Who's Who of Q's Two

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You don't realize how lucky you are until you throw a party and people actually show up. I have actual party anxiety because in college I could throw a rager and all I had to do is kick open my front door and yell "I've got three-day-old, warm, flat keg beer!" Within minutes the place would be grinding and vomiting and I'd feel like I was the coolest guy around. Nowadays my last-minute party plans often fall flat. There's something about packing up the kids for an evening of keg stands that hasn't stood the test of time. However, I now have a secret ingredient. It's Q. After all the presents were opened, the candles blown out, and the forty-some people filed out of the house, I confided to Sarah that I must pass the torch. Quin not only pulled in one heck of a crowd--even single, childless people!--but even after we said, "no gifts," he got great gifts. People must have taken it for reverse psychology, or perhaps they think we're emotionally abusive louts.

Q already upsetting ladies by paying more attention to guitar.

One of our favorite gifts makes no noise. Although the fire truck is cool and the Wiggles guitar is clearly Q's top priority right now (which begs this serious side note: Daniel and Ruth Anne, I'm sorry for whatever we did to have you bring that into our house), I believe it is the homemade cape that will stand the test of time. Here is a picture below. The pic is linked to the site of the cape's maker, a woman who's managed to turn her obsessive compulsions into creative endeavors. Her crafts are so much cooler than just very clean hands.

Now I'm going to admit the kind of thing that has social services starting up their van: I already have a cape. Or at least my alter ego does. So this is so cool, I'll even be the sidekick.

Quin takes oath of superherodom.

So thank you everybody for coming over. We thought the party was perfect, except for one minor oversight. Despite a Costco cart worthy of an anti-American propaganda video at a terrorist convention, we forgot to feed Quin. We had trays of fruit and pounds of meat. My sister even made a cake in the shape of a pickle.

And while Sarah and I regaled each other with the day's activities, we questioned one another as to who had taken the time to feed our son. That would be neither of us. He did get a handful of frosting, I recalled, but from his two or three bites of lunch to his bed time just after eight, he had nothing of substance. Now I could dwell on the negative aspects of a malnutritioned child, and I know some negative people will, or I could point out that the party was so great that food was of no consequence. Now that's a magical day.

Happy Birthday!

Otto tore it up.

Local Man Overcomes Generous Spirit

Yesterday I woke up to a very sick child.  The display on my MacBook Pro was broken.  It wouldn’t even greet me with it’s trademark Apple chime.  "Awnnnngnggngg" it booms in a soft and welcoming way.  But yesterday the computer gong was gone.  I’d just used it the night before and all was well.  A few hours later it was dark, everything was dark.  Quin and Otto had to wonder what was wrong with daddy and all the crying.  I was extremely bothered because I was leaving for a week for work and the only solace I had was that I’d have time to write and make videos for the kids.  You know, because that's what Sarah really needs to help her with two kids under two. 

I went to work making calls.  All the Apple Stores around the Denver metro area were too busy to take me.  I would not get my time with a Mac Genius.  And I thought about getting my own Genius.  Really, I imagined I had lots of money and I could hire a Mac Genius to just hang out and wait for when I had a problem and, working under strict secrecy, take some time to show me how to right click.  And I dreamt further of this personal Genius.  He’d get paid about 40,000 a year, and while that wouldn’t be much, he’d get to live in the fancy house we’d have if I had the money to have my own Genius.  Plus, he’d/she'd get to use all the tools I bought to freelance at their own, personal, light-colored wood counter fashioned after a real Genius bar.  And he’d get to use my line that it’s not often that “genius” and “bar” go together. 

I really imagined all of this and I was so desperate it kind of became real in my head, well it had to, because there isn’t tech support that can turn around a dead computer on a Saturday.  At least not tech support that anyone can afford.  Still, however, I’m strangely optimistic, and I believe in the Apple community.  They haven’t all been outsourced or forced into a life of answering inane questions at AOL.  Actually, they are proud, a pride bordering on hubris, so Mac people are out and easy to find.  They even put Apple stickers on their cars.  They’ve come out of their LAN parties and their D & D personas to relish the Apple uprising.  A revolution so powerful that dorky people once shelved away in the dark regions of our shared social experience are represented by the hip, young actor Justin Long.  A guy who can get girls. 

I threw myself into the streets and found the dingy storefront of an “Apple Certified” store.  It looked bad, like I was about to end up trading my Mac for a ColecoVision.  I get screwed easily in desperate situations.  My wife would point to the day when my car didn’t start and hungry and wild-eyed I walked to a dealership and told a car salesmen who thought he might be on Candid Camera that I needed a car “right away.”  He sold me one.   And he did it pretty quickly, too.  Let me just tell you kids that 13.9 percent interest makes a $14,000 balance real hard to pay off.  

I know when I stormed out of the house yesterday Sarah was totally expecting me to come back with one less kidney and the hottest in slightly used Mac equipment. 

Thankfully, however, Nicole at the Mac Outlet on Broadway is still young and honest.  She told me that my problem was a recalled item on my year and make of Mac.  My fix would be FREE!  But I’d have to get an appointment at an Apple Store.  Impossible I told her, but she has friends and true to form her friend circle doesn’t reach much beyond Mac people.  Soon it was 11:20 and I was racing across town to get to my 11:30 appointment with a Genius at the busiest Apple Store of all: Cherry Creek. 

If you don’t know the Cherry Creek area of Denver, it’s the rich part where being in a hurry is futile.  Pretty people with large cars get their nails done while their nanny tries to adapt her knowledge of driving donkeys in Ecuador to parking a Navigator in rush hour. 

I managed to get through an art festival and a family of slow text walkers to get to my Genius. 

Turns out what I needed was a Logic Board.  I don’t know what a "Logic Board" is but I imagine it glows.

And as my fifteen minutes with the Genius fell into the past, his next appointment showed up needing the exact same part.  The Genius noted that my computer was to receive the last Logic board in stock, but for her he’d need to order, and that can take up to a week. 

My default mode is “yes”.  “Yes you can have that” or “Yes I’ll give you my last dollar”.  It’s not even generosity anymore, but a sickness, a reflex of a weak constitution.  And I was presented with a particularly challenging task as this person was not only a woman, but one with very short arms.  And I don’t say that like some would say I have a large head.  People see my head and share with me it's size, but it's all in fun, not in a foreboding medical sense.  This woman's arms had crossed the fun threshold.   They were really tiny, little-person-like T-rex forearms.   Taking the last Logic board from her seemed wrong. 

She even highlighted her “deformity” with a collection of bracelets on each wrist.  Fashion-wise it's counter-intuitive, like someone with concentric circles tattooed around a mole.  But I begin to wonder if it was her secret.  She dared people to look, and when they did they gave up cherished things like computer parts. 

Again, these arms were different, not like anything I’d ever seen.  She was over five feet, had pretty much the gamut of normal features, with the exception of the about a foot of missing forearm.  Her hands were very small, too.  I took in all the details as she spoke, and I felt myself slipping towards regret.  I would, I could feel, give her the last board and curse loudly at myself for an entire week.  And then she said the magic words, words that released me from her spell.   She said, “I’m a graphic design student so this computer is my life.” 

Student?  You have no “life” to speak of.  You live in a bubble protected from judgment and screaming health care reform opponents.  You have pretty girlfriends named Emma and Brittany who have yet to have children and completely forget their short-armed friend for whom they’d lay down their life as long as it meant they looked open and compassionate.  Student.  Whatever.  Taking three hours to have a cup of coffee at Starbucks.  That’s a student. 

I walked away with an appointment later that day to pick up my computer with the new Logic board.  Had that lady said, “Single mother” or “something about charity” I would have caved and she could have celebrated with some shorter form of popping. 

But now I’m writing this on my computer, and I can see the characters. 

Hitch hiker's guide to Cosmic Tumbling

OK, I was thinking about Karma anyway because of the hitch hiker, because of this guy standing on the side of the road on the entrance ramp to I-70 out of Silverthorne. It was just a bad place to be.

I walked out of the 7-11, I saw him and I thought, you know, I owe the Universe. I was specifically thinking of an afternoon when I nearly died of heat stroke while standing on a road outside of Meeker, Colorado. It was 1996 and I couldn’t get a ride. It wasn’t just me. My friend, Jason, was there, too.  He was really worried about me because I didn’t have a hat. I even had hair then. The sun was torching me. So I made a hat out of litter I found in the bar ditch. I was hungry, I was thirsty and I was wearing a hubcap on my head. And then out of nowhere, after a day of being passed by everybody, some making extra trips just to look at us, a Winnebago pulled over to pick us up. It was a grandpa and his grand daughter on a vacation. And I know somewhere there’s a grandmother, and a mother, who would have killed this guy for picking up a couple of skuzzy dudes on the side of the road. But luckily for us, grandpa was without any parental supervision.

It was the best ride of my life. Jason fell asleep on the couch in the RV as it carried us through Rifle, across I-70 and on to Aspen.

The little girl, who might have been 10, sat in the back with us. I tried to make conversation but she was mortified. She just sat and stared at us the way you do your closet door when your sure there’s a monster in it.

I would have fallen asleep but I was worried it was some kind of trap. I’d wake up in a shed to the smell of chloroform with little girl underwear on my head and some old dude with a video camera and a blow torch.

It wasn't a trap, or maybe the old guy forgot as he whistled and drove.  We made it to Aspen and our driver wished us well. His wishes were magnificent harbinger of things to come, as outside of Aspen two twenty-something women would pick us up and want us to come to their sweat lodge.

We turned down their invite. I still blame Jason for convincing me we shouldn’t because we were tired. But I guess I was tired.  I'd just graduated from one of the drier spells of any male's life, a mostly sexless period called "college".  You'd think I would have fought like a hungry bear to change Jason's mind. 

I want to go back and kick my ass.

But because of the old man in the camper who saved us from Meeker, I pulled up to the guy trying to get out of Silverthorne. He was rough, kind of looked like a picked blister. Patches of raw red skin mapped his face. He was dirty and road-weary. He leaned into my car and with one hand pulled his long, greasy mane away from his face.  I should mention that when I pulled along side the road he pointed for me to pull right up next to him. Are you kidding? I’m thinking a major part of hitch hiking, maybe even a rule, is the enthusiastic run between where the hitcher was spotted and where the car eventually stops.

I was about to ditch him when it dawned on me that he might be disabled.

I immediately regretted stopping for him. It wasn't so much his ax murderer motif, but after he’d opened the door and craned his unpleasant visage into my car, he asked me to brush off the seat.

There was a tiny thread from some previous passenger’s clothing he'd singled out. He wanted it whisked away.

He asked me where I was going. I should have said something snappy like, “Somewhere without you…” and peeled out. But I told him Vail. I asked him where he was going. He said Frisco, and while he scanned my vehicle for further inspection, I told him I could drop him off on the way.

His eyes darted around my car for a final judgment and then he said, “I’ll wait for another ride.”

This guy was judging me? He needs a ride. I have a car. He put out his thumb. I stopped. He is who he is. I bathe.

Then again, maybe I deserved it, being the do-gooder thinking my mere presence would save the day. It reminds of what Sarah and I once witnessed on Denver’s 16th street mall. A group of young Christians was going from homeless person to homeless person and, with dour faces of self-importance, offering bags of used clothes to those in need. They were inflated to levels of canonization when they came across a rather vociferous woman on a park bench. In a half circle they gathered around her. She looked up and wondered what she’d done wrong. And then one of the urban missionaries stepped forward with a black trash bag of hand-me-downs. The woman leaned forward and peered into the bag. The Christians stood tall and proud, awaiting the inevitable gratitude that comes with such unconditional generosity. And then she let them have it.

“I want a cheeseburger.”

One of the givers stepped forward and unwisely tried to sell the unwanted gift. He pulled out a t-shirt and explained in soft tones that it was hers to have.

She replied, “I don’t want your goddamn used underwear. I’m hungry!  I want a cheeseburger!”

Sarah and I loved it. And I’m sure there’s something as wrong as thrilling at the sight as it was for the benevolent bible thumpers to think their trash would make someone’s day. But I know how badly I want to get rid of some of the crap in my house, and it just isn’t right to think someone sitting on a park bench is going to want it.

So I shouldn’t think that just because I felt it was my moment to right myself with the cosmos that this guy was ready to go into debt for it.

As I accelerated from his leer I told myself that just my stopping was good enough to make good on the RV in Meeker.

And then I got a flat tire.

I was cruising into Vail, feeling real good with the latest political programming on my IPod. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but I was on my way to deejay a bazillion dollar wedding. They’re lucrative but stressful gigs, and I have to be very formal. I don’t normally wear my nice clothes on the way to the event, but today I felt I needed to cut some corners to make up some time. And then…blubblubblubblubblub...the tire blew.

I was in the left lane passing but managed to get over. I had to unload all the equipment out of the trunk and handle the tools like a little girl holding a frog.  How many passing people must have thrilled to see a man in a tuxedo changing a tire.  I'm sure I'm on several camera phones. 

I got it done quickly, about 14 minutes. I got to the resort with about thirty minutes to spare. My hands were covered in grease and my tux pants were dirty. I also sweat a lot, and on this July day I looked about as scary as Mr. Hitcher Picky Scab. The bride breezed past me knowing full well I was her deejay but looking like she was trying to be invisible.

I think starting off so poorly actually helped me. I worked harder than ever before. I was tired and my head was sun burned, but walking in looking like vagrant had lowered the bar. I astounded the crowd by leaping over it. I incorporated comedy with compassion and compliments. I was the penultimate crowd pleaser allowing bridesmaids to sing along with Madonna and making sure the mother of the bride always had a fresh drink. It was great. A guy tipped me twenty bucks.

I immediately turned the cash over to the bartender.  Without him no one would dance. Especially the once very uptight mother of the bride. Still, I walked away scolding myself for being so generous.  It was my only cash and I had two and a half hours to get home.

The party ended just after midnight. I had enough energy to reload my gear and get to the nearest convenience store for coffee. This, however, would not happen for a while.

With everything loaded in the car, I decided to go back inside for a quick look around. However, sitting on the bench by my Corolla full of electronic goodies, was some dude who kind of made me nervous. Later, I’d find he was quite helpful. He would be from Russia, and visiting a friend who worked at the resort. But at that moment he made me do something I rarely do; lock my doors.

I slyly hit the “all lock” feature and slammed it shut.

And then I stood there and helplessly stared at my 1997 Toyota Corolla. It’s what you do when you realize you’ve locked your keys in the car. You just look dumb. You don’t believe it. I tried every door four or five times before pressing my face up against the window to see if the key was really in the ignition.  It was.  A key locked in a vehicle looks so much different, so much more significant then you’ve ever given it credit for. You peer at it like an important museum piece. It’s untouchable yet your suddenly taken by its place in history.

I went back inside and asked if anybody knew how to jimmy a lock. The bartender looked up from his dishes and said, “I wish I did!”

I asked why and he said, “I just locked my keys in my car, too, but don’t worry I got AAA coming up and there going to take care of it.”

“No kidding,” I said thinking I might be the butt of a joke.

He said he wasn’t kidding and that I could use his Triple A guy. I’d probably only have to tip him twenty bucks.

I stared at him hoping he'd remember I'd just given him twenty bucks.  He kept wiping a glass.  I didn't reach him.

I walked around the Cordillera Lodge looking for some way I could buy something with my card and get some cash back. I was informed that I couldn’t do that unless I rented a room, which goes for something like a 1000 bucks. The news had me slinking away from the concierge desk and on the prowl for a clothes hanger. I had some with my clothes, but they were locked in the car. Eventually, I got one and went to work in the futile effort of stabbing away at the innards of my door. It was about ten minutes into this when I heard a couple people yelling at each other. I turned to see the bride and the groom walking back from their cabin.

The groom was telling the bride to calm down.  She was upset because—and of all the bridezilla madness I’ve seen in my life this is totally understandable—her new, custom-made diamond ring had shed two of its rocks somewhere between the dinner, the dancing and the drinking.

Since I had nothing better to do, I went in to help look for the diamonds. Unbelievably, we found both diamonds. The bride was glowing again. She turned and gave me a fifty. I did the whole polite, “no, no, please” routine until it dawned on me I’d need some money for the locksmith.

Freshly Fiftied and on my way back to the car, I see a guy standing next to my driver’s side door. He tells me he works in the kitchen and that he heard I needed a hand. I told him to give it a shot. Instead of weaving between the window and the door, he has me—and the guy who paranoid me to the point of locking the doors--hold the top part of the door away from the car, then he slid the hanger in and, with one surgical stab, tapped the button.  The automatic locks clicked and the door opened. When you lock your keys in the car the door opening is astounding.

I turned to the door jimmier and thanked him. I got into the car stared ahead.  My right front pocket felt kind of warm.  I paused.

There’s another version of me who has to watch everything I do. He’s a frustrated person. Floating above me and trapped in a silent bubble, he shouts in vain as I prepare to launch a bad joke in a meeting or say something really dumb to my wife. Well he was yelling at me to start the car and drive away. I heard nothing but my footsteps catching up to the guy who helped me open the door.

“Here” I said, handing him the fifty.

“No, really, you don’t have to,” he said.

“NO REALLY YOU DON’T HAVE TO” came a muffled voice.

But I did.

I pulled out of Vail with no cash at all. But I’m pretty sure I’ve even with the universe.

For the Kids: Creepy Guy

Message to the Kids: Conference Daydreaming

Message to the Kids: Dirty Socks

District 9 $$$$$

I just got out of the theater and I feel a little detached, like maybe there's a charity I should be giving to help the aliens.

It's good. It plays on our predisposition to prejudice. It shows us something so different it's vulgar, and then BANG you're clocked with an MJ Man in the Mirror moment. OK, yah, predictable, but you wanna see it coming. Social commentary should always be so cool.

Beware: Social commentary.

If you're just looking for Independence Day tomfoolery and action, then you might want to sneak out early, but please, stay. The aliens need your help.

Who will Like This: Peter Jackson fans, people looking for a break from Hollywood disappointments, and anyone looking to apply their flippen Liberal Arts degree to something.

Secret to Better Enjoyment: District 10.

District 9 Trailer (HD) - These bloopers are hilarious