it's just poorly applied rouge

i had a meeting with some potential web customers last night. wanting to appear deceptively alert, i took a quick power nap before rushing out the door to meet them. upon getting home marty asked me why i had marker all over the side of my face. further inspection found that alex scrawled his first red-permanent marker mural on the right half of my head while i was dozing. on the good side, the kid shows promise. on the better side, even with my face all marked up, i got the gig. i'm thankful to be in an industry where the talent is expected to be more on the bent side than not.

when you're married to your tech support, you're married to your tech support

how the apple switch campaign works in our home.

TROY
i'm replacing your computer.

MARTY
what!? why!? i just got this computer.

TROY
i don't like it.

MARTY
what!? why!? it's my computer, you don't have to like it.

TROY
as long as i'm the one expected to fix it when it has issues you're wrong, i do have to like it and i don't like it so i'm replacing it.

MARTY
why do i care? whatever!

and that's what i call another satisfied customer.

i'll give you $5 to soap me up

i'd pay killer money for someone to wash me everyday. i'd just sit there and lift my arm when told. roll over when asked. and close my eyes when prompted. i'd be the best person you ever washed. so why doesn't she get what a stellar perk this is?

four more years of this charlatan? damn.

Come you masters of war
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
While the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead

bob dylan's masters of war

while you may believe this song was written in the last 5 years, it was actually penned over 40 years ago. i don't know what's more evil, that it was divined then or that it still applies today.

all new players, exact same scenarios

marty walks around the house with a kitchen timer clipped to her shirt. this means there is either some bread product cooking in the oven or a child on time-out.

it's the best when you see her stopped somewhere with a flour-coated palm to her forehead saying, 'now where did i put that damn timer'. without raising my eyes from my book or paper, i mutter, 'left hip'. she rips the thing off her sweater and glares at me only long enough to state 'don't look at me as though i'm losing my mind. i'm NOT losing my mind!'. i non-verbally respond with my 'i would never dream of suggesting anything of the like honey' face.

and, so goes our daily waltz.

she doesn't look at me the same anymore

marty and i have been enjoying the terribly underrated freaks and geeks series together. i can't tell you how interesting it is to be watching this with someone who was neither a freak, a geek or, as with her spouse, somehow both.

although i will say i feel like a celebrity. she's so full of questions, questions i know the answers to. and she asks them excitedly, sitting on the couch with her knees pulled up to her chest, smiling widely as she works to get them out.

were there really girls who would/could push guys around? did guys really freak out about having to shower in gym? do people really dance in front of and converse with their mirror?

the answers:

1. my mom made me put the dollar bill she gave me for lunch in that funny little pocket above the regular right pocket on levis. three people knew this. myself, my mother and a girl named audrey who simply held her hand out every day she saw me before lunch.
2. at my high school, we only had to shower during swim week. me and a terribly overweight kid were the only ones with doctors notes excusing us from the program for three straight years. you see, not only did i not know how to swim, i didn't get a chest hair until i was 19, started shaving a year after that (and then only once a week until i was 25). you do the math. i was about twelve leg hairs away from being diagnosed with alopecia and advertising my pubeless groin to all of my rowdy and hirsute colleagues was simply not in the plan.
3. dammit

but don't get me wrong, i'm also learning stuff. like that the average person could feather their hair if they so desired?

although, for me, it raises another question; who wouldn't desire to feather their hair?

web guide 101

to any current or prospective website owners. hits don't equal money, the effective delivery of your message does.

man, are you getting old marty!

in college when i dated girls, i only went dutch. this was not so much out of principle as out of necessity. as my rusted out 76 volvo attested, i was not a man of leisure or privilege. barely equipped to take myself to burger king once a week, i was in no way prepared or willing to take on another's culinary appetites.

so in these early days of romance, as relationships flourished i would suggest a date. if accepted, i would immediately ask if they minded going dutch. only one did mind but as it turned out, she was a direct descendent of satan so i learned my system had hidden benefits. for added uniquity, at some point on the first date, i would announce that they, the girl, had an astoundingly generous and guilt-free endowment of $15 which they could use in any way they desired; 3 trips to fast food, fifteen shows at the dollar movie house, i was even amenable to putting these funds towards a larger item, the balance of course to be covered by them.

with marty, our first dating encounter was so brief that she didn't exhaust her stipend. the year following our slight flirtation marty spent dating half the ivy league and i passed those days sitting/living in a friend's basement. during a lull in my male-heavy social life, i called marty to notify her that my records indicated she still had six dollars credit with me and that it was about to expire and would she like to exercise her rights to those funds or let them default? laughingly she agreed to use this line of credit and we went out for a second time.

that subsequent date happened 15 years ago today.

we married 8 years later on this same day.

and on this day, today, i consider those fifteen dollars to be the most significant and well-invested to ever pass through my wallet.

happy anniversary walt.

we don't even own a dog

i think it was dennis miller who once discussed how strange the moments immediately following sex seem. you're looking around wondering who put a dog collar on you. you can't believe your wife allowed one of you to pour molasses all over her newest linens. you contemplate how you ever stretched her 'bad kitty' thong over your thighs and equally significant, how you expect to remove them. you know, all the usual suspects of a post-coital tryst.

this stupor aptly describes my sentiments regarding christmas. now that it is in the books, i look around my home wondering what idiot vomited this vast collection of red and green baubles everywhere and more importantly, why am i the schmuck expected to put it all away?

i remember when i was this honest

i believe to get a representative feel for what life is like somewhere you have to capture the unceremonious words and images around you. the following snippet i overheard between marty and bella offers some insight into life in our home.

BELLA
can santa say words like dammit and stupid?

MARTY
i imagine he can but i bet he chooses different words.

BELLA
i bet he doesn't choose different words and does say dammit and stupid. a lot.

and, in the event you're still a little fuzzy on the scene, this conversation might sharpen the picture a touch more.

you had your chance, now i'll take mine

the worst thing about being an adult is that christmas is not as special as when you were a kid. please refer to The Polar Express for evidence, the book, not that hollywood dollar-whore garbage.

the best thing about being an adult is that after all the mangled wrapping paper is on the curb, you're free to go buy whatever wasn't under the tree on the big day. my own indulgence came in the form of a 40gb ipod this year.

and i'm one purchase closer to my journey towards completion.

a seldom used metric for measuring happiness

i wore the same pair of pants 12 days in a row.

that's just another way of saying, the break was good.