Pet Cobra

Where The Day Takes You

Sometimes when I open up the Compose New Post: Pet Cobra page, I have nothing in my head but a title. That's the case today - I stole the title from some movie about a bunch of homeless teenagers. I think. I never saw the movie. I could look it up on IMDB but that would distract me from the purpose at hand, which is to put stuff behind the title, give us both something to read.

The day takes me in all sorts of directions, now that I'm not confined to an office. Everything is work, except when it's not. There is always something to clean - dishes or clothes or the dog or the floors. There are insurance people to talk to. There are bills. There is the work behind the writing - "leveraging social media", reading and responding to emails, constantly checking and worrying over site traffic, planning for the next few posts. The writing is not work, except when it is. There are two kids. One is at day camp and getting him there is work. One is not and right now she's standing up in her crib and shrieking when she should be napping. She's work, except when she's in your arms and you are consoling her; that's not work, not at all, it's something deep and as definable as the edges of a nebula. 

The other day I was running. Barefoot, on the beach, at the water's edge. Miles of sand and cliffs ahead of me and an endless ocean to my right, and then turning around to my left. This was play with a substantial amount of work - heart and lungs and blood so loud as to cause complete silence. I was thinking about work - the work of writing, and the difference between writing as craft and writing as art. I ran past a couple of spearfishermen walking out of the surf. Spears and flippers and masks and snorkels. No fish. The writer/craftsman: "they came back empty-handed". But I knew the truth.

(Not a lot of people read this site. I'm glad. This is not work, this is play.)

Taco Tuesday: Special Kafkaesque Cinco de Mayo Edition

(Previously, on Taco Tuesday.)

The baby eyeballs the boiling meat atop the stove and then gives me a furtive glance. She knows as much about large hunks of graying boiling pork as I do about the proper use of the word "furtive". She is a sneaky one, though. She's eating pretzels like the world's unfolding according to her plan. The boy sleeps on the couch. I check the pot. The rendered fat floats atop the khaki-colored water like a 6th grade Science Fair version of the Exxon Valdez disaster. (Yeah, it's khaki-colored. It's like Calda de La Gap.) Ice cubes form in the freezer. The tequila abides. Outside the dog barks at air. In about two more hours the water will have evaporated or been absorbed, the orange peels and the cinnamon stick will be removed, the meat will awaken from it's oily watery slumber like Gregor Samsa to be shredded and fried and find itself transformed, only instead of a giant mealworm it'll be tasty, tasty carnitas. I've yet to try mealworm so I don't judge; don't send me hatemail. For all I know mealworm tastes like pumpkin pie, but I'll never know 'cause it's Taco Tuesday.

A Revelation That Came To Me While Stuck In L.A. Rush Hour Traffic

I was behind a Ford truck that was being driven by a virgin. I know this because the truck displayed the following stickers: "JEDI ACADEMY GRADUATE", a picture of a Clone Trooper helmet, a picture of a Stormtrooper helmet, a picture of a Darth Vader helmet, and one that said "MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU...ALWAYS". There was also a license plate frame that read "The Force is strong in this one". Oh, and the license plate itself read "DRTHRON". (Darth Ron!)

Darth Ron would no doubt find my lack of faith disturbing. 

As I'm wont to do while driving, I drifted off into a meditative, fugue-like state. I thought of our current national discord, and how we can come together as a people. Then it came to me. Perhaps Islam got it right. Perhaps there's something to the idea of collectively looking towards Mecca and praying, five times a day, every day. In those moments, people around the world unite and in a sense become one in mind, heart, and soul. As Americans, we scoff at the idea of understanding those that our leaders claim are out to destroy us. But there must be something to be learned from this. Billions of people, scattered across the globe, living disparate lives - Canada, England, Indonesia, and yes, even here in the U.S. - and yet in a sense as a people they're never truly apart. There must be some comfort, some strength, in knowing that as you pray, at that exact moment, thousands are doing the exact same thing. We could use something like that here. So this: once a day, all of us will stop whatever it we're doing. We'll gather in conference rooms or town squares or strip mall food courts or football stadium parking lots, anywhere where speakers and soundsystems can be found. And at a given time, synchronized so that all Americans are doing this as one, a song will play. That song will be Boston's "Foreplay/Long Time" (which is even cooler in spaaaaaaaaace) and together we shall all rock out to it and play air guitar en masse, millions of Americans fret-boarding like Tom Scholz in glorious united...er, unison, because if there are two things that Americans know how to do, it's play air guitar, and go fly fishing, but who really gives a shit about fly fishing?

It's Delurking Day!

Churchbells peal, children clasp hands and sing songs of peace and happiness, woodland creatures frolic, swords are beaten into plowshares. It's Delurking Day!

In Which I Do A Blog Post At Work While On A Conference Call

The Hold Music. I've been subjected to it now for some 2 minutes, and these 2 minutes have been the longest of my life. They are an Einsteinian nightmare; time has been displaced, stretched out, sucked into a vortex from which even light cannot escape. Jaunty paino music on an endless loop. Hell is other people and Hell's soundtrack is this Hold Music. I have thoughts of lunch to buoy me while I wait for the conference call to begin. Prosciutto, stacked like Arby's might stack it were it processed roast beef, and fresh mozzerella - the kind that floats in the cheese water - on ciabatta. (More Hold Music.) Fuck me, that's a sandwich. I love sandwiches. All hail the Earl of Sandwich. (I'm now on the call. Muffled voices, saying things like "RFP" and "headcount" and "making the numbers") He, not Walter Raliegh, should have that statue in Trafalgar Square. What? Of course I know the statue's of Nelson. Not the point. (Something about a PowerPoint presentation.)The point is where would we be without the sandwich? (The conference call organizer just disconnected everyone by accident. Call's over. Good thing, because now I'm hungry again. Anyboy have a sandwich?)

Once Again, I Open the PetCobra Mailbag

Once again, it's time to open up the PetCobra Mailbag. As always, thanks go out to my crack team of interns who spent hours sorting through mountainous piles of letters, picking out only the best ones, and saving the rest for each other to read aloud to the sounds of mocking laughter, over and over and over again. And as always, these are actual letters from imaginary readers. Yes, I copied and pasted this intro from the last PetCobra Mailbag installment. There's a recession on, people, and I have a family to feed. Yes, this does mean that I killed my interns and made a hearty stew out of them. The secret? Coriander!

Dear PetCobra: "surfers live in many worlds at once"...oh ah...wonder why bloggers try so hard to sound deep and philosophical when all they really do is navel gazing!  - Iris, A Real Life Commentor Whom I Deleted/Banned - And Now I Feel Terribly, Terribly Guilty, Because Who Am I To Squelch The Voice Of Such A Promising Talent, Even Though She (Ironically) Failed To Properly Conjugate The Verb "Gazing"?

Dear Iris - I am now doing navel gazing and will reply to you as soon as I'm done doing navel gazing.

Dear PetCobra: What do you think about the big Detroit bailout? Will you now buy a Ford? - Henry Ford, Fifth Level, Hell

Dear Henry Ford - no fucking way would I ever, EVER, buy a car made by a shitty American automaker. Please note, before you accuse me of being an Evil Jew (I am, for the record, half Evil Jew on my mom's side, which I guess makes me an Official Evil Jew) or whatever, let me say this: American CARS are not the problem. In my life I've driven a Pontiac Phoenix and a Ford Ranger and I drove them both into the ground, well into the 100k mileage range. Both cars were solid, well-built, very reliable. The problem lies with the idiots who run the Big 3. They've been outfoxed by the Japanese, Germans - hell, even the Swedes! BORN FROM JETS, YANKEE MOTHERFUCKERS! - who took one of America's most iconic products,The Car, and made it their own. The real geniuses here are not the German and Japanese engineers. The big brains belong to the PR, advertising, and marketing teams of Nissan, BMW, Toyota, and Saab, who beat the shit out of us on our own turf.  So when I say "shitty American automaker", I mean this: the Big 3 have failed not because they make a bad product, but because they have no clue how to effectively sell the product that they make. We're the company that invented modern advertising and marketing and these guys can't figure this out? Jesus! Rick Wagoner, Alan Mulally, and Bob Nardelli - put Mad Men in your Netflix cue. You might learn a trick or two. (Ok. I might buy a Ford Edge. Henry, why don't you go back and talk to your manager and see what you can do for me.)

Dear PetCobra: What do you want for Christmas? - Santa Claus, North Pole

Dear Santa - I've been struggling with this. The root of my angst: a Sony PlayStation 3. It all began months ago, when Beth hinted that she wanted a Wii, because of the Wii Fit and the Guitar Hero and such. At first I was ambivalent. I'd had a PlayStation, which broke, and an Xbox, which also broke, and wasn't one of those gamer dorks that stayed up until 4 every morning trying to get to the final level of Halo or whatever. But it seems that everyone has a game system, and the Blu-ray player is awesome. But I live in sunny SoCal and should be spending my free time outside playing, surfing, getting exercise. But how kick-ass would it be to have family sessions of Rock Band, with Lucas on the drums? And how cool does Fallout 3 look? But there's a recession on. But the way to get out of a recession is to stimulate the economy, and the best way to do that is to put money back into play via purchasing. But if I'm going to put money back into play, shouldn't I be investing in the stock market? Oh, fuck it, Santa. Just bring me a pony.

I've Got Blisters on My Fingers, Or, Musings on A Post-Holiday Monday Night

Bad shit, people. There are these little red bumps on my left index finger, like I've been attacked by chiggers or nits or some other small parasitic insects. Fleas? Christ if I have fleas where will that leave me? Flea-bitten, that's where. In this day and age for a grown man to be flea-bitten, why, that's inconceivable. I keep using that word and it does mean what I think it means. A flea-bitten man is one to be shunned, and rightfully so. Unless of course he's homeless, in which case, I dunno, cut the guy some slack, he's living in a box. Of course he's gonna have fleas.

I don't live in a box, I live in a house, and although we have a dog, the dog is bathed and groomed regularly and receives his monthly dose of Frontline. So it's probably not fleas. I don't know what the fuck these bumps are, but they itch, they're annoying me, and pretty soon I'm gonna start talking to them like I was a narrator from an Edgar Allen Poe tale. Bumps! Why will you not go away?! I did a paper spoofing Poe in high school; my teacher really liked it, said I had a knack for satire, and boy did I manage to parlay that into a successful blogging career! I just got a check for $60 from my advertisers! SIXTY. 6 OH. That's a trip to the gas station, a pizza, and a sixer of Guinness. Big time operator shit.

Back to the bumps. I get these every so often, and I'm trying to discern a pattern, like the crazy guy on Fringe does. I think I have. See, I'm getting older - in about 6 months I will be 40. FORTY. 4 OH. And when you get old bad shit happens to you. Hair grows out of your ears. Your knees make odd sounds. You start pondering What It All Means. You think of Ozymandias. You look around at people and places and come to the realization that everything is temporary, nothing lasts, and one day even the big bright sun is going to collapse in upon itself and suck the rest of the solar system down with it. So it stands to reason that getting weird itchy bumps on your left index finger is just part of the deal.

I Open The PetCobra Mailbag

Once again, it's time to open up the PetCobra Mailbag. As always, thanks go out to my crack team of interns who spent hours sorting through mountainous piles of letters, picking out only the best ones, and saving the rest for each other to read aloud to the sounds of mocking laughter, over and over and over again. And as always, these are actual letters from imaginary readers.

Dear PetCobra: You really ought to post more. What the fuck, dude? Are you too good for us? You're an asshole. Fuck you. Yours In Christ - Jean George Peppers, Kenosha, WI

Dear Jean George Peppers: first, I want to thank you, and my many, many readers, for reading my blog. In fact, as I look out my window, I can see the massed assembly of you, thousands deep, a teeming throng of pilgrims who have come from afar in the hopes of catching a glimpse of me work, and who believe that the closer they set up their laptops to my house, the quicker they'll get a new post when I hit the "Publish" button. They reach for me, grovelling, arms and MacBooks outstretched, looking like refugees at a U.N. food drop. They look up and scream for me to post for them and I look down and whisper "No".

Dear PetCobra: You strike me as a decent fellow. And yet your constant self-aggrandizing attempts to promote your blogs via Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, other blog's comments sections, interviews, forum posts, SEO optimization, letters to the editor, mass mailings, clean-cut young men in black pants and short-sleeved shirt/tie combos who go door to door distributing PetCobra literature, semaphore, smoke signals, and carrier pigeons really strikes me as self-aggrandizing. Why do you do that? And did I use self-aggrandizing correctly? Twice?Sincerely and God Save The Queen - Sir Reginald Eaton St. John Smyth, Floppyhat-on-Banister, England

Sir Reginald Eaton St. John Smyth: First, let me say that it's exciting to get mail from Jollye Olde Englande. Bob's yer uncle! As to my attempts to promote my writings: clearly, one can draw parallels between a blogger's effort to make a footprint in the vast world of published writings with the efforts of France to remain a player on the world stage following the collapse of French global influence during the Second World War. Post-war France, it can be said, faced a quandry: this once-proud nation, who in the early 1800's controlled an empire that rivaled that of Rome or Alexander's, was reduced to a second-tier status as a global power. In order to keep and even expand its presence, France turned to arms sales to both Third World countries and the rising Middle Eastern oil powers; indeed, the French Mirage fighter jet, mainstay of the air forces of Syria, Libya, and other Middle Eastern and African nations, became a symbol of France's canny employment of realpolitik principles coupled with econo-diplomacy, and thus France became a check to American hegemony. So you see, bloggers who actively pimp their shit are just like France. Also, you used "self-aggrandizing" correctly. And accurately!

Dear PetCobra: Dude! Watchmen! - Guy at Comic Con Wearing A Rorschach Mask Made Using A Pillowcase And Black Model Paint That He Can Barely See Out Of

Dear Guy at Comic Con Wearing An Etc. Etc. Rorschach MaskThat He Can Barely See Out Of: I am excited for the Watchmen movie; I think it will be a faithful adaptation of a beloved classic. And dude, you should totally read my post about it on MamaPop. Also, while there, feel free to peruse my fascinating Bio page, which also includes links to my other websites. Also, you can follow me on Twitter here.

Dear PetCobra: I'm about to head to Grant Park to talk to everyone gathered there, but I wanted to write to you first. We just made history. And I don't want you to forget how we did it. You made history every single day during this campaign -- every day you knocked on doors, made a donation, or talked to your family, friends, and neighbors about why you believe it's time for change. I want to thank all of you who gave your time, talent, and passion to this campaign. We have a lot of work to do to get our country back on track, and I'll be in touch soon about what comes next. But I want to be very clear about one thing...All of this happened because of you. Thank you - Barack Obama, Washingon D.C.

Dear Barack - may I call you Barack? Stupid question. Of COURSE I can. I do appreciate your taking the time out of your busy day to send me that personal email, written especially for me. Frankly - and I'm only being honest here - it was the least you could do. Because yes, all of this - your ascension into superstardom, your history-making election - well, it actually DID happen because of me. Specifically, because of this post, which, if I may say so, eloquently and succinctly captured the hopes and fears of a nation, turned the tide of the campaign, and gave you the votes you needed to bring it all home. Clearly, Barack, you will agree that had I not promoted the shit out of that stirring post, you would have lost dozens of votes. So my self-pimping, it isn't just about ME. It's about all of us. It's about America.

Well, that's about all the time we have for the Mailbag. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to write a post about low-cost cold fusion. I have an energy crisis to solve, and a subsequent Facebook update and Tweet to post.

I Am A Bad Father

I was informed earlier today that I made some special list. Twice.  That's pretty exciting! One problem. In reviewing recent entries, I've determined that the "dad" component of "dadblog" is notably lacking. There's stuff about McCain and Jiffy Lube and zombies and such, but not a lot of touchingly funny anecdotes about fatherhood.  As of late, the daddy stuff has been kept to a minumum, because like all dads I believe that I'm batting .500 in the Good Dad Department. Good if you're a baseball player, not so much if you are responsible for the moral, mental, and physical well-being of small children. Here is an example of my bad parenting, because I am one of those Honest and Courageous Writers that you hear so much about on Oprah.

My son, Lucas, whom some of you know, is a Rock Man. He does not cop to today's Pop Music. A song comes on the stereo (do people still say that? I'm reminded of the episode of The Beverly Hillbillies, where Jethro gets a stereo and keeps referring to it as The Hi-Fi. I am Jethro.) and Lucas will invariably ask, "Daddy, does this song rock out?" and I will answer "yes" or "no" depending. His tastes have evolved over the past few months (while he enjoys the Kanye song "American Boy", he would much rather listen to anything by The Roots. Four years old and he likes The Roots. Woot!) but there's still much he needs to learn. EXAMPLE: recently, in the Xterra (BEFORE IT DIED, JIFFY LUBE MOTHERFUCKERS) the song "The Story" by the talented Brandi Carlile came on, and after listening to the opening bars Lucas said to me "Daddy, this song doesn't rock out. It's a Girl Song."

EEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRKEEEEEK (sound of brakes squealing as I slam them in horror): "First, give it a second, because believe me, it rocks out, and second, a Girl Song? Do you think girls can't rock out? " Lucas: "Only boys can rock out!" Me: "Ohhhhh. My son. There is much that I still must teach you. Girls can and DO rock out. Kate Pierson! Johnette Napolitano! EXENE CERVENKA!" He paused, contemplating my words, and then Brandi and her band kicked in the electric guitars and she shrieked "I SWAM ALL ACROSS/THE OCEAN BLUE" and Lucas played his air drums and thrashed about like a freshly caught grouper on the deck of a small fishing boat.

I then realized that I have no B-52's, Concrete Blonde, or X in my iTunes Library.

I'm a bad father.

Flotsam

Is there something wrong with me, that I'm so apathetic about getting an iPhone?

I went on a bike ride this morning, and now my shoulder hurts. I don't understand.

Lucas starts karate class today. On the one hand, he may improve his self-discipline and develop his self-confidence. On the other, he may learn to give me a spin-kick to the nuts when I tell him that he can't have a cookie.

I'm still waiting for any of the people who gave Beth shit over a couple of blog posts I wrote (me, not her) to comment on this site.

I will confess something to you all - the list of daddyblogs that I read on a regular basis is now in the single digits.

I've set a timeline for the first draft of the book; the research/notetaking/outlining will be done by the end of September, and the fun begins October 1. I am, at long last, embracing my inner geek.

September is my favorite month. Cool mornings, warm afternoons. And empty beaches breathing sighs of relief.

The new 90210 is the Sarah Palin of the new fall TV schedule.

I know I Tweeted that last night, but it was late and not all of you follow me on Twitter. Speaking of Twitter, remember how I said it was stupid that one time? It's now ruining my life.

I'm listening to two of my co-workers, both former Marines, talking about Fred Thompson's homage to McCain last night. They sound like my and my dorm buddies back in college, talking about the first time we saw a Jenna Jameson vid.

I think having a Comments section is a mixed blessing for anyone with serious writerly aspirations. Yes, it's nice to get recognition/instant gratification for your work. But you can't let any of it - the bad or especially the good - go to your head. The trick is to write AT your readers, not necessarily FOR them. (To understand what I'm talking about, see/read 99% of all of the sequels ever filmed/written.)

I realize that I may have come across as a pretentious ass with that last statement. Sorry.  For the record, I loved the Transformers movie and can't wait for the sequel.

Speaking of Sarah Palin: http://www.adn.com/newsreader/story/514471.html. Most disturbing is this - that Palin attends a church run by a raving anti-Semite. No, scratch that - more disturbing than Palin's pastor problem is the lack of traction it's getting in the press. Damn you, Liberal Media!

Finally, here is a gratuitous picture of my daughter to show you haters that I'm not such a bad guy.