Sure Shot

I can’t think of anything to write from a personal point of view. The reality is, my life is fiction. I know some of you click this page to read the serialized fiction I’ve invested so much of my time. While others tell me that they wait for that one personal post of the week where I detail some level of hijinks with my wife and three daughters. Well, right now those four women are a disappointment. They’ve been boring. They’re doing what they’re supposed to and being great people. How dare they NOT think of My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog?

Adam “MCA” Yauch of the Beastie Boys died Friday after a three-year battle with cancer. He was two months shy of his 48th birthday. That makes him just six years older than I. Mortality in your forties is very daunting. Beastie Boys are my ninth favorite band of all-time but I was even more of a fan of Adam Yauch, the man. Yauch did something I’ve rarely seen among popular musicians. He aged gracefully. After introducing himself to the world as a beer swilling obnoxious gravel-voiced lout in 1986, he evolved. The man who died two days ago was a learned one. He studied eastern philosophy, became a Vegan Buddhist, married, and became a committed father.

 Watching and hearing him perform was a lesson in adult artistry rather than a spectacle in suspended adolescence. I can’t stop listening to my favorite Beastie Boys albums, Paul’s Boutique and Ill Communication, their hip hop masterpiece and great rock record respectively.

Being my age, 41, comes with some rules. I don’t like rules, but I know they’re there. I can’t just leave a stressful day behind with booze or latenights or without obligation. My wife and daughters have me around for many reasons, and being an irresponsible jackass isn’t one. Adam Yauch’s early death and the precipice of finishing my first book have made me very introspective and, quite frankly, scared. I wonder if I can age gracefully and be the kind of man Yauch succeeded in being, someone comfortable in their own skin who gave as much as he received.

To nod to Yauch and his now Rock and Roll Hall of Famed inducted group, I’m “sure shot” about something. I won’t stop writing and it’s a pleasure to share this small corner of the internets with each of you who read.

Brokenhearted

It’s happened. For the past four years, I’ve swam against the tide. Yesterday I felt myself drowning in the waves of reality. I’m a grown-up.

I try very hard to relate to my three daughters. I don’t immediately think their tastes and styles are dumb or odd. They are, but I always give them the benefit of the doubt. When I’m in the car with them I let them listen to their own music. This means the three major pop stations in Atlanta get plenty of work while we’re driving. Every once in a while one of their songs will bleed through my music snobbery thickened ear drums and I’ll think, “hmmm this isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” I’ve played Moves Like Jagger and Stereo Hearts in blog posts. My teenage daughter and I have a weird mutual admiration of Maroon 5, although Adam Levine’s twitter account dooshery has made me rethink my participation. But yesterday I realized my machinations have been for naught. I’m older. They’re younger. It’s time to give up the dream.

A few days ago, my sixteen-year-old was in a bad mood. I called it Thursday. In trying to cheer her up, I actually said.

“Baby, what do you think of Karmin’s Brokenhearted? That guitar riff’s decent and I don’t want to punch the radio when it comes on..”

Her blue eyes sparkled, her mouth formed what might look like a smile if the Mona Lisa was being tickled, and she caught herself agreeing with me.

“Ummm, yeah, well, maybe. It’s okay I guess. I gotta go upstairs.”

I claimed victory and threw out my shoulder patting myself on the back. I even went as far as tweeting and the facebooking the song, asking my alleged friends and followers if it was okay to like the song. The resounding response was “you’re trying too hard, fool.”  I didn’t heed the advice.

Yesterday, while driving with my teenager and my wife, a song came on the radio and I didn’t recognize anyone involved. The DJ said “here’s David Guetta with, (the name of the song).” Then a woman’s voice “sang” the first “verse”. The music was terrible. The voice was female. It didn’t sound like a David, and I’m very open minded. I asked my wife.

“Who is this? The voice sounds female and vaguely familiar.”

My wife was equally clueless and my teenager, exasperated, announced.

“The DJ in the song is David Guetta. The singer is Nicki Minaj. The DJ does all the work so he gets credit.”

 I was “this close” to telling my kid how dumb that sounded. A DJ being credited with the song. Minaj was singing, all he did was turn tables and push buttons! Then it hit me. This is her time. This is her music. David Guetta, Nicky Minaj and Karmin are her Prince, Madonna, and Def Leppard (the artists on the radio when I was sixteen).

This sobering experience produced a mourning time for me. This will take a while to get over. I’m not cool. I’m not hip. I’m not going to relate to my teenager or her sisters for many years. When they start filing their own taxes, applying for home loans or looking for deals on gas grills, I’ll be available for them. I’m brokenhearted.

I stand by my claim that the guitar riff’s not bad and this song is catchy. Plus, they’re actually singing live on SNL. Here’s Karmin’s Brokenhearted.

 

The Weight Of Her

She’s a smoking hot mess of wonder and hurt. That feeling that not only breaks your heart but also questions your intelligence and brings your sanity into discussion. Regret is a bitch.

Last night I had a 10 minute phone call with someone who played an important part in mine and my wife’s lives years ago. It’s not hyperbole to write that she was close to being our best friend. After I hung up the phone, I realized that by the mistakes she’d made, and the growth my wife and I had experienced, a friendship with her would be unlikely. We are just in different places. During the phone call regret was spoken of dozens of times. You often hear people say “I don’t have any regrets” or “I don’t live my life with regret”. Those are lies. Everyone wishes they hadn’t done, said, slept with, been around, drank, drugged, misunderstood, yelled, pushed away, and forgotten things and people. That’s regret. You’ll always have it in your life.

What’s every middle-aged person’s favorite cliché?

“You learn from your mistakes and become a stronger person.”

What that really means is,

“You know you screwed up and you were wrong and a full-blown idiot. Now, don’t be that way again and hope the people you hurt don’t burn you in effigy.”

At 41 years old, I have a list of people who probably call themselves my enemies. I have moments in my past where I just wasn’t a good person. If there was a department of do-over, I would be an all district performer in apologies and amends making.

I believe, and this may reveal great arrogance or expansive naiveté, that how I live my life now shows reverence to regret. My last cliché I offer on this subject is, I live my life how I want, it makes me happy, and I hope that’s good enough for those paying attention.

I hope the person I spoke to last night gets through her rough time, finds out who and what she is, and then makes the life she should. I’m just glad the weight of her, that big bad mama known as regret, is no longer weighing me down.

My friend Angela wrote something similar on her blog today: http://tiaras-and-trucks.blogspot.com/2011/11/rethinking-regret.html?spref=tw She a terrific writer. I hope you read what she says on the subject.

New Helene Troy episode late tonight, around 11pm. Then more Nanowrimo writing.

Today’s song is from the great Butch Walker. At first listen, this song is a about a bad girl. On 100th listen, you understand that the song is about whatever stress, bad feeling, or regret you’re carrying around. Here’s the rocking tune, The Weight Of Her. Play it loud.

Perfect Situation

Three years ago, my wife and I first discussed getting married. Well, to be clear, my 15 year old daughter, then 12, talked about my then girlfriend and I tying the knot. Here’s the story.

My daughter, Tay, and a buddy of hers came over to my house with Bobina. My youngest daughters were elsewhere. We goofed off, talked, played games, and they left because the girls had school the next day. On the ride home, Tay blurts out, “so are you guys getting married?”. She was good with the idea but her mom and I had only dated for a few months. Suddenly the issue was on the table. That night ended with my girlfriend telling me “I wanna marry you.” Three months later, this happened.

Then something even weirder happened. We became this:

I learned about a blended family. We’re one dude, one girl, one chick, two girls, a dog that’s always around, two kittens. The Bradys are three girls, a mom, three boys, a dad, a dog that disappeared, a housekeeper that lived in the laundry room and had a butcher boyfriend, and the collection of the worst hairdos. Forever, they seemed like freaks. I had a mom and dad that were school sweethearts. These days, being married for a second time to woman with kids; the line used in the Brady Bunch “the only steps in this house are the ones going upstairs” is like Walt Whitman poetry. I identify with that gloriously bad television show more every day.

Recently the creator of the Brady Bunch, Sherwood Schwartz, passed away well in his 90s. Also, the youngest daughter of the Brady Bunch, Cindy, also known as Susan Olsen, turned 50 years old. It made me slightly nostaglic for the show because I am in a similar situation, albeit, nonfictional, as the Bradys. The differences are stark. The exes of my wife and I are not dead. There is no maid. I don’t have perm. My family doesn’t take trips to Hawaii. But the sentiment of being a blended bunch exists. I consider all three of my daughters, mine. We talk about our problems. Every 25 minutes or so, I give a convoluted speech about doing the right thing and loving each other and yourself. Then my girls run out into the yard and throw footballs at their noses.

When I married Bobina, everyone asked me if I was prepared for the obstacles. There would be other parents to consider, raising two children whose births I didn’t witness, the extra expenses, getting used to four women instead of just one. The truth is, after 3 years, we’re all kinds of awesome. I remember feeling like a gladiator going into the stadium with the lions, armored and a “challenge accepted” glare in my eyes. Now, I just blend in with my bunch. It all seems natural.

The other day it was raining. My youngest daughters were on the couch, under afghans (because we’re fancy), watching ICarly. Carly (the character, not my youngest girl) lives with her older brother Spencer. Spencer has the maturity level of a ritalin starved 4 year old high on sugar cookies. My youngest daughter says “Spencer is silly. He’s not like a real dad.” My middle child answers, “yeah, daddy would never act like that.” I put down the guitar, put on some pants, swallowed my frosted flakes (because they’re grrrrrreat), and quietly contemplated my daughter’s thoughts. For the most part, my kids get it. I would give anything if Joe Namath or Davy Jones would visit us based on a lie.

*******blogger’s note*******

This is my answer to two writing assignments – one from the good people at Studio Thirty Plus http://www.studiothirtyplus.com/ who gave me “Challenge Accepted” and Katie’s group at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug who wanted “I Wanna Marry You” http://thewriteandthewrongword.blogspot.com/

Today’s song really isn’t compatible lyrically unless you use your imagination. I heard Weezer on my way into work and I just wanted to hear this guitar riff and use this title. It’s a good song and good video. You’ll enjoy it. I do find myself in a Perfect Situation. Plus I rocked two prompts. Here’s Weezer’s Perfect Situation.

Fire Woman

For the first three months of My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog, i wrote to my wife and a few close friends. Literally, it got 5 hits a day, maybe 10 when I talked about them. I decided to reach out to other people who wrote. I’ve believed so many of the horror stories about the innerwebz. It’s all serial killers and felonious freaks, right? When I had a myspace music blog several years ago, I delt with musicians and music business types. I always kept my distance. But last August, so one year ago, I ran across some people and joined their writing communites. No one tried to lure me into their van with candy. I didn’t get a single devil worshiping marriage proposal. Instead, I discovered people who shared my anxiety disorder, liked the same music, and were positively and negatively tormented, as I am, by their art. Now, My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog is rocking 75 hits a day and I have made some excellent friends.

One of those people, Karen, bestowed a blogging award:

http://karensomethingorother.blogspot.com/

Karen’s Canadian which means she has to be funny or she’d be depressed. She doesn’t take herself or her blog seriously. She has a cool family she loves.

I think the rules are I recommend some random number of blogs to pass the award to and tell you things about me. I’ve done similar memes in the past. Karen hates rules as much as I do. So I’ll let you in on your favorite robot human hybrid then suggest some blogs you should be reading because. I’ll see you again in a day or two with some fiction.

1- I like to walk on the left side of people. I feel completely lost and out of sorts walking on the right side. If you see me, and I’m on the right side of someone, know that internally, I’m ablaze with anxiety and doubt and I may explode.

2- I don’t like to wear shorts, even to work out. I have 3 pair of shorts and maybe 2 pair of workout shorts. I don’t put them on unless the workout pants are filthy and/or my jeans are unavailable. I think most dudes look stupid in shorts. My legs are fine, in shape and presentable, I just prefer to show them only on the beach or to my wife.

3- I write EVERYTHING in a notebook with a number 2 pencil THEN transfer it over to computer. What you are reading now was scribbled earlier on paper. I’m old school.

4- I don’t really like food. I mean, I like really good food, but I can skip most meals and be ok. This is the robot part of me. If you told me, tomorrow, that I had to take a pill and never eat food again, I’d be ok. Being married to a chef who obsesses over food is hard for me or maybe it’s hard for her because I say “i don’t care” when she ask me 3 times  a day what we are eating.

5- I like hanging out with women more than men most of the time. I talk a lot. I live with 4 women. Include my mother in law, sister in law, niece, and close friends and I am around as many as a dozen women daily. That being said, every once in a while, I need beer, football, testosterone, and a dude hangout. So if you are reading this and have sports tickets or know a place with good brew, call me. I’m desperate.

Here are places I go for art, laughs, perspective, uniqueness, community, and calm:

Deana aka The Bobina – http://mythoughtsonthesubjectareasfollows.wordpress.com – my wife and my best friend

Abby – http://abbyhasissues.com/ - hilarious and as weird as I am

Chopper Papa – http://chopperpapa.com/ a great guy with a great perspective

JenO- http://mytornadoalley.com/ - talented Canadian writer with a good sense of humor

Tara – http://thinspiralnotebook.wordpress.com – she takes beautiful pictures and writes with flair and style.

Jenna – http://t.co/OD1NiaH, http://t.co/OD1NiaH, http://t.co/8dkvmez, http://t.co/qYjSvbB - she writes everywhere with kindness

You know, go look at my blogroll. They’re all amazing. Just read them.

This is also a nod to 30 Days of Shameslessness http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2011/08/09/30-days-in-the-hole/. It’s number 23 – “share a secret”. I shared several.

Today’s song is from The Cult and their underrated Sonic Temple album. This was a college song for me. I played it constantly. It also speaks to some of the great women I know in my house and on the internets. Here’s Fire Woman.

Good Enough

Before your read this blog post, look deep inside your soul, find a mirror, then get over yourself.

I am anti-plastic surgery, especially for women. I just don’t understand why people drop thousands of dollars and end up looking worse in the long run. In writing another entry for 30 Days Of Shamelessness http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2011/08/09/30-days-in-the-hole/ or as I have rechristened it, since i am not following the meme’s rules, Humble Pie, I am finding ideas I didn’t realize I had.

I live with 4 women, I write about that and them a lot. Vanity is a reality in this house. We never leave for things on time because someone is redoing their hair, applying mascara, or changing their shirt. I will never change my wife and three daughters’ minds by telling them how beautiful they are, they will still fidget and fix. What I hope I can convince these curious chicks is, they will never feel pressure from me to perfect themselves.

Read this celebrity article: http://movies.yahoo.com/news/kate-winslet-rachel-weisz-form-anti-cosmetic-surgery-225321529.html Three women, Kate Winslet, Emma Thompson, and Rachel Weisz say they’ll never have cosmetic surgery to look younger, regardless of the pressures of Hollywood or the entertainment industry. I don’t know if I believe them nor do I think they’re anything more than opinionated and refreshing. The aspect of their story that they are European shouldn’t be ignored. Another woman from across the pond, Helen Mirren, is changing people’s attitudes about women being considered “sexy” even though she’s deep into her sixties. She too, has never had plastic surgery. Maybe the British, and other non Americans’ view is something us self absorbed Yanks should think about. All of those women either have children or are influencing young women. What if more American celebrities said this, “You’re Perfectly Imperfect”?

Some of you, especially men, are reading this and saying “c’mon dude, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t mind your wife getting a nip and tuck .” Yes I would mind. To do that, you are giving in to someone else’s opinion about what you look like. Two posts ago I posted beach pictures of me and my family. I go to the gym 4 days a week. I don’t eat great, but I eat okay. You see the gut I have. I’m short, thick waisted, and far from perfect. Every ounce of fat I have is in my abdomen. I have never once, seriously thought about blowing 5 large on liposuction. 

I know there are some women reading this, saying “I’m so flat chested, no man will ever be attracted to me” or “I can’t get rid of this fat here or there”. That’s vanity and that’s alright. I happen to think the woman I’m married to and my daughters are drop dead gorgeous. I know I’m supposed to think to think that or I’m a major jagoff but I think that and say so. I just don’t want any of them to ever feel pressure to “fix” anything. My teenage daughter goes to school with girls who have parents that have done things to themselves in a doctor’s office. What message is that sending to their girls?

I’ve never seen a boob job that looks better than the real thing. Every facial surgery I’ve ever seen on women at my gym makes them look scary and unnatural. After reading that article, I find Kate, Emma , and Rachel even more attractive because inside, they get it. That radiates beauty.

I intentionally excluded pictures of people in this post. I wanted you to read more words not stare at t & a, especially fake t & a. If you are reading this and thinking I’m full of bs, fine,j just know that I think you’re good enough – Male or Female. 

This is number 21 “express a strong feeling” from 30 Days Of Shamelessness”. Yes, I’m jumping around because I’m punk rock like that.

Today’s song is from Sarah Maclachlan. Her Good Enough is more about emotional strength and inner beauty, but the message gets out. Here’s Good Enough:

The English Patient

I’m a romantic and it’s not always a good thing. That makes me have uncool choices, especially in entertainment. In the presentation of 30 Days of Shamelessness or as I have rechristened it because of my rampant rule breaking, Humble Pie; here is another example of my extreme oddness.

I  unapologetically love the movie, The English Patient.

It was never in the top five at the box office. It has never been viewed by anyone under the age of 30, I don’t believe. It won 9 Academy Awards, including Best Picture. So, it isn’t cool, right? I mean grown ups with a lot of time on their hands care about a sweeping epic told with the backdrop of World War II. It’s over 3 hours long, shown in flashbacks out of sequence. It features the main protagonists, Ralph Fiennes and Kristin Scott Thomas never smiling, while having an awful affair with a tragic outcome. Why have I seen this maudlin, overblown soap opera, over a dozen times? Because Im a geek for cinematography, plane crashes, burn victims, and people with foreigh accents making moral ambiguity seem pretty.

Most cool people hate this movie. Elaine Benes on Seinfeld expressed the attitude of anyone with a real life. I mean who is going to buy this flick in the age of 90 minute action movies with no plot and naked people? I’ll let Elaine explain;

So, as it turns out, if you watched the Seinfeld video, I’m just like Elaine’s boyfriend and also her boss, Mr Peterman. I liked the desert shots, the melodrama between Juliette Binoche and no thumbed Willem Dafoe. Do I need mention Kristin Scott Thomas washing Ralph Fiennes hair and cheating on her husband, Colin Firth?

Everyone has an accent. No one is moral. Dehydration is shown as a supporting character. At the end of the thing, anyone who has watched it, beside me, has wanted Ralph Fiennes’ character’s lethal dose of morphine for themselves. I love it hardcore.

I can’t get enough of it. It won 9 Oscars. Scoreboard.

I jumped around again. This is number 5 on 30 Days of Shamelessnesshttp://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2011/08/09/30-days-in-the-hole/ . I dropped a chick movie that’s over 3 hours long. Top that.

Today’s song is from a band I hung out with in college. They’re from Birmingham and I’ve seen them several times. It’s good straight forward southern rock and roll. Their biggest hit speaks volumes about my confessions on this series of blog posts. Here’s Brother Cane and Got No Shame. I dare you not to rock out to this tune after you hate The English Patient.

30 Days In The Hole

The most chilling, brutally honest truth ever spoken is in the final 20 seconds of this scene from the movie Almost Famous.

“the only currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone when you’re uncool”

That’s deep, ya’all.

Thanks to @JenO_Eh , @chibijeebs and @Tara_R,  I will be beating you over the head for the next month or so about how uncool I am. Then, we’ll all be best friends forever under crystal blue skies ,riding stark white palomino ponies.

This is the start of a meme, not be confused with my mother in law, whom my kids call Mimi. Technically it’s called 30 Days of Shamelessness. I’m obsessing over my robots and Helene Troy stories so this will get stretched beyond 30 days on My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. We’ll call my shameless version of the meme, Humble Pie.

The days of the challenge are as follows:

1. declare your love for an uncool TV show.
2. look a fool.
3. eat. Whatever you feel like eating.
4. waste time.
5. declare your love for an uncool movie.
6. act “girly” or “manly” in a way you’d normally avoid.
7. share your efforts at something you don’t think you do well.
8. sweat.
9. expose something messy or dirty you’d usually hide.
10. declare your love for an uncool band.
11. dress to show some skin.
12. share about a health struggle.
13. speak up about something crap that was done to you.
14. hold yourself accountable — not guilty — for something crappy you did to someone else.
15. dress, walk, and act like you know you’re all that.
16. spend money on a non-necessity or share a financial struggle.
17. discuss the reality of your work situation.
18. brag.
19. share details about a bodily function or fluid.
20. talk about sex
21. express a strong feeling.
22. set a boundary.
23. air one of your secrets.
24. share a struggle you have yet to “just get over.”
25. ask for help.
26. make a mistake.
27. express a dissenting opinion.
28. discuss a failure.
29. look a fool.
30. name 3 more ways you can live shamelessly and commit to doing them…

I’ll start with my uncool tv show on Friday.

Join in if you like.  Let me know in the comments if you think you might so I can follow along.

Today’s song is something I’ve wanted to play for a long time. This meme is about having fun and eating a lot of Humble Pie. Here’s Steve Marriott and the Newcastle Brown Ale drinking bad boys of the group with te name Humble Pie, with “30 Days in the Hole”.

I Am Not A Daddy Blogger

Watch this video and replace Charles Barkley with me and the words “role model” with “daddy blogger”.

I just traded emails with someone who asked me to write for a daddy blogging (his adjective) site. I was flattered because anyone who’d want me to write anything for them is a compliment. I said no, because I’m unqualified.

I’m married. I have three children, all girls, aged almost 7, almost 8, and very much 15. I do post about what we do and how we do it, but it is meant for entertainment purposes only. Please, no wagering.

My wife, Bobina, previously photographed and often mentioned, tells me that people like to hear about what we do as a family and what I’m like as I dad. Maybe you will comment and support this idea, but I don’t see it. My parenting style is suspect, although the current results are good  http://sluiternation.com/2011/07/my-teenager-is-good-and-its-all-my-fault/ I wouldn’t recommend employing my techniques, unless you have really thick skin and good anxiety meds.

I’m a writer. I have been since I was my youngest child’s age. In the fourth grade I won a writing contest for a story about a little boy and his pet 50 foot snake. No, it wasn’t innuendo, it’s was metaphorical about wanting to have a brother. I had a younger sister. Since that epic tale of loneliness and hyperbole, I’ve written about anxiety, girls, booze, family, music, love, the lack of love, and now; marriage, my kids, music, anxiety and my creative oasis – fiction.

I don’t know how to shop efficiently. If you come to My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog looking for tips on anything outisde of good music videos, fiction writing, red velvet cake, pumpkin pie, punk rock, sarcasm, anxiety, or how to stay out of A LOT OF trouble with women; move along, there is nothing to see here.

My kids are smart, funny, interesting, beautiful and completely nuts. I don’t know why they’re well behaved away from home and wild behind closed doors. My wife and I love them unconditionally. When finances allow, they get a lot of what they want, and all of what they need. If the FBDBI (the federal bureau of daddy blogging investigation) converged on my estrogen filled place in the Hill of Sugar, Georgia, they’d find a happy bunch with no idea of why we are this way. My family is like the New York Dolls or The Replacements or early Guns n Roses of homes – we don’t practice, we’re never on time, we’re always obnoxious, but when the lights go on we hit the stage, rock hard and people love us.

Walking the halls yesterday of the three schools for which my kids were doing their orientations, I noticed something blog worthy. Compared to the other parents, Bobina and I are kind of hot. That’s not something you’d read in a daddy blog.

Today’s song is from The Replacements. The dude at the beginning of this video is a genius named Paul Westerberg. he has the same social anxiety disorder taht I have but 100 times more talent. This song is kind of what it’s like in my head and inside our doors of the house, but it all works. If you ever want to come over and trade places with us, you’re welcome. I thought about using The Ramones We’re A Happy Family, but there’s a line “Daddy likes men”. That’s not true and if I were going to be gay, I’d be honest. The line “i dreamt i was surfer joe, what that means I don’t know” is so brilliant, I have to play this song. Here’s I’ll Be You.

Paranoia Will Destroya

This may be the anxiety talking, but I think everyone is out to get me. I don’t have a Sancho Panza, and there isn’t a windmill within 100 miles of my house. So, this isn’t a quixotic blog post. I’m serious. I think all of you, including my family, want to see me completely whack out.

From a writing perspective, I am struggling with a blockage concerning the crazy robot story. Ava and Caleb are in a room in a makeshift laboratory in Langdon, North Dakota. Breann and Gavin are outside in the cold trying to figure how to get Ava and Caleb out. There’s side plot developed with getting Caleb, Breann, Lena and Clare to a third party (away from Bulas and Cluber), but I can’t seem to make robot-human hybrids with their opportunistic doctors on the run from people who want to own them and cut them, realistic. Helene Troy is distracting me. Over the past three days I’ve written nothing about robots, and over seven thousand words about a cool indie rock musician who gets a break from one of her heroes, and changes the music business. Even the fake people in my life don’t have my best interests at heart.

I’m ready for my actual children, Tay – age 15, Bug – age almost 8, and the Goose age almost 7, to get back to school. All three start next week. Orientation at their respective schools is tomorrow, Thursday. I love them. Yet, my summer has been dominated by multiple cheerleading practice delivery and pick ups per day (Tay), figuring out how to make our 4 weeks of sumemr vacation over two months fun and interesting (Bug), and have the Goose properly babysat and engaged. Work isn’t cooperating. I’m not a stay at home dad type. I like to stay busy, intellectually and physically. Normally I love my job. It’s a great blend. But this summer, I finished one project in early June in Tennessee, while waiting for another to start in Maryland. I have been in the office, in town, and around the house more than I ever have been previously. I’ve learned a lot about my wife and children. They’re beautiful, funny, and a joy. But they’ve had enough of me and I’ve had enough of them. We mean this affectionately.

Blogging is hurting too. I think. This blogher conference in San Diego is making me frustrated in Atlanta. Three thousand women and like six guys converge in Southern California this week to talk about how to make the world less dependent on foreign oil, how to control the debt ceiling, what to do about the Middle East, and whether Law & Order SVU will suck without a full season of Stabler and Benson. I assume that’s what they’re talking about because twitter and the blogosphere is full of “blogher this” and “blogher that”. My writing prompts are either non existent or lacking in inspiration. Don’t these bloggers realize that their words HELP people like me with writer’s block, spurs creativity then entertains you all? Should you hate blogher? No. But I am blaming the convention of writer ilk for whatever awful happens in my head this week. I think it’s fair.

Don’t worry, 8 out of 10 bloggers associated with blogher understand and appeciate sarcasm. I hope the other two are miserable because of this post, though. My Blog Can Beat Up Their Blog, anyway.

I’ll work it out, I always do. The kids will be in school by the middle of next week. I travel to North Carolina next Tuesday for a project that could start soon. The Maryland deal has to start by September or people will be in a lot of trouble. Bobina and I are the best we ever have been and getting better every day. She loves my crazy arse. Maybe one of you will say something in a comment that will get Ava and Caleb out of the lab again, yo and on the run. Until then I will get on my trusty steed, Dulcinea, and begin my search for social disordered adventure.

Today’s song is amazing. It’s Black Sabbath with Ozzy in the lead. Some of you were thinking I Think I’m Paranoid by Garbage weren’t you? Yeah, you’re probably the same people hiding my fiction prompts while you discuss how to sell stuff on your mommy blog at blogher (i’m joking). Enjoy the San Diego sun. My Blog Can Beat Up All Your Blogs. I’m going to get my Ozzy on. Here’s Black Sabbath’s Paranoid: