A couple weeks ago I talked about my "Four S'mores and Seven Beers Ago" t-shirt.  You may recall, if you read the post, that I really loved that shirt but that it was effectively ruined by the oily drippings of a Wendy's hamburger.  

Well, something kind of magical happened after I posted that.  My step-mother, Patty, made me a new shirt with the imagery on it.   It's a darker version - both the image (this time an iron on) and the shirt are darker - but it's just as awesome.  Honestly, it was one of the coolest things someone has done for me just out of the blue.

My step-mother and I have not always gotten along as well as we could.  However, she has, even when times have been kind of dark and gloomy, done some pretty cool and thoughtful things for me.  Things that she didn't have to do, things that wouldn't benefit her at all, but that have really blown me away.

Way back in high school, when I was a junior, I was on the Speech and Debate Team.  For those who know me, but who didn't know me in high school, me being on a debate team probably isn't a real shocker.  Anyway, I competed in a few different events; extemperaneous speaking, student congress*, lincoln douglass, and team comedy.   When I signed up I didn't even know there would be a team comedy category.  However, it did exist and so I signed up for it too.  I wasn't particularly comedic even if I was funny (yeah, I amused people like a clown).  The good news was the event didn't require that we write our own comedy bit - instead we could use one written by a proven comic.  All we had to do, the "easy" part, was deliver the act.

But what act?  That was the question.  My teammate and I settled on the classic, "Who's On First" by Abbot and Costello.   It turns out we were no Abbot and Costello.  Our delivery was wooden and generally not well received.  It was, easily, my worst event during the various competitions.

At this point you may be wondering what this has to do with S'mores.  Well, it has nothing to do with S'mores.  However, I am getting to a point so just bear with me.

While the delivery of "Who's on First" turned out to be much harder than we anticipated it wasn't even the hardest part of the contest.  First, let me remind you that I competed in debate back in the late 80's.  There was no internet.  I could not just ask Google for any bit of information that exists and get it back in about 20 milliseconds.  Thus, finding a copy of the Who's on First transcript was really hard.  Like, impossible hard.  You couldn't go to your local bookstore and pick it up, the library didn't have it, I couldn't order it via Amazon.  We couldn't find the damn thing.

But then Patty stepped in to save the day.  Unbeknownst to me she went out, found a vinyl recording of Abbot and Costello that included "Who's on First" and then she transcribed the whole thing.  I knew she was transcribing it becuase, when I came home from school she was hunched over the old record player listening to two second long snippets of the act, scribblig furiously, and then picking up the needle and moving it back to listen again to make sure she didn't miss anything.

Go ahead, listen to the video and imagine trying to transcibe that damn thing.  I don't know how she did it - and with an old album at that.  But she did and it has always stood out as one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.  

Well, creating this shirt for me ranks right up there with "Who's on First."  It was that cool.  She did it without fanfare, hell she mailed it to me without warning so I just had a random package on the porch when I came home from work.  When I picked it up I could tell it was a t-shirt but it didn't even cross my mind it would be "Four S'mores" - I mean, you can't get it anymore.  But she did.

Very Cool.

Oh, and if you remember why the Four S'mores shirt was so cool to me then here is a bonus surprise photo of me, as a little kid, wearing my Huey, Duey, and Luey Shirt.

Damn I was a cute kid.

Memories

Sometime in 1989 or 1990 I asked a girl out on a date to see Les Miserables at the Proctors Theatre in Schenectady NY.  I worked part-time making ice cream sundaes at the local Friendly’s and the two tickets cost me a full month's wages.  However, I had heard great things about the show and I really wanted to go so I figured it was worth it.

On the day of the performance I got dressed up and awaited my date (who was also my ride).  However, instead of seeing her pull up at the front door I listened to her on the phone backing out.  I had about 20 minutes until the show was about to start, I was a couple miles from the theater, and I had no ride.  I dashed out of the house and began running - there was no way I was letting that investment go to waste.  It’s a good thing I ran distance for my high school track team.  I made it with some time to spare.

While I cooled off outside the theater and elderly man asked me if I had  spare ticket I could sell him.  He and his wife were in town visiting someone and they had just bought a ticket from some other guy who appeared dateless.  I was twice the face value of the ticket so I sold it.  At that point I figured my day wouldn’t be able to get any better - I was about to see the show for free!

I was wrong - the show blew me away.  The stage and set were incredible, the story was engrossing, and the singers were amazing.  It affected me.  My tastes in music were altered, my perception in how a person could sing were destroyed.  I had no idea an orchestra could sound so good.  I had no idea people could hold a note so long.  I had no idea.  I was seventeen and clueless.  I don’t remember the entire show but I know it moved me.  I may have cried.

I walked home afterwards in a daze.  I spoke about the show for days afterwards.  I imagine my mom got tired of me talking about it.  I still talk about it whenever someone gives me the chance.  It has, since that moment, been my favorite show of any kind.

Memories are dangerous though.  Nothing lives up to your memories.  In fact, in contrast most things suck when re-experienced after having been built up in your memories over the years.  My memories, certainly, have made Les Mis better than it could possibly be.  I have seen many musical since then and while they were all, for the most part good, they sucked in comparison to my memory of Les Mis.  “Rent”?  meh.  “Avenue Q”?  boring.  Sure, when viewed independently each of the other shows I’ve seen have been enjoyable - I just don’t compare them.

I have not seen Les Mis again since that day all those years ago.  My memory has just continued to pile on the greatness.  Thus, it was with great trepidation that I opened my Christmas present this past December and saw that Lisa was giving me two tickets to Les Miserables on tour in Greenville SC.

I was excited but I knew nothing could live up to my memory so I tried to tell myself to be happy if it was a third of the experience. I tried to cut back on listening to the soundtrack.  I tried not to think about the show at all.  I had enough distractions with taking a new job that, for the most part, it worked.  Well, except the cutting a back on the soundtrack; that just wasn’t going to happen.

As the date approached I did slow down my soundtrack replays.  I also managed to avoid thinking about the show entirely.  Instead I just focused on the trip that surrounded it.  We took a long four and a half day weekend that involved visiting some friends in Johnson City, TN; two days in Asheville, NC; and a little over a day in Greenville, SC.

Asheville

Asheville is an interesting two full of quirky shops, interesting people, and a personality split between incredible opulence and a artistic freedom.  In general, both Lisa and I really enjoyed our entire visit to Asheville and I would recommend it as a weekend getaway for almost anyone.  We enjoyed the shops, the brewpubs, the street art, musicians, and the Biltmore.

The Biltmore Estate is the largest privately owned residence in the US.  It’s about 125,000 sq feet and was built for a four person family of George Vanderbilt (grandson of the shipping/railroad tycoon of the same last name).  The house is situated on 8,000 acres.  The land is all beautiful.  In fact, the three mile long “driveway” carved through my favorite portion of the estate; a lush and peaceful forest.  Everything about the residence and the grounds speaks incredible wealth.

It’s really hard to imagine a family of four (plus the untold number of servants) living in the house.  The dining room contains two tables - one for 37 people (used whenever more than four people were going to dine) and a table for four.  That room alone was apx 3,500 sq feet.   That’s two normal sized houses laid out in one room.  It is truly something you have to see to appreciate.

However, at least for me, it is hard to separate the majesty of the house with the fact that it is obscene that four people lived that well while, just off the property, the surrounding countryside was populated with poor farmers and sharecroppers.  The house was completed about 30 years after slavery ended and was built, in large part, by black laborers - many of whom were probably born as slaves.  When viewed in that light it just made the house seem wrong.  The Vanderbilts were truly the 1%.

Just about two miles away from the Biltmore lies downtown Asheville and the difference between the two is stark.  That isn’t to say that downtown is dilapidated - it isn’t (far from it in fact) - just that while the Biltmore is overstated elegance downtown Asheville is a comfortable conclave of artists, musicians, students, shops, and brewpubs.

Lisa and I stayed at one of the few hotels in the downtown area so we could just walk around, drink, and safely get back to our room.  The city was full of neat little surprises.  There was a little inverted corner hidden behind a gate that descended into a cozy courtyard, there were some cool cat sculptures including one hanging out on a lamp, and there was a spectacularly restored old arcade (not the video game kind).  We wound our way through all of the downtown streets and on each one we found new cool shops that we couldn’t help but go into.  It was all very cool.

It is my understanding that Asheville has risen like a phoenix in the past twenty years.  They’ve done an amazing job of making it into a city that you would want to live in.  The entire downtown area sees fully of unity and camaraderie.  There is a real sense of community.  Nothing makes this more evident than the Friday night “Drum Circle” that takes place each week in Pritchard Park.  A wide cross section of the city show up.  I’d guess about fifty different people were playing a variety of percussion instruments while at least twice that many stood off to the side and watched while still another fifty danced and hula-hooped.  

From the tone and sound of it I expected it to be a purely “hippy” kind of experience and, for the most part, it was.  However, the crowd was anything but a simple gathering of stoners.  There were people playing drums while still wearing their neckties, there was an older black lady rocking the tambourine, and there were little kids shaking their maracas.  Amongst the drummers the mix was pretty even between men and women but the ages spread from around eleven (a girl) to a woman who was at least seventy.  It was very cool and it filled the night air with a great rhythm as Lisa and I dined just across the street a local (but spreading) joint called the Tupelo Honey Cafe.

Greenville

I had heard some good things about the revitalization of Greenville before this week so I was a little dismayed by the rundown condition of the north-western outskirts we passed through on our way in.  However, once were reached our hotel, on Main Street, I was impressed with what they have done to bring back the “downtown” feel of Greenville.

It is easy for me to compare and contrast Greenville from Asheville but it isn’t fair for either of them.  Greenville made me think of a casual stroll through the park in a seer sucker suit.  It was casually formal.  We didn’t have as much time in Greenville so I can only really speak about the Main Street (yes, it’s actually called Main Street).

Main Street is beautiful.  It is a wide but peaceful boulevard surrounded by expansive sidewalks and draped by tall shady trees.  If, for some odd reason, you were driving down Main you’d feel compelled to park and start walking.  It’s incredibly inviting.  The streets are lined with small, slightly high end, shops, restaurants and cafes.  Most of the restaurants had abundant sidewalk seating.  Plus, and this was cool in Asheville too, their street facing walls were entirely open to the fresh air and the public walking by.   Some of the restaurants accomplished the open wall via french doors and others via a “garage door” type system.  Either way they did it the effect was a welcoming one that was also very comfortable while we were dining.

Greenville made me want to be, at least temporarily, “southern.”  Well, not entirely, but I did want to try and make my visit as authentic as I could so I tried to eat food I just can get anywhere in the north so, for lunch, I had shrimp and grits.  I was pretty sure when I ordered it that I wouldn’t like it and that I was just paying for an experience.  I was wrong.  It was pretty tasty.  The grits were blended with some kind of creamy sauce that had a hint of the shrimp flavor and they went wonderfully with the seafood.  

I’ve had grits a lot in the past and I like them - sort of.  I started eating them when I was in the Army but I didn’t like them with butter.  Instead I prepared them with sugar and milk - sort of like oatmeal - and I really liked it.  It was the only way I’d had grits that I liked.  Granted, these were probably all instant grits, but it was what I knew about grits.  Thus I really didn’t think I’d like savory grits.  I’m glad I ventured out of my comfort zone because I would definitely eat shrimp and grits again.

While I’m not sure it counts as southern, the next morning for breakfast I also went way outside my comfort zone and had corned beef hash with poached eggs.  The hash had a creamy horseradish sauce on it and it was also pretty good.  I’m not sure I’d order it again elsewhere but it was a good and filling breakfast and I’m glad I had it.

One of the highlights of Main Street is Falls Park which is a fantastic multi-layered park right on the western portion of Main.  There is a cool suspension bridge that gives you a great view of the waterfall.  We were lucky to be there on the same night as one of the Greenville high school’s had their prom.  Lisa loves admiring the girls dresses on prom night in Huntington so she was thrilled to get to “prom stalk” the girls of Greenville.  I’d say, for the most part, she loved their dresses.  Plus, it was cool to see so many young people hanging out downtown even if it was just for a special occasion.

The Experience

Starting five years ago Lisa and I decided to stop giving each other traditional “object” gifts from Christmas. Instead, we alternate giving the other an Experience.  So far we’ve been to an NHL all-star game, the Grand Canyon, Niagra Falls/Toronto, and Chicago for Cubs game.  This year we went to Asheville and Greenville but the experience was Les Miserables.  I enjoyed seeing our friends and I loved exploring the new towns but, for me, they were all secondary to Les Mis.

We had our tickets for Saturday night, at 8pm so we headed back to the hotel and got into some nice clothes and then headed to the Peace Center about a block away.  We arrived at 7pm.  We were not going to be late.  It’s a good thing too because the Peace Center doesn’t mess around.  Once it is time for the show to start - it starts.  There is no warning dimming of the lights; it’s just lights out, a quick reminder to turn off your cell phone, and then the music starts.

The Peace Center has an unusual layout - but the acoustics were great (to my untrained ears).  However, before the show Lisa and I had to stand and wait for our aisle to fill.  We were in row V, seats 1 and 2.  That put us three rows from the back of the first floor  - right on the edge of the row. There is no center aisle so everyone has to go in via the end.  That was cool though because we got to meet the nice couple sitting behind us.

While we talked someone mentioned that the set had changed and that the turntable was no longer part of the show.  The turntable was one of the key features of my initial experience that really struck me.  I am pretty sure I made an audible sound of appreciation way back in 1989.  The turntable added a lot of cool depth to the stage and animated the scenery.  It was very cool.  Lisa told me that she knew some people who had seen the old version and this new set version and that this new set was even better.  I was skeptical.  I mean, no turntable and better?  Please!

When the first notes hit I had serious chills.  I’m talking full body goosebumps.  I stopped thinking about how the show was 23 years ago and just instantly lost myself in the music and story of this production.  To be honest, initially I was lost.  I recognized the song but my mind was still a little caught on the turntable so I forgot what the initial scene was supposed to be.  I had to clear my mind and just listen.

Fortunately, the singers were great so it was easy to “just listen”.  At times it felt like they were singing a little faster than I remember the songs going but their voices were still incredible.  It was also interesting that some of the voices sound so similar to the voices I was familiar with from listening to the soundtrack.  

True to what I was told the set was vastly different.  It was far more complex this time around.  There seemed to be a lot more pieces to it and the set was constantly moving and changing as the singers performed.  In fact, the set was so alive it was practically another character in the show.  One of the more notable shifts of the set were after Jean Valjean stole some silver from the bishop.  When he was captured and brought before the judge the set was shifting as he ran so that as the police turned him around he was suddenly facing a very highly seated judge who seemed to magically appear there out of thin air.  The stage hands and manager deserve some serious accolades for their work at keeping the set changing so smoothly.

Just before the end of the first half of the show the screen on the back of the stage begins to show its’ potential but, it is later, when after Valjean flees into the sewer carrying Marius that the backdrop came into its’ own.  In the scene Valjean exists stage right dragging Marius and then the lights shift and the backdrop is altered to look like a stone tunnel.  Somehow, as if by magic, Thénardier seems to walk out of the screen and the tunnel image shifts to make it appear as if the tunnel is even longer.  After Thénardier loots a corpse the scene changes a little more so that suddenly the stage appears to be a full crisscross of catacombs while Valjean enters from stage left still dragging Marius.  It was very cool - and thanks to the lighting - and the shifting tunnel scene on the backdrop - I said, out loud (and not in a whisper), “That is cool”  I felt a little guilty for bursting out like that but it was really cool.

I did miss the turntable and I don’t think this set was better than the old one.  But, it wasn’t any worse either.  It was cool and great in its own way.  They were able to do some amazing things with the set.  I’m still not sure how they managed to change it around so frequently and so quickly.  It was extraordinary.

There were a few other changes compared to my memory, most notably how the climax at the barricade was handled.  However, it was still gut crushing.  In my memory Gavroche’s final scene takes places on the top of the barricade and was shocking in its delivery.  However, in this rendition you can’t see Gavroche but Grantaire’s scream of anguish is painful and may have caused a tear or two to be shed.

The entirety of the performance was really good.  The only real knock I have is that the singers weren’t always as clear as I would have liked so that I couldn’t understand them.  However, considering my expectations going in where that it would, maybe, be about a third as good as the show of my memory, it was exceptional.  This was one of those rare memories that, when revisited, wasn’t a let down.  I can’t remember any other time in my life where that happened.

The only downside is now the pressure is really on me to come up with an experience for Lisa this Christmas.

Some words are generally considered abhorrent within our society.  However, with all of these words, a speaker usually won't know the word is abhorrent until they have used it in a way that causes a negative reaction from anyone listening to the speaker.  That's how I found out some of the most dangerous words in our vocabulary are considered extremely offensive to some portions of our population.  Typically, after learning that lesson I make a concious effort to not use the offensive word again unless I'm either relaying a past conversation with someone or I am making some sort of commentary on the word or words in question as I am about to do.  Thus, be prepared for an onslaught of words that are generally considered offensive by the population at large.

Fuck, Nigger, and Cunt are three words that jump out, in my mind, as offensive to most people in our society.  I don't believe I ever used Fuck in a way that led me to learn it was offensive - I think I just picked that up from the dialog of people around me.  Same with Cunt.  In fact I find that word more offensive than Fuck - probably because it is used as a mysogonistic term meant to belittle an entire segment of the population.  Nigger is in a class by itself because not only does it belittle an entire segment of the population but becuase our societyis hyper-sensitve to the word to the pont where it comes in two forms; nigger and "the n-word."

I learned how offensive nigger is when I was about seven.  Previous to that day I had no idea nigger could be used as a word all by itself and I definitely didn't know it was used as a pojorative term directed at the entire population of black people in the United States.  I guess that's just one more of the minor privledges bestowed on me for being white.  I didn't know a word could have that much power or have such a profound effect on another person or group of people.  To me it was just part of the name of a prank.

You see, when I was about seven my parents went out for the night and some kids came by and played an age old prank on my brother and I.  They knocked ran away before we answered the door leaving us wondering who was fucking with us.  Yeah, we used fuck as a word quite a bit even when we were little - just not around adults.  Later that night, when our parents came home my dad asked me if anything had happened.  I said, "no, nothing much, just some kids nigger-knocking."

It was at that point, and for the next few minutes as my ass got worn out by my father, that I learned how horrible a word nigger was.  And, from that moment on I didn't say it again.  I adopted the "n-word" as a place holder when discussing it just as polite society dictated I should.  I've never used the word in a hateful way or to describe a person.  I've never even thought of a person as a nigger.  My dad's explaination (and accompanying ass-whippin) were sufficient to get the point across.  I don't normally find myself in conversations where nigger is a word that has any place in it; unless we are discussing that word specifically and even then once the word is introduced it is usually easy to get around the use of it by just referencing "the word".

I don't like saying it - it has an ugly feel on my tongue.  I don't like writing it either.  It's just an ugly word and each time I come across it 300+ years of horrible history smack me in the face.

But, thanks to Louis C.K., a comedien, I don't like the n-word either.  I'm not going to repeat his insightful commentary - instead here is a video.

He's right; it's a cowardly way of approaching the topic and people do need to take responsibilty for their own shitty choice of words.

Of course, not every word has as much baggage as nigger.  Some words are used in jokes and are still highly offensive to different segments of our population; words like "Jap" or "Wop" - or using "Jew" as an adjective; like "he really jewed me".  Those are each really shitty choices of words and cause unnecessary harm when used - obviously not physical harm but emotional harm.  Plus, they damage you in the eyes of those you are speaking to which has a detrmintal effect on the conversation or partnership you're trying to participate in.

I've never used those words either.  I've always avoid them and pollack, spick, wetback, chink, and many more.  I've always known, at least since I was seven, that those were shitty words and that it isn't even good to think in those terms.  But I have always used "gyp" in the context of saying someone ripped me off.

It turns out "gyp" is no better than Jew, kike, wop, or even nigger.  It is a stereotypical term applied to the Roma people.  Now, to be honest, until I learned about "gyp" I didn't really know there was a "Roma" people or that gypsy meant the Roma or that gyp was short for gypsy.  I didn't know any of that and nobody ever took me to the woodshed to explain why it was patently offensive to say gyp.  It's like saying all of the Roma are crooks who rip you off. It's just like saying all Jews are cheap.

Honestly, not saying "gyp" is harder for me than not saying any of those other words.  I have a lifetime of practice using gyp as a part of my normal vocabulary.  Some who read this might think I'm just being politically correct.  Well, you're right I am.  Because most of the time being politically correct just means not being a racist or sexist asshole.  I'd prefer not to be a racist asshole to any Roma I happen to meet and I don't want to help keep the term gyp alive as a slander against those people (even if most people, just like me, don't know gyp == "Roma insult")

This is probably the first time I've ever tried to conciously remove a word from my vocabulary.  I've not really given this as much thought as this post might indicate.  In fact, when I first read about how gyp=Roma insult, I thought "Fuck! How is gyp an insult and why should I change?"

But then, I thought - what if Gyp had the same heady weight that nigger did in our culture.  Would I want to use it then?  Would we suddenly start saying "the g-word?"    Seriously, go back and read this article and replace nigger with gyp everytime.  Imagine that same kind of discomfort everytime you said gyp.  Imagine saying nigger to a black person and their reaction; the anger and humilation that they might feel.  Now imagine how a Roma person would feel if you used gyp to them.  I doubt it's much different.  That's why I don't want to use gyp to mean "rip off" anymore.  It's a bullshit way for me to talk and it's lazy.

Fortunately,for me, I have another word I also like to use, "Chinch" or "Chinchy"; for instance today, at Steak Escape I know I did not get a full portion of steak on my sandwich.  Previously I might have thought, "Boy, the cook really gypped me on my steak" but now I can safely say "He chinched me on my steak"

Chinchy has no racial or ethnic background - it just means "cheap, singy, miserly" and is actually more appropriate in meaning to how I always used gyp anyway.  It wasn't like I was ever actually ripped off.  It's a perfect word to describe my feeling when I feel like I didn't get my fair share of something and it has no baggage (please tell me it has no baggage).

This past weekend we made the long drive up to Cleveland to visit Lisa's family.  It is, possibly, the last chance we wil have to visit Lisa's grand-uncle (or is it great-uncle) Gordon.  He is a cranky and funny old guy who is reached a point in his life where things pretty much all suck.  I feel really bad for him and I am glad we were able to go visit.  I wish, at this point in his life that we lived closer so we could spend a more time with him.  He acts like it's all a pain in the ass but he clearly wanted to be with people and have them sit and chat with him (even if he can't hear you).

Anyway, I don't want to dwell on the sadness of Gordon's situation for this whole post - instead I want to direct you towards the humorous observations and comments by my daughters who are all too innocent (not that that is a bad thing)  at times.

During the previous two weeks there we some visiting students from Hong Kong at the girls' school.  A couple of the kids spent the time in each class thus Shannon and Emily each got to meet know at least two of the kids.  One of the boys visiting with Shannon's class was explaining a bit about their life in Hong Kong and discussing the foods they like to eat.  Here is how Shannon described what he told her:

We eat Fish Balls.  Not actualy fish "balls" but fish rolled into balls.

We were driving up to Clevelend when Lisa told us this and Shannon's tone and delivery were spot on.  We've never heard Shannon mention balls in that context before (or swear even) so we busted out laughing.  Shannon didn't seem to understand what was so funny so I asked her if she knew what fish "balls" might be.  She had no idea.  I laughed a bit more because she said had repeated the kid in such a knowing way.  I opted out of explaing the anatomy of a boy at that moment in time.  Oddly enough a second opportunity presented itself on the drive home.

It turns out the girls really like to listen to and watch a silly video on youtube called "The Narwhal Song."  Her it is.  It's pretty odd and kind of funny.  The key lyric for this song comes in at around the 27 second mark:

"Just don't let them touch your balls"  Emily, of the two, understood from the animation that "balls" might be a human body part but had no idea what they were.  So, out of the blue on the drive home she asks; "What body part is a ball?"  Lisa was a bit taken aback and said, "What do you mean?"  I am pretty sure she wanted to avoid the question.

I asked, "What context are you asking this in?" Because the singular ball left me wondering if I had heard her right.  I had.  She said, "In the narwhal song it says Just don't let them touch your balls."  And of course she said it in a flat deadpan way that made us both bust out laughing.

Of course Lisa just had abdominal surgery so laughing is pretty painful for her but she couldn't stop.  I was trying to drive safely but could barely keep my eyes open.  I couldn't believe this song had that lyric hidden in it.  I've heard them watching the video before and thought it was totally innocent.  Clearly I hadn't listened closely enough.  So I bit the bullet and decided I'd just explain what "balls" were.

Emily's reaction?  "Do you have balls dad?"  Lisa a laughed again - which was getting more and more dangerous for her becuase she also had to use the restroom - badly.  I assured Emily that yes, all boys, the males of all mammal species, have balls but that they are technically called testicals.  She didn't understand they were down yonder (she thought it was gross they were near a penis) so I had to then explain that they were the source of sperm; they were a seed factory.  She laughed at that and the conversation then went on a strange tact to testicular cancer and finally to some cartoon they watch on PBS that had discussed chemotherapy before.

Balls by your penis wasn't the only gross thing Emily discovered this weekend though.  Oh no.  Lisa's dad had a copy of the SI Swimsuit issue (he has a subsription to the magazine).  He tried to slyly hand it to me so his wife wouldn't see and of course Emily came right over to see what I was looking at.  She saw the swimsuit of the girl on the cover and said "Eww, her swimsuit is way too small; it looks like mine" (she is a very small 8 year old).  "She needs to wear a bigger suit."  I then had to try and explain that girls bodies don't really look like the photos and that some digital artists actually change the bodies in the magazine using photoshop.

Then she discovered the cologne inserts in the magazine and fell in love.  I don't wear cologne so this is probably the first time she has smelled any.  She tore a page out and rubbed it on my neck and that wasn't enough so she rubbed it on her nose and proudly told everyone she now had a "boy perfume nose" She tucked the page in her little bag and whenever she couldn't smell it anymore she would rub it on her nose.

The next day I foolishly threw the page away. She was exceptionally disappointed in me so I had to go into the magazine and tear out a couple more pages for her.  It turns out she wanted to make a poster out of the page she had.  She likes the two new ones but they don't smell as good as the one I threw away.  For a brief moment there I was a complete failure of a father. 

She still has those two pages and I, in an unrelated event, have a sprained right ankle.

Shannon was given a pogo stick for her birthday (I'm sure you can see where this is going) and I foolishly tried it out. I had tried it at our house and couldn't really get it to bounce (I'm too fat I guess) and it hurt my knee.  But, knowing I sucked at it and it hurt my knee didn't stop me from trying it again while were in Cleveland.  I managed to "bounce" twice before come doing way off kilter on the third landing and wiping out backwards.  I fell into lisa and on my ass and somehow twisted my ankle.  I think I wanted Shannon to wear pads when she uses it now.  That thing is dangerous.  Of course she hasn't busted her ass yet but I suspect that it is only a matter of time.  I lover her dearly but she has a history of being pretty clumsy and that pogo stick is pretty difficult.  I think I'd at least like her to wear her bike helmet with it.  Ok, so I'm a paranoid dad what of it?  I mentioned it to her and, with a straight face, she said, "I'm not the one who fell."  I'm glad she didn't.  It hurt.

Shannon busting her ass wasn't the only thing that worried me this weekend.  Last night, at the restaurant on the way home (a cool little brew pub in Marietta Ohio, The Marietta  Brewing Company Emily noticed someone showing some "plumber crack" - ok more like an entire plumber ass - while we were eating.  She was sitting opposite the table from us and said, "That guy needs to wear a belt, ewwwwwwwww!" pretty loudly.  Lisa and I look over our shoulder and the offending person and we both busted out laughing again.  I had tears in my eyes when the waitress arrived at the table and Shannon was laughing so loud other patrons were wondering what was going on.  The waitress asked what could be so funny and I told her I couldn't say, it was inappropriate for me to repeat.  She gracefully accepted that answer and finished doing whatever she was doing before moving on.

It took me a while to stop laughing and, of course, Emily loved the reaction so she kept making little comments.  Lisa was in serious pain from laughing so hard which, sadly, just kept me laughing.  Then Lisa tried to scold Shannon for laughing so loudly and I reminded her that Shannon was only 11 and that it was crazy to expect her to act like a 40 year old especially when the two 40 year olds at the table weren't acting any better which set Lisa off laughing some more.

Eventually we were able to recover our composure and finish our dinner.  Lisa, couldn't leave well enough alone though so she snuck over to the waitress to explain the incident.  The waitress got a good laugh and said she and the rest of the waitstaff had already reached the same conclusion that this guy needed a belt.  I certainly wish he had worn one as I didn't really want my young daughters to see a hairy ass this early in their lives.

I kind of prefered their pre Cleveland trip innocence but they certainly gave me plenty to laugh about this weekend. 

Four s'mores and seven beers ago we formed this campsite to form a more perfect desert.  That is the tag line I used when describing this cool t-shirt I had which I affectionaly called my "camping shirt".

I wore the shirt even when I wasn't camping and I even had a few people tell me they wanted one. But, alas, it is no longer for sale and I no longer have mine - it is ruined.  In fact, I ruined it last night and so, today, I'm in a little shirt morning.

This is how it went down.  Yesterday, after Lisa's long day, I was pretty hungry but I had to go pick up the kids and dinner.  On my way to the girls I decided to swing into Wendy's for a late (3:30pm) lunch.  I was going to get my old stand by, the spicy chicken sandwich, but decided at the last minute to go with a quarter pounder with cheese.  It turns out that was a bad decision.

As I drove over to the babysitters house I attempted to eat the burger while it was still halfwrapped in butcher paper.  Wendy's burgers are a lot more greasy that I knew and their butcher paper is neither water proof nor guaranteed to be well folded on the bottom of the burger.  As I took a bite out of the sandwhich a steady stream of grease poured out of the bottom of the paper and left a solid trail down my shirt and onto the pocket of my jeans.  I don't care about the jeans but I was pretty upset with myself for coating my shirt in burger juice.  It was almost enough to turn me into a vegetarian - well, for a week maybe.

I still had some hope though - Lisa recently started using this magic potion called carbona which is designed to get grease stains out like they were nothing.  After getting the girls I headed home, took off the shirt, and got out the carbona.  It claims it can remove a grease stain in three easy steps.

1. cover stain with carbona and put shirt on a clean white cloth.
2. tap on the stain until the stain "falls" out of the cloth and lands on the cloth.  (move the cloth and repeat as necessary).
3. Rinse in warm water and then wash.

I did all of that; though I guess I didn't tap and shift the cloth enough because, last night, when I removed the shirt from the dryer, the long greasy stain was still there.  It looked exactly as it did a moment after the burger pissed all over me.  Even though it is a camping shirt I don't really like to wear stained clothes - call me an elitist - but I just can't do it.  (Yeah, I know, first world problem; this whole post is one - really, I get it.)

Thus, I threw the shirt away and figured I'd order a new one today.  But, alas, it isn't for sale anywhere.  Woot, where I bought it originally, no longer sells it.  They do some strange "reckoning" thing and the lincoln camping shirt has been "reckoned" which in woot speak means discontinued.  Threadless, another online shirt vendor, has some kind of election to determine if a shirt will ever be for sale and I guess Four S'mores just never made the cut. 

The guy who came up with the design doesn't seem to sell the shirt either.  In fact he just calls it a collectible now.  I'm kind of bummed.

I know, this shirt really shouldn't mean anything to me - it's just a goofy play on words with a drawing of Ol' Abe roasting marshmallows.  But, in actuality, it meant a little bit more to me becuase it reminded me of a shirt from my childhood.  Hold on cause this is pretty sappy.

When I was little, I don't know how old, maybe five, I had a long sleeve blue shirt (with yellow sleeves) that had Huey, Duey, and Louie on it.  They were roasting weiners or marshamaollows while wearing their coonskin hats.  It was my favorite shirt.  At some point my mom had a school photo taken of me in that shirt.  It is one of the only photos of my childhood I always remember.  It hung on my Aunt's wall well into my later teens.  It was the photo I pasted to a christmas ornament and gave to my parents as a gift (which I have now).  I loved that photo not because I was in it but because that shirt was in it.  It is my favorite shirt from my childhood and the Four S'mores shirt just brought it back to me in adult form.  Four S'more's wasn't my favorite shirt now but I did like it and  I'm a little bummed I had to trash it.  

Next time I'm getting spicy chicken; that stuff never drips.

She definitely has the hang of riding and steering now.  Her confidence is getting better and better.  She still can't start herself but I think she'll have that down in a couple days.  Stopping is a little tricky for her. She has a pedal break and hand brakes. The hand brakes are a little too far from the handlebars for her tiny hands and she tends to not pedal backwards hard enough to have much effect when using the pedal break.  I think she'll get the hang of it but I need to step further away from the bike for her to really commit.

Here is a video of her riding (I'm running along with her filming with my phone so I apologize for the shaky quality).

This past weekend Emily and I spent quite a bit of time getting her rolling.  She is now, officially, a bike rider.  She had to overcome some serious panic issues but, once she did, things went pretty smoothly.

She was actually really funny throughout the process (if you consider panic humorous).  On Saturday, while riding, when I let go of the bike she screamed, "GRAB THE BIKE, GRAB THE BIKE" over and over until I did, in fact, grab the bike.  She didn't crash but she was convinced she would.

Eventually she stopped screaming and, at one point, while riding on the brick street, I told her how great she did for not panicking, she said "I panicked, my heart was racing really fast."  I told her that was ok at least she controlled it.  Then she went into a story about how nervous she gets when playing hide-and-seek just before she is found and how her heart races really fast then too.

Yesterday we hit the streets again to make sure she was maintaining the little bit of comfort she had built up on Saturday and she did great.  She rode her bike,without me holding, around the majority of our block.  I only had to help her on a bit of an uphill and once to help her correct her steering so she wouldn't slam into a car.  She still gets really nervous when her direction changes without her wanting to and she doesn't always correct it quite right.  In fact, she is pretty funny about that too becuase she tends to lean off the side of the bike away from whatever she is afraid of hitting.  But, when she leans ,she locks her arms in a rigid position which keeps the bike going in the undesired direction.

I believe by this weekend however she will have the complete knack of it (including the start) and she'll be crusing up and down the street without me near her.  I post a video when that happens.

The other day Posterous announced they were bought by Twitter.  At first I was pretty laissez faire about it but then I started to worry if maybe posterous was going to die since the purchase was probably a talent grab as opposed to a technology one.  Once I started thinking about the chance that posterous would go away I started to think about how I would handle that move.

Thus I setup a new blog blogger and configured posterous to push anything I post on it to the blogger blog.  I also set it up to post a copy on my old wordpress blog.  I also did full import of my old wordpress blog into the new blogger blog (less comments).  Thus, I'm theoretically ready for a move.

The problem is I don't really like blogger that much and there were reasons I stopped hosting my own wordpress blog.  Thus, even though I've got a couple backup plans I'm not really happy with the scenario at all.  What to do?

I guess I could move to tumblr - but I wasn't a huge fan of it when I used it either.  What other services are out there?  I realize self-hosting is the safest bet but no matter what platform I self host I will still have to deal with the reality that the server I'm on seems to go through serious bouts of performance anxiety.  Thus I'm kind of in limbo.

Does anyone want to offer up some suggestions?