organization I run into this box, and like an old rival we stare at each other, and I swear the ceramic figures have a “fuck you dude, you can’t touch us” look in their eyes. They know I can’t “misplace” them without incurring the McMahon wrath, so they just sit there with their diplomatic immunity and taunt me from their stupid Styrofoam boxes that jingle some outdated sentimental tune whenever you even think of touching them.

Throw in several boxes of Steelers collectibles, X-mas decorations, and tons of baby items and trying to make space in a one car garage for an actual vehicle will be like solving a Rubik’s cube. I’ve put these boxes in more configurations than an average game of Tetris and I still can’t clear the board. Now that I’ve given you two references to obsolete games, I’m going to drink some beers sit in the middle of a pile of boxes and read my Pink Floyd Box Set booklet one last time.