I'm dirt.

I am hungry. I always seem to be hungry. My wife says I should just eat, but I wish I didn't have to. How many Somalians want to kick my ass right now? It's all relative, but I wish I could go with an apple and a nut bar a day and call it good. But I need to eat all the time. "Need" is a bit fickle, but if you're someone around me who sees my mood drop like a hot rock, you'd say something like, "Dude, I think you need to eat."

My fear is that if we're being invaded and thrown from our homes, I'm going to be a pretty crappy bastion of strength. "Why is dad crying?" might ask one of my boys as they watch their patriarch gnaw on a tree. Right now I can rip open the pantry and brutalize a bowl of cereal and a tuna sandwich. If we're on the run from barbarians or Nazis, how in the Hell am I going to keep myself together?

My issue with food--or my ridiculous need for it--was confirmed at a party of new age hippy people. It was 1999 and I was on the radio. Everybody who heard me felt like they knew me (and they weren't too wrong as I pretty much shared everything) and they would call up the station and invite me to things as if I were family. I have witnessed other disc jockeys in similar situations and they'd politely decline and go about their lives. I couldn't do it. I could not (cannot) say 'no'. I had this feeling that if I declined then they'd stop listening and tell other people that I was a jerk for refusing to come to their potluck. Little did I know that turning them down actually made me more desirable. Instead, I'd go, sometimes full of resentment about going, and totally turn off an entire crowd of people hoping for something much different.

Anyway, long, long learning curve.

I went to this little get-together near Turtle Lake, a rural neighborhood famous for the new-age lifestyle. That's fine with me, it's just that if I thought I was honest on the radio, it was nothing compared to people who are so comfortable with themselves they don't bathe and share stories of their bowel movements like it's the Dow Jones.

So I ended up sitting in a circle in a well-appointed home by the lake. These people had money, but I'm not sure if they worked. When I'm with friends our conversations are mostly about how we don't like our jobs. These people floated above such petty discourse and wore their leisure like a comfortable pair of pajamas. On my day off I'd be stressed about 'getting things done', and If I were to sit in a circle for hours and hours I'd perforate the gentle mood with statements like, "We gotta wrap this up because I need to work tomorrow."

Anyway, we had candles and Tarot cards and this board game that was supposed to tell us more about ourselves. There was also wine, weed and hardly enough food. I remember crushing a plate of vegetables and dip before realizing it was for everyone.

So maybe they didn't need the cards, candles and board game to find out more about me. But with her smorgasbord of intuitive toys, the hostess discovered which elements people represented. For example, the muscly guy with curly hair who'd just tried out for the TV show Survivor, well he was the sky. He could illuminate things and bring life and bounty and warmth. He was pretty awesome. His girlfriend was fire. Naturally she would blaze a trail through life and bring light to the darkest woods. The girl running the seance was water, and everybody went "ooooh" and agreed how much she was like water. She could flow and move and cut through moutains.

My turn came around and I was dirt. Not Earth or soil, but dirt. You plant things in soil, you live off of the Earth, but dirt...I don't know, it just wasn't ringing like water or fire.

I should mention here that once I arrived at the house, I realized it was a bit of a setup. The Survivor guy and his girlfriend (Fire), wanted to hook me up with Water. Now right away I was not interested in this situation. First off, I had a girlfriend, and secondly, Water was pretty damn annoying.

For a while I was feeling fairly superior until they deemed me dirt. Turns out being dirt means I eat a lot. I'm needy and have many cravings that only end with something being devoured. I do recall one good part about Dirt: I am the creative root to many projects, but again, that creativity, left unattended, leads to exuberant consumption. So the tables completely turned. Fire, Sky and Water looked down on Dirt, and I could feel the bloated weight of the Wendy's hamburger I threw down before going to what I suspected was going to be a vegetarian affair.

The new, locally famous guest was now a gassy liability with confidence issues. I sensed that everybody could sense it. The Survivor guy needlessly flexed to get a carrot to his mouth, and his girlfriend, Fire, asked if it were true that deejays didn't get paid much. Again, dawning on me too late was the realization that if I'd just stayed home I'd be the cool, aloof guy who didn't have time for silly games. At least I could comfort myself with the knowledge that, if I wanted to, I could eat any one of them.

please snowman, don't melt

Not quite as big as last years, but upright.

I've never had a problem with snommen melting, until now. They are clocks but with more death insinuated. What better way to scream "time's a flying!" like frivolity decomposing on your front lawn? You put on the cute nose and add eyes for character, and by the afternoon they're on the ground. I look away when I walk by.

Don't melt, Mr. Snowman. You shrink and the kids grow. Another few gallons of milk is gone; another pair of shoes becomes too small. I pull away to work on a cold Monday morning and see the dirty remains on the lawn. I pause for a moment and think about the Saturday afternoon when the clouds cleared and sun made the snow just right. I forgot about everything while I showed our oldest how to roll up the "biggest ball ever."

I back away and go, and you gradually sink into the ground. There are pictures, too, and I'll look fondly at those and be happy I knew I had it so good. Because snowmen never last long.

Grandma is STILL making sure we're OK

They have my Grandma's brain.

I don't know if it's how most people talk about the death of a beloved family member, but it's how we deal. I'd stepped away from the table at our favorite pizza joint and took the call. It was my Aunt Leslie. She told me the guy from Harvard was on his way to extract it.

The hope is that they can find out something more about Alzheimer's, the disease that for eight years eroded a Parthenon of strength and generosity, wit and wisdom. But I have other requests. While you're looking around Grandma's brain, I would like to ask if you could find how to make her broccoli salad. I've never had broccoli that was so good. And I don't care who you are, sometimes it's hard to get excited about broccoli. I think that salad helped me land my then-girlfriend, Sarah, a vegetarian who wondered how she was going to subsist in my family (Of course she had to pick around the bacon. Grandmas know good broccoli is covered with bacon.)

I'd also request that you find out how to be so durable. My grandma endured harsh winters, two dead husbands, a lifetime of work and decades of self doubt. I've never seen anyone who so often thought they could do so little. So maybe, Harvard scientist, you could locate the epicenter of self doubt. It's the Alzheimer's of the functional--where you just can't remember how good you really are.

While you're in there, you'll see how good she really was.

To kids, grandmas don't have back stories. They were never little girls or playful ladies who danced the night away. They came as you knew them; with their weekly hair appointments, their cat and decorative spoons next to some black and white portraits of the olden days.

They came with candy dishes, afghans and quiet, carpeted rooms.

I called my brother to tell him and he said, "I thought she was going to outlive all of us."

She'll breeze on, in her curly white hair; worrying, doting, feeding, spoiling and making the food you want to eat. There was no stress at Grandma's house. It was a cleaner place, without the clutter. It was like a hotel, but with all the free snacks you could eat. Grandparents don't freak out about the dangers of sugar.

Harvard, we want Alzheimer's gone, and as you can see my grandma is still working to help. It's what she does. But while you're in there, please find out how to be so strong, yet so classy; graceful, but with her ridiculous work ethic. Also, find out how she whipped up that Thanksgiving dinner and that garden and all those quick one liners and the energy to volunteer for hospitals, elections and weeks with the grandkids. It would also be useful to see how you maintian your own vehicle. And to know how to love a grandchild who visits for two weeks and doesn't shower, and maybe even sleepwalks and pees in the bathtub. Check on all that. Oh...and how to leave the world a better place than when you found it. That would be good too.

Don't mention this to Paco

It's been years of sneaking treats and unwanted hugs and kisses, but it looks like the boys have finally broken our firstborn.

If it don't work just keep shoving shit places

It's what dads, or men in general, do. We get our mind set on a goal, no matter how big or small, and we run over entire civilizations to get it done. Sure there are better ways and smarter ways; ways that don't make people cry, but when for once we're actually focused, you need to just back away and hope for the best.

The other day, I had the singular hope of getting Otto dressed. Here's what you would have heard:

"Otto...stop wiggling. We need to get to school."

"Nooo. I don't want to!"

"Don't be a whiner. You love school."

"No, don't...want...to."

"OK, you're pants are on. Get moving."

Whomp.

"Oh..."

Out of the Blue (could be a series coming on)

Quin: Dad...
Me: (still shocked that someone is calling me that) Yes?
Quin: I think...
Me: What?
Quin: Well...i just think that...that...
Me: ...yes?
Quin: Well...I just think that the Incredible Hulk as issues.

And now a gratuitous montage of his Age 4 photos:

Quin Huckin' the Rock - Englewood Rec Center

This was a tenuous affair. We'd suited Quin up for t-ball and he decided not to play. At the last minute he stepped out of the lineup and chose to sit and watch instead. Every game we'd go, and every game he'd leave the field and prefer his role as a spectator. Eventually we stopped going to the games altogether. Slightly sad and frustrated, I asked him, "Why?" He was ice cold and confident with his explanation: "I'm only three; I can't play sports until I'm four."

Oh? If it were that easy we'd just wait until then.

And now...then. Sarah signed him up for basketball.

This morning Quin was excited. He said he wanted to be on the "red team like Tyler," a shoutout to his older b-ball playing cousin, and he donned a hand-me-down jersey from his friend Jake (who played basketball last year despite being three. Rule breaker.)

The first ten minutes at the Englewood Rec Center were golden. We visited Otto who was getting some swim lessons with his mom. Quin announced to the pool that he was wearing a red jersey and that he was going to go play basketball. I stayed mum. Quin deserts pretty much anything his parents get excited about. And I get excited about pretty much everything.

We sat outside the racquetball court where the roundball would go down. Quin maintained his enthusiasm until some other kids showed up. He slunk away under the hood of his coat. Crap. More kids showed up. They bounced around and shouted and peered under Quin's hood to see who the new kid was. I didn't say a word--thought maybe we should skip the whole deal and get some lunch together.

And then a bit of luck. The coach went around the lobby and took role call. He'd recognize kids he new, and quickly move past those he didn't. I thought this was going to doom us. Quin would see all these other kids bonding with the coach and feel like an outsider. But serendipity or something divine stepped in and saved us. The coach approached Quin and asked his name. Quin responded--I was shocked--and then Coach Dave said, "Oh, yah, I remember you!"

Q is the number 1 and 4 together.

What? When? Where? I didn't care. I love Coach Dave.

Quin followed the other boys into the gym and, at the legal age of 4, participated in team sports.

Quin was at a slight size disadvantage.

He not only participated, he was en fuego, hitting shots from all over the floor. Having suppressed my joy for most of a week, I let loose. I wasn't aware of it at the time, but some of the other parents noted my "energy", a word shared by another mom with Sarah. A word that is sometimes used as a pleasant version of "scary". Whatever. It was the best hour of my life.

Quin shot LIGHTS OUT and then came home and looked for worms in the garden.