Pet Cobra

Point/Counterpoint: My Wish List Rant

Hi Dutch - I deleted your comment to the My Wish List post; in line with my "you're a guest in my house, play nice" policy, and in keeping with the finest traditions of Uncle Joe Stalin, dissent is not tolerated.

However, as I strive to avoid hypocrisy (part of my 12 Step Program), here's your response to that post:

An "Imaginarium Train Table"? Way to rage against the machine, Jason, that machine consisting of a couple of bloggers merely trying provide details about some alternatives to the same old shit that every other motherfucker in America does for Christmas. I don't understand why you interpreted those posts as some effort to instill guilt.

I'm pretty sure your "shut the fuck up" was directed (at least partly) at me, and that's fine. I like that you don't mince words or act all gay and gooey like most people do in the parenting blogosphere. It's your right to get offended and pissed off and to admit that you don't like what another dad says. You don't have to like me just because I'm a dad who blogs.

I guess I just don't understand how you could write about your intentions of "helping [your son] to make sense of an often senseless world, teaching him right from wrong, and alway, always encouraging him to make a positive mark on the world through his words and his deeds" and not see that some other parents might want the same thing, parents who maybe feel differently than you about materialism/consumerism, who feel they can best help their kids make sense of the world, teach them right from wrong, and make a positive mark on the world through words and deeds by not buying into a wasteful, consumerist culture that they have deeply-rooted and very serious ideological problems with. This is not about guilt---if you've been made to feel guilty maybe that's a sign that you have some sympathy for this ideological viewpoint. It doesn't bother me in the slightest what you bought your kid for Christmas, and I would never judge you for it. I hope you all had a great Chr istmas and that he loved his thing. But it's really none of my fucking business. I just wonder why you feel so strongly about another's efforts to simply discuss alternatives to the prevailing holiday culture. It's not like I was just bitching about the evil consumerism of Christmas, I was actually providing a solution--- an alternative for myself and possibly for anyone who agrees with me. Christmas may only be one day a year, but how a parent handles it can have a huge effect on a child's values and a child's perception of the world s/he lives in.

You don't have to read about these ideas if you disagree with them. But I think it's pretty lame to say I should just shut the fuck up.

Dutch - you weren't the only posted to hit on this topic; there were plenty of others that I came across that railed on the same topic - moms, dads, and even those without kids who feel the need to opine on this. My point was not simply to tell you to shut the fuck up (and even in doing so, my tongue was, as it usually is, planted firmly in cheek). I'm not a huge fan of consumerism; as my wife and I combined barely make six figures and live in the most expensive housing market in Southern California, it's really not an option for me to be hung up on high priced things (Exhibit A: my '94 96,000 Miles And It's About To Die Ford Ranger). And I do have quite a bit of sympathy - empathy, even! - with the stance you took. Apart from the Imaginarium Train Table (big hit, by the way - tip of the cap to the thousands of acres of old-growth Amazonian rain forests and scores of impoverished Third World laborers who were sacrificed in order that it might live), the highlight of the kid's Christmas was surprising his grandparents on Christmas Day. That, to him and my wife and I, was the best part of the holiday. So I do, it seems, have a soul.

What I wonder about is the implication that eschewing comsumerism at Christmas somehow makes one a better person, and a better parent. Put one way: what are you (not "you" in particular, Dutch, but "you" in general) doing the other 364 days out of the year to battle consumerism? There's not a one of us out there who isn't taking advantage of our consumerist (is that a word?) society. How many computers do you own? Where do you buy your groceries? What restaurants do you frequent? What beer do you buy? Do you drive a car? Use electricity? Pay for your water? Unless you're living at the old Ted Kazinsky estate, you're part of said machine. I am. We ALL are.

Ultimately, as I hope you've been able to discern, I really don't take all of this too seriously. Like I said, I - we all - have enough on our plates as it stands without having to worry about the gift choices we make, for a holiday that comes but once a year.

Ho Ho Holy Crap Its Cold

Well, we did not, as previously reported on this very site, go to Hawaii. Instead we pulled a fast one on everyone and flew to Omaha Nebraska to surprise my mom and dad, arriving in the afternoon on Christmas Day.

It's been a few years since we've been home for the holidays. Needless to say, the folks were surprised and delighted. It's 35 degrees outside. Even so, we went to the zoo today and had a great time. On tap for the rest of the week - a whole lotta nada. Which is absolutely fine by me. It ain't Waikiki, but Omaha has its charms. We'll catch some movies, eat some world famous Omaha Steaks, go to Homer's Records (the world's greatest record store), hang out in the Old Market, and just chill. Figuratively and literally.

My Wish List

As I have roughly 4 hours before I up and GTFO of the office, I thought I'd put together a list of Xmas gift stuff. Feel free to get me any of the following:

• Phish's 1995 New Year's Eve show, Madison Square Garden. Widely regarded by fans as the band's all-time best performance. It occurs to me that I haven't purchased or downloaded any of Phish's numerous live releases this year, so I'm due.
• A new bottle of single malt Scotch. I've downed about a fourth of the bottle of The Dalmore that I bought myself several days ago. The holidays, you know.
• My new board. It was supposed to be done last week. I know, I know, I should be thankful I'm getting one at all, what with the Clark Foam disaster.
• A new hat. This is all my fault; I can't seem to pick out a new lid. None of the various makes I've seen have done it for me. My USA Rugby cap is going to devolve into a USA Rugby visor unless something is done.
• A Nuclear Pickle. The street in front of our is long with a gentle slope, perfect for this thing. (Yes, turns out I am 15.)

I think, though, that the one thing I'd like most of all: for everyone in the Blogosphere who's posting about how we all need to buy from small market American manufacturers or make our own gifts or take the kids to the soup kitchen, all these things and more that serve as the only way to see the real meaning of Christmas to kindly SHUT THE FUCK UP. You know what? Two days ago I walked into Toys 'R Us and with a shit-eatin' grin plastered across my face bought my kid an Imaginarium Train Table for $100. And I didn't give one thought to what a Bad Person I was or what a Horrible Example I was setting. Do you know why? Because as he grows older, he's gonna be bombarded with images of disaster, murder,  war, and all of the other horrid things that people do to one another. He's gonna see that poverty and sadness exist, and that in most cases there's no easy explanation for or solution to either. He's gonna be picked by other kids who think its OK to be bullies. He's gonna be picked on by ADULTS who think its OK to be bullies.

To balance that out, he's gonna have me and Beth, helping him to make sense of an often senseless world, teaching him right from wrong, and alway, always encouraging him to make a positive mark on the world through his words and his deeds. He's going to learn that if inspiration is needed -and there will be times when hopelessness will weigh heavily on him - there are better motivators than guilt. He's gonna get that from us, as we got it from our parents and the other good people in our lives, 365 days a year. Not just on Christmas. Christmas, we'll set aside. He's gonna have that one day out of the year to escape from all that AND JUST BE A KID.

Hope you all have great holidays.

Waiting

It's possible that today could go by slower, but for that to happen we'd need to have some kind of infarction in the Space/Time Continuum. The only bright spot was getting out of the office to meet Beth and Lucas for some quick shopping (got me a new pair of shoes; part of the upper is made of actual hemp, so once they're worn to the point of useless I can rip 'em up, roll 'em, and smoke 'em. What? It doesn't work that way? Goddammit, where's that receipt...) and lunch (Cheesecake Factory - had a salad that I suspect was not good for me at all). That was about an hour and half of niceness, measured against about 5 hours of tedium. Most people at work have left for the holidays, those that remain are doing the same thing I am (just wrapped up reading some back issues of Consumer Reports; you'll be happy to know that I'm firmly commited to buying the Lumix FZ5 digital camera - I doff the cap to Greg for putting it on the radar). I've talked to exactly one person in the office today; of course, when I asked him if he had any plans for the holidays, he let me know that he needed to stay home and take of his wife, who just had an aneuryism.

Yes, fun times down in Dogpatch. Get me the fuck out of here.

Big Wednesday

I could lie and say that I'm really bummed that I couldn't paddle out this morning, that I had work or the kid or an illness or some other excuse, and it sucks that I'm missing out out on what some are saying will be the biggest waves of the year.

Truth is I'm not.

Driving down the coast this morning, I'm a witness to the ferocity offshore. The waves - beautiful and terrifying. From Pipes to Seaside to Torrey Pines, a procession of double (at least double) overhead monsters. And only a handful of surfers out in the water to challenge them.

Big surf scares me.

Flashback to another Wednesday several years ago, in fact my first year surfing. Roommate Tom and I with our longboards - his an 8'6" egg, mine a 9'2" Brewer - paddling out at Crystal Pier, into what started off as chest-high stuff. We both caught one and paddled back out, aware of two things: the size was increasing, the number of surfers in the lineup decreasing. Chest-high grew to head-high. Then the cleanup sets started hitting - overhead and breaking hard. Tom looked at me and said words I'll never forget: "We have no business being out here."

A lull, then - we turn around and start paddling, hoping to ride some whitewater to the shore. I crane my neck to look for Tom - and he's scratching hard, only he's going the other way, back out to sea, and I see why - a wave rolling in, high enough to slap the underside of the Pier (the mind bifurcates - even as I'm scared shitless and fighting panic, I look at that wave and calculate that it's about 15 feet at face). I spin the board around and paddle madly - the goal being to get to the wave and over it before it breaks.

I don't.

I get to the crest, and the top half of my board goes over the lip, and then the wave breaks and I'm being thrown - not thrown, really, as I'm still actually in the wave, yanked is probably a better word - and the board is pulled out of my grip and I feel the impact as it hits me and I hit the surface, then I'm underwater, rolling around in blackness for what seems a lifetime. My eyes are shut - I wear contacts, and if I open them I'll lose 'em. I don't know up from down. I know that I'm rolling and spinning and if this was happening on dry land I'd be puking my guts out.  My lungs are burning. I force myself to relax; there's weight on the leash so I know that at least part of the board is still attached and I hope to pop up to the surface like a cork. Which I did, long enough to open my eyes, exahle, inhale, and getting pounded once more by the wave behind the one that dragged me down. This time I'm not held under as long, I get bounced off the ocean floor, and I come to the surface. Half of my board is attached to the leash. I can't see the other half.

I swim to shore, where the other half of my board waits for me. I'm shaking, and it's not from the cold. Tom is there: he looks at me and says "Dude..." I say nothing, and keep silent during the walk back to the house.

I'll admit this - I've never gotten over that day. I'm happy in the chest to head-high range, thank you very much. The desire to go bigger was knocked out of me back then. Days like today, I'll watch others tackle such waves with admiration. And more than a bit of fear.

Still Got It!

"It" - that indefinable quality, what Tom Wolfe might have called "the right stuff", is often lost once the kid comes into the picture.

Last night - Sunday night! - we went down to the House of Blues for Beth's office Christmas party, there to see The Brian Setzer Orchestra's Christmas Extravaganza. If you haven't seen Setzer and his 20 piece band, do so. Regardless of your musical taste, the guy is just cool; a genuine showman and a great musician (the band did a swing version of the entire "Nutcracker Suite").

So we jumped, jived AND wailed (because, frankly, I have no use for the people who simply jump and jive - cretins, all of them) and the best part? We, the working parents of an increasingly energetic toddler, OUTLASTED everyone in our group INCLUDING THE YOUNG TWENTY-SOMETHINGS! ON A SUNDAY NIGHT! I AM AT WORK RIGHT NOW!

So, happy to report that not only do we still have it, we still GOT IT.

(Also - put a wrap on the Scotch Weekend; last night The Glen Livet and Glenfiddich were consumed. Wanted to test the "no hangovers from single malt" theory. It's twue! It's twue!)

Scotch Scotch Scotch - I Love Scotch

When I announced plans to become a Scotch Man to the family, reactions were mixed. Mick ignored me and continued licking himself, Lucas pointed towards the kitchen and said "Cookie?", and Beth asked a strange important question:

"Yeah, but what if you don't LIKE it?"

Crazy talk. So I began my foray into the malt world with a stop at Trader Joe's. I had a hot tip on a good entry-level bottle; The Dalmore (12 Year Old) kept popping up on numerous sites (notably Malt Madness, which I spent lots of time on, and if you're saying to yourself, jeez, this guy's a little obsessive and weird, well, you must be new to this site. Welcome.) and seemed like a good one to start with.

Preparations for my first dram were made: I found a suitable glass, popped a movie into the DVD player (War of The Worlds, with Tom Cruise. Quite good, actually, although I'm pretty sure that aliens who can develop hundred-foot tall three-legged death machines with force fields should be able to get a flu shot before invading Earth. Oops - spoiler.), poured a shot's worth into the glass, pressed play.

I sampled The Dalmore neat, and then added a splash of bottled water. The Scotch people ain't kidding; there's a lot going on in these whiskies. The Dalmore had a hint of sweetness, pepper, and that smoky taste that's apparently very common in these single-malts. I liked it. So if nothing else, I'm now a The Dalmore Man.

The tasting continued last night; I had a bit of Laphroaig (10 Years Old) at the Fosters. Different, so much so that you'd think you were drinking an entirely different beverage. The thing with Laphroaig is that it's VERY "peaty"; kind of tastes like seaweed rinsed with Pine-Sol, but in a good way. People apparently love it or hate it; I liked it.

So I'm into it. Next up: a bottle of The Macallan 25 Year. Think I'll try it over ice. With Coke.

In Which I Weigh In On The Whole Face Transplant Surgery Thing

The whole face transplant surgery thing is stupid.

If you want to impress me, figure out a way to permanently attach a bottle of 409 Citrus Cleaner to my arm. I'd be like Bruce Campbell in the Evil Dead movies, a badass kitchen cleaning machine, and much happier for it.

Glenlivit, Glenfiddich, perhaps. Maybe a Glen...any Glen

Recent events (the holidays, my job, some horrible news regarding a family member) have prompted to me to become a Scotch Man. Always good to have new hobbies, no? Plus Scotch seems to be the new Martini.

Although I've yet to purchase my first bottle (MetroDad, a notorious Scotch Man, suggests Lagavullan), I'm doing some research on the Internets and the whole Scotch thing is cool for the following reasons:

1. THE. As in "The Glenlivet" or "The Edradour" or "The Macallan". Adds an air of badassness to the thing. Nobody fucks with The Jesus, and nobody fucks with The Balvenie.
2. The names in general. I've yet to come across anyone who recommends a Scotch based on the likelihood of swallowing your own tongue while trying to read the name on the bottle, but that's how I'm going to proceed. First on my list: The Glenpahrorihadghrusbf.
3. Ron Burgundy.
4. The contrast of sounding like a wussy wine snob ("hints of gooseberry and old coffee grinds") when describing a Scotch ("hints of honey...smells like...victory.") with comments made upon actual consumption ("SWEET CREEPING JESUS! IT BUUUUUUURNS!!").
5. Another excuse to use my passable Scottish accent. I ca' type in ih as well, ye wee bastarrrrrrds.
6. As a cheap bastard b nature, I was pleased to learn that watering Scotch down can actually IMPROVE the taste.

So I'm taking my first step into a bigger, hazier, less coherent world. Any Scotch tips are welcome.

Why Blog?

Every so often, something happens that prompts me to ask why I'm addicted to blogging (yes - I have two, and have thought about adding another, so I am addicted to blogging as well as blog posting; there is a difference, you know. I'm also addicted to posting - if I don't do at least two a day I feel like a failure. We'll discuss quality of said posts in a minute.) Make no mistake - I am. If someone told me I had to quit doing this, well, holy Canoli, I don't know what. For me it's simple - the act of writing is often as daunting as riding a surfboard. You drop in, and most of the time you just see where the wave is taking you. That's how I like to keep it on this particular site. You never know what you're gonna get, 'cause most of the time I never know what I'm gonna give. It's part of the charm, methinks. And that's part of the Why.

DadCentric is another matter entirely; despite appearances, I do put a bit of thought into my posts there. And I pride myself on the  work I do for the site. It's a bit of a paradox - as random as Pet Cobra is, my desire with DadCentric is to put out a polished product. I do think of myself (sounds a bit  - ok, a lot - megalomaniacal) as Founder/Editor. I -gasp! - take it seriously. Don't tell anyone, but I even have a PR consultant helping me out, strategizin'. DadCentric is my second job, the career I always wanted for myself and now - sorta - have ( alas - would that I got paid!). And that's the other part of the Why.