Nobody appreciates art

Warehouse guy: You're the only person who plays with those blocks.

Me: This isn't play. This is magic.

Warehouse guy: Most people steal them.

Me: Do they know from what they steal?

Warehouse guy: Yah. That's probably why they steal them.

Delivering plastics is like radio with my broadcast significantly narrowed to one warehouse at a time.

I think they just need to chew a little more...

and maybe smaller servings.

Some helpful advice for the holiday season.

Say thanks, plan for death

I must be getting old.  When I think of Thanksgiving I think of a warm house with lots of food.  Then I step back and I see it from a distance and the whole scene looks like a Smuckers jar.  There's smoke coming out of the chimney and every window is lit with promise.  What in the hell is wrong with me?  When I used to think of Thanksgiving I saw a Native American standing in the New Mexico desert saying, "Yah, thanks."   I've still got him on my mind as I run towards that cozy cottage, but those wafts of tryptophan have me forgetting my cynicism.

Next year we're having Native Americans over.  Shouldn't that be the tradition? Or are we just thankful they're somewhere else?

Oh, that feels good.  Sweet, syrupy cynicism.

Another pastime I'm instilling into the holiday is writing your will.  Sit down and have everybody figure out if they want to be buried or cremated, catapulted or sunk.  And make sure to get their recipes.  I don't know who to call to make my mom's cinnamon rolls.  So be prepared.

If I would have gone hiking I would have lost weight and gained something better to write about

The Broncos got killed today. Good news is that they're not bad enough to be anything but first in a division of worsts. You know the standards have been lowered when you're still number one after losing by three touchdowns to a team that hasn't scored since Sarah Palin was cool.

I'm not sure the connection, but the Broncos always lose, and ugly, when my in-laws are in town.  They need only mention the game and the Broncos will set new records for lousy.  I see myself in some parable about the futility of televised corporate entertainment versus family time.

Today I question why I even watch.  I asked my friend Brian how many times he's figured he's sworn he'll never watch them again.  He replied, "About as many as I've said the same thing about drinking." And then we realized the two were related.

I'm not just fed up with the Broncos.  Watching football altogether is a kind of dumbing down experience that has me wondering if I'm even supposed to be watching at all.  Do I really want to be lumped with an advertising demographic so dumb the Cialis commericals warn the pill "does not protect against STDs"? If anything, your penis not working is your best protection.  The sincere, middle-aged man with the pleasant eyes doesn't tell you that when he shares with you his concern about the side effects.  (I like the new way of communicating the nasty bi-products of pharmaceuticals.  It used to be a serious announcer warning of swollen teeth and bleeding palms, but now it's some dude talking like he's reading you a love poem.)

And maybe, just maybe, you can't get it up because your idea of getting it on is sitting in separate bathtubs.

Then again I might need the pill because I don't at all get off on any of the other commercials.  I remember when you wanted a truck with a working heater and room for keg, now a vehicle needs to dodge a giant metronome.  Doesn't do it for me.  Just makes me sad someone wasted valuable resources on a six-story pendulum.

And then tonight I rooted for Peyton Manning.  I'm sorry to all decent, thinking people.  I feel I had to because the Colts beating the Chargers means the Broncos will have a better chance at the playoffs. I don't know why I'd want my team to advance to the post-season only to be slaughtered. It's like encouraging your child to walk...into traffic.

I'll be the creep buying Teen Vogue

You may remember our much ballyhooed road trip of '07. We do, and fondly, as much as some sort of mental retreat from what looks like a long haul to our retirement at 90. Well along they way we stayed with Jim and Connie and their kids in Minneapolis. Their youngest, Allie, showed off her drum skills.

She was so good all I was left to say is that I'd once met REO Speedwagon. One day I'll get to drop her name as well. She and her friends' band, Half Demon Doll, is getting some major recognition and Allie is versatile enough to be the band's bass player. She's on the far right.

Half Demon Doll blew out dozens of other groups to win the Teen Vogue Battle of the Bands. It was a huge, star-studded deal culminating with the finalists at the Hard Rock Cafe in Times Square. There's more on their MySpace page. It also features music (my favorite being Jenny Craig on a Stick) and lots of exclamation points.

Look for Allie and the HDDs in an upcoming issue of Teen Vogue. I'm not sure which one so I'll be buying the next several months "for my niece."

Custody Battle: Look for me and 90-year-old woman on Maury

Quin and I went to Boulder to see Great Grandma today. This is a trip where it would be nice if there were a Santa because Grandma isn't going to remember we were ever there. We get no credit.  Although every time she saw us was like we'd just showed up.

Quin was a hit. He was a little scared though, as one of ladies at the home insisted he was hers. She kept pushing the argument.  She even admonished me for not having water on hand for the child.  I waited for her to get distracted and I almost wanted to remind her she had Alzheimer's. But she was set on getting her boy back. I'm a really nice guy and am often more generous than I should be, but I wasn't going to give her Quin. Luckily, and this is the sad kind of luck, she eventually left to find her husband. I don't think he lives there.

I'm not sure what steals from your dignity more, the mental degradation that lands you in a home, or the activities they make you do. The residents are mostly women, and they participated more than the men who, for the most part, slept in sitting positions around the building.  Sure, women, you live longer, but you're left to sit around and bat a balloon with a giant foam hand.

Quin saw the circle of twenty or so people playing the game and ran to get the balloon. Everybody lit up with his presence. Again, Q got a little scared as the affectionate face touching had a tinge of desperation to it. Once the melee for the child calmed, the game resumed.  I was feeling pretty smug thinking I could out-bat any of them, but was surprised by how good they were. The balloon would be close to hitting the floor and someone would scoop it up.  To add to the fun I counted aloud how long they kept it in the air.  They made it well into the twenties!  And all while holding conversations with themselves. That might be something to think about with your own athletic performance.  Maybe talk about the "goddamn doors" never being open.

I was solicited by one lady who asked if I were ready to go.  I'm not sure where, and she was not at all consoled by my promise that someone would show up and I'm sure take her out.  What kind of liar am I? No one wants to be that sniveling nursing home manager guy who makes up stuff to keep his patients in line, but I found myself wanting to tell her the air outside was poisonous.

My aunt showed up and with her mom we walked around the complex.  Quin kept holding us up with major discoveries. He found several rocks and one time he even came up with a stick.  Grandma kept walking. When we'd catch up the sight of Quin made her glow.  I'd seen it before. It was the warmth with which she always greeted her grandkids.  This was the grandma with the big TV, candy dishes and kid-friendly casseroles guaranteed not to have any of the ingredients we didn't like. A t her kitchen table, under the huge, oversized spoon and fork wall hangings, I never had to worry about coming across a mushroom.  And in the morning the bacon was never fatty.  It wasn't even bacon. She sported for Sizzlean.

That's the Grandma I know. The woman was a star basketball player in high school.  She graduated at 16 and the girl from little Lyons, Colorado took a job in Chicago before before being offered another in Washington DC. She caught the eye of many an employer and suitor, but she wanted to be back home with family. I used to ask her why she left all the opportunity of the big city. She would always reply that if she hadn't I wouldn't be around.  I couldn't argue with that; a handful of candy corn and a belly full fake bacon.  She raised kids, ran a mail route through the mountains and found herself widowed in her thirties.  From there she remarried and started a whole new career at the University Of Colorado School Of Music. When she didn't miss a day in over twenty years of work, the school presented her with a ten thousand dollar check. She refused it, saying the school could use it more.

That's the kind of ridiculous generosity that would have me thinking memory loss is a gift, but to my grandma selflessness and kindness are the soul of her spirit.  She may not remember much, but we do, and we'll share as much as we can before those damn doors close.

update 11/17/08

I'm still at the plastics shop. It's a small staff; Jim, the boss; Sam, the fabricator; Julie, the office manager; and me, the everything guy. The other day I walked into work and asked Sam what was happening. I meant in the most insincere, meaningless, small-talk way, but he told me, "I don't f#@king know, go the fuck upstairs and talk to Jim." I wasn't hurt. Sam is so angry he's developed a new kind of polite. It's very honest. It could make some people cry, but at least when he can't find his measuring tape everyone is equally wrongfully blamed.

Meanwhile back at home, "Uh oh" is the word of the week. Quin first heard it in July. We were at a restaurant in South Dakota when he heard a little girl say it. He repeated it and we were sure we had a genius. Then he didn't use it again until a couple of weeks ago. The first reprise was accurate. He dropped something and followed the gaffe with the necessary pronouncement, "Uh oh". Which is the shortest way to say, "somebody better come pick this thing up and give it to me so I can drop it again." It might be a convenient way for middle management to communicate their role in a project. Now, however, Q uses "Uh oh" to announce something is about to fall. The rule is when you hear "Uh oh" you're about to hear something near our son come crashing down.  Sarah has taken the positive view and says he might be clairvoyant.

I don't know what the deal is with Paco. I had to take him to the vet again. Just like last year he has some severe eye irritations. The vet put some dye in his eye and showed me the abberations with a black light. I say that like it was an easy process, but imagine hugging a sixty-pound bicep. Now add fur and fear and claws. You can barely seelast year's scar next to the bright new three-pronged doggie grooves running down my arm. He has some eye drops and is very good about letting me apply them.

I'd go on about Sarah.  She deserves more than a paragraph. I can't say enough about how cool she is. And she's such a great mom. We were walking somewhere, probably about to do something cool (we do cool things), and I asked her what was most surprising about motherhood. She paused for a second. I thought she was wading through thoughts of five-pound morning diapers and handfuls of previously chewed food. She came back pretty quickly though. "It's fun" she said. "No one tells you how much fun it is."