VIDEO OF THE WEEK (Hitler Included!)

The, "Video of the Week" moniker is more of a joke, as it's something Clayton and I discussed doing when we first started this blog. Back then the plan was to have a post every single day, but as I'm a lazy procrastinator, and as Clayton is evidently at least a thousand times worse than I am, that clearly is nowhere near the reality of the situation. However, here's a video I wanted to share.

I recently heard the movie, Come and See mentioned on the podcast, "The Film Vault" as a, SUPER INCREDIBLY DISTURBING MOVIE or something of that sort. That piqued my masochistic interest of course, and that, coupled with the fact that I found out it was about the Eastern Front of WWII, was enough to get it in my Netflix queue. The Eastern Front of WWII (basically Hitler's fatal mistake of invading Russia) is something I don't know nearly enough about. It's not a huge part of American curriculum, as it began before America entered the war, and America had little to nothing to do with that front of the war. My thirst for knowledge always un-slaked, I've recently been studying the Eastern Front (or interspersing the studying of Belorussia (my new favorite word to say) along with the reading of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn) and it's all very interesting and very, very, horrible. Like, concentration camps don't have nothing on this aspect of the war. Imagine being a poor farmer and knowing you will either be tortured and killed by Stalin, for not fighting, or tortured and killed by Hitler, for resisting. The atrocities committed by German soldiers against the Russians, and then repaid upon German citizens by the Russians, boggle the mind.

Anyway, Come and See. It's the story of a very young Belorussian boy who joins the partisans to resist German invasion and basically wanders around for a few days witnessing all sorts of horrors. He narrowly escapes a bombing, his family is all killed, he's captured and rounded up into a barn which he gets out of in time to watch the entire village burned to death locked in that barn. The Germans who burn them are caught and he sees them all executed by the Russians. This entire time he's been carrying around a rifle that he finds in the very beginning of the movie, and rarely ever speaking (I think he goes deaf when he's almost hit by the first bomb or something). Anyway, after stumbling around in a PTSD daze the entire movie he finds a picture of Hitler lying in the mud, pulls up his rifle, and fires it (for the first time ever) into the picture. The movie itself was sort of boring, and not really all that disturbing (after reading the much more disturbing actual facts of what happened), but I found the last four or so minutes of the movie really moving. As he shoots the picture we see old newsreel footage of WWII, playing in reverse. Paratroopers fly back into planes, people run out of prison camps, Nazis goosestep backwards, Hitler gives speeches in reverse, burning books fly out of the fire back into the hands of those who threw them. The movie ends with a picture of a baby Adolf sitting in his mother's lap.

The problem is, shooting a picture of Hitler can't reverse evil any more than shooting Hitler himself could reverse it. I'm an eternal optimist who feels the mere concept of evil is proof that man is inherently good. If we were all evil, evil would be called, "normal," not, "bad." I feel we're progressing as a species, but at the same time - why have serial killers only existed for less than two hundred years? Why is racial extermination still a fairly new concept? How far back do we have to go to stop WWII? To before the invasion of Russia? Do before the Nazi Party? To the end of WWI? To the very birth of Hitler? Once evil is loosed into the world, it can never be taken back. If some guy kills my teenage daughter, and I catch him, torture him, and kill him slowly - it doesn't matter. Justice hasn't been served. My daughter is still dead. No matter what we do in revenge, or for punishment, evil has been done, and can never be undone. As Shakespeare once (kind of) said, "The good that men do is oft interred with their bones, but the evil men do lives on and on."

VIDEO OF THE WEEK (Hitler Included!)

The, "Video of the Week" moniker is more of a joke, as it's something Clayton and I discussed doing when we first started this blog. Back then the plan was to have a post every single day, but as I'm a lazy procrastinator, and as Clayton is evidently at least a thousand times worse than I am, that clearly is nowhere near the reality of the situation. However, here's a video I wanted to share.

I recently heard the movie, Come and See mentioned on the podcast, "The Film Vault" as a, SUPER INCREDIBLY DISTURBING MOVIE or something of that sort. That piqued my masochistic interest of course, and that, coupled with the fact that I found out it was about the Eastern Front of WWII, was enough to get it in my Netflix queue. The Eastern Front of WWII (basically Hitler's fatal mistake of invading Russia) is something I don't know nearly enough about. It's not a huge part of American curriculum, as it began before America entered the war, and America had little to nothing to do with that front of the war. My thirst for knowledge always un-slaked,  I've recently been studying the Eastern Front (or interspersing the studying of Belorussia (my new favorite word to say) along with the reading of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn) and it's all very interesting and very, very, horrible. Like, concentration camps don't have nothing on this aspect of the war. Imagine being a poor farmer and knowing you will either be tortured and killed by Stalin, for not fighting, or tortured and killed by Hitler, for resisting. The atrocities committed by German soldiers against the Russians, and then repaid upon German citizens by the Russians, boggle the mind.

Anyway, Come and See. It's the story of a very young Belorussian boy who joins the partisans to resist German invasion and basically wanders around for a few days witnessing all sorts of horrors. He narrowly escapes a bombing, his family is all killed, he's captured and rounded up into a barn which he gets out of in time to watch the entire village burned to death locked in that barn. The Germans who burn them are caught and he sees them all executed by the Russians. This entire time he's been carrying around a rifle that he finds in the very beginning of the movie, and rarely ever speaking (I think he goes deaf when he's almost hit by the first bomb or something). Anyway, after stumbling around in a PTSD daze the entire movie he finds a picture of Hitler lying in the mud, pulls up his rifle, and fires it (for the first time ever) into the picture. The movie itself was sort of boring, and not really all that disturbing (after reading the much more disturbing actual facts of what happened), but I found the last four or so minutes of the movie really moving. As he shoots the picture we see old newsreel footage of WWII, playing in reverse. Paratroopers fly back into planes, people run out of prison camps, Nazis goosestep backwards, Hitler gives speeches in reverse, burning books fly out of the fire back into the hands of those who threw them. The movie ends with a picture of a baby Adolf sitting in his mother's lap.

             The problem is, shooting a picture of Hitler can't reverse evil any more than shooting Hitler himself could reverse it. I'm an eternal optimist who feels the mere concept of evil is proof that man is inherently good. If we were all evil, evil would be called, "normal," not, "bad." I feel we're progressing as a species, but at the same time - why have serial killers only existed for less than two hundred years? Why is racial extermination still a fairly new concept? Once evil is loosed into the world, it can never be taken back. If some guy kills my teenage daughter, and I catch him, torture him, and kill him slowly - it doesn't matter. Justice hasn't been served. My daughter is still dead. No matter what we do in revenge, or for punishment, evil has been done, and can never be undone. As Shakespeare once (kind of) said, "The good that men do is oft interred with their bones, but the evil men do lives on and on."

Fatherhood the Blog - Halftime

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. We have officially reached the point of Margaret's pregnancy where we take a short breather and give one another a pep talk as a dusty old band of bones that were last popular before any participants (either in this pregnancy or on an NFL team) were born performs a predictable medley of their greatest hits and everyone refills on nachos and cocktail wieners. They say (and by they, I mean witch doctors) that the average pregnancy is 40 weeks long. We're 20 weeks along. Pull out your calculators kids, and, like Mr. Hudson in high school math always said - "Zzzzz" (translated: double check your work). Twenty weeks is half way there.

             What does that mean? It means a lot of things, and those things are often contradictory. It means that this pregnancy is closer to over than ever before. It means that we've crested the top of the hill and, like every good roller coaster rider, are beginning to hurtle downward with a mix of glee and terror. It also means that we have as long left in this pregnancy as we've already experienced so far, and it seems like Mag has been pregnant forever. Pregnancy is a big change. It's a change in the way one thinks, and it's a change in the way one lives, but I can only assume it's nothing compared to actually having the child. That's when life will really change. That's when I'll really get scared. I honestly cannot imagine having a child. I spend a lot of time dedicating my always over active imagination to this one particular subject, and while I can imagine many instances and situations (both good and bad) of me being in the role of father, and having a delightful little son next to me, it's impossible to actually imagine all the small daily ways life will change once there's a non-self-sufficient human being permanently residing in my house. Though I realize that I cannot imagine it, and though I understand that there's no way to understand it before experiencing it, it doesn't mean that I'm more prepared to live the life that will soon be my very own.

     However, if there is one thing that mankind has always been proficient at, it's tracking the every move of Kim Kardashian. Also, it's creating menial tasks to fulfill the reptile part of our brain in order to keep the more advanced, civilized part of our mind from running rampant and sliding down every pathway and side trail exploring all possibilities in a manner that will eventually cripple our every day life. This is all to say that we've been doing a lot of work on the nursery. Mag, despite repeated warnings from people who evidently know nothing, repainted a chest of drawers (while in the open air of our deck) for our little boy. The actually body is dark brown, while the drawers themselves are light brown. I'm working on a set of stencils which we'll use to paint a boat, plane, and something else on the drawers. I also replaced all of the chest of drawer handles with the pewter airplane handles that Mag bought. This was such a pain in the ass. Seriously, I've never seen such a simple task complicated so thoroughly. First of all, the screws for the handles were slightly too long for the thickness of the drawers. This means that it was impossible for the handles to screw on tightly enough. The solution seemed simple enough so I wrote out a list of things I needed, measured items out, wrote down specific numbers I don't even understand (T25 head?), and even drew out lines and shapes on my list. Then I headed to the one place that always makes me feel the most uncomfortable and insufficient. No, not a Catholic wedding. No, not Victoria's Secret. No, not an African-American drinking establishment. The little shop of over exuberant manhood - Home Depot.

              I seriously spent like 45 minutes in this store, and everything I need was on one aisle. I needed several different sizes of screws, and one screw bit. I brought a little pouch with different items to compare with the things I was buying and that, along with my obsessive-compulsively detailed list, made me think that all of this was going to be simple. Surprise - it wasn't. Home Depot has a clever little panel with a lot of screw holes in it. You screw your bolt (that you remembered to bring from home) into whichever hole it fits and voila! you now know which size screw, or bolt, or nut, you need. Of course, things went wrong. After figuring out my first few items I realized that the airplane handle wouldn't unscrew from it's bolt by hand. I had to find the screwdriver section and use one of the models to get the pieces apart. Once I finally returned home  I was treated to the revelation that the screws I had bought wouldn't quite fit into the airplane handles. I went to ACE Hardware (which is much closer than Home Depot) and bought a bunch of small $0.09 washers (which had been my original idea to begin with) and slid them on the bolts and that made them long enough to screw on all the handles. HOORAY.

            Mag took our guest bed to her parents' house on Tuesday evening (while myself, my four brothers, my brother-in-law, and my father were witnessing a live buttkicking at Turner Field. (I want to record this for posterity real quick. I asked my littlest brother, Levi [who was at his first MLB game], "Do you want to see a home run?" when Jason Heyward was up to bat. He said he did, so I said, "Okay, watch that State Farm sign right there. He's about to hit a ball right over it." Heyward got on base, Chipper got out, and then McCann hit a home run - exactly about the State Farm sign. Levi wasn't watching, of course.)). She traded that bed for the crib that is stored at her parents, and also bought a changing table while she was in Columbus. That, the crib, the newly painted dresser, and the kid toys we already got, makes our guest room really begin to resemble a baby's room. We have a good ways to go in the room, of course, but we still have a good ways to go in the pregnancy.

                So, on Father's Day I (famously) commanded Flipper to kick for me. He (nearly as famously) refused. He definitely understands English, as he'll occasionally punctuate something Mag or I say with a hearty bout of kicking and punching. On Friday Mag was lounging in our beautiful little living room, watching the afternoon sun play through the cherry trees in our front yard and over the pages of her supremely nerdy book. Flipper started kicking, and she called me over, grasped my hand, and dug it in to her stomach, with far more pressure than I myself would ever dare to exert. "Feel that?" she asked, but I didn't. I could feel her heart beating (that's how hard my hand was pushing in) but nothing else. I'd imagine a thousand tiny kicks, but I didn't say anything about them, since I didn't want to look stupid when she told me he hadn't actually kicked.  Suddenly I felt a little flutter - something that felt like a strong, extra, heartbeat. My eyes neatly popped out of my head and rolled down Margaret's swollen stomach, careening down the armchair and bouncing across the floor then skittering under the coffee table. "Did he just - ?" I asked. And, "Yes," of course, she replied. It was a small, quick, kick (though I've only felt him kick once I already understand Fetus Kick Language and his kick, interpreted into spoken word, means, "I'm here, okay? Now leave me alone.") but I felt it unmistakably. I'm sure I'll feel it much more in the coming weeks, and months, but I suppose the first time you ever feel your child move is a pretty important time. It felt like it, anyway.

              I have a little journal I've been keeping for Flip, writing down my innermost thoughts and special moments of the pregnancy. I give him bits of advice when they come to me, and tell him historical details about things that are going on (in case he wants to double check my memory against whatever form the Internet has taken in 2027). I was thinking about that today, actually. My great grandfather was born in 1910 and died just a few years ago. It's completely mind blowing to attempt and consider how much the world has changed since his birth. My grandparents were born like in the 1930s or something. People barely had cars! My parents were born in the late 50s-early 60s. I can identify with them quite easily, but then when you really think about all the things invented since their childhood - like cable television and VHS and a completely different worldview of ourselves and the rest of Earth, it's almost like they were born in some history book somewhere. The Internet didn't exist when I was born. CDs didn't exist, and they're nearly obsolete. I can't even imagine the kind of world my son will come of age in, and all of the things he will see in his lifetime. I already try and look back at my childhood through his eyes, and wonder what are the little details about it that will make him think I'm super old. What are the things that I consider normal that he won't even be able to imagine? I was watching the famous Braves vs. Padres fight(s) from back in 1984 and I had to sit back and say, "This was really the style when I was born? These are real people and not just horrible, horrible actors?" That will be Flipper one day, talking about 2011. That's just creepy.

The Life and Death of Elliot the Cat

                 Friday evening Margaret and I were happy and having fun making supper. She was getting some stuff ready in the kitchen, and I was outside putting hamburgers on the grill. Elliot, our cat, was her normal contented self. Five minutes later we heard her crying in the bedroom. We went back there and she was laying on the ground, unable to move any part of the back half of her body. Ten minutes later we were in the car on the way to the animal hospital. Less than an hour later she was dead.

                 Just over three years ago, while at my younger brother's high school graduation, my other brother, Clayton, got a text message. He worked at Zaxby's at the time, and his co-worker was asking him if he could adopt a kitten. She had been heard crying in the storm drain and the fire department had to come, send someone down into it, and get her back out. My parents said no dice, Clayton had a cat already and they didn't want another one in the house. He argued with them but I saved the day by stepping in and saying, "I'll take her" (after seeing a picture of the kitten on his phone). Everyone agreed - that is, until my mom remembered that I was temporarily living in their house. By then it was too late though, Elliot was mine.

                  She was the greatest kitten in the history of the world. She and I shared a room and I took her to the vet a bunch and got all her shots and that sort of thing. I would come home from work, sit on the end of my bed, turn on the TV, and play a little XBOX. Elliot would stick her claws into the back of my shirt, crawl up my back, and perch on my shoulder (or even on top of my head) and watch me play and purr her little heart out. A few months later I moved to my apartment in a nearby town. Clayton was living in his own apartment by then, and so Elliot stayed with him for a few months (I was busy getting married and all). Clayton's roommate had a little dog, and Elliot and this dog (Atticus) would have epic wars over one another's food. Elliot would wait outside the door to Atticus' room, and when the dog ran out (going for Elliot's food) she would run in, eat as much of his food as possible as quickly as possible, and then use her paw to flip his bowl over, scattering the food, and take off running again.

              Elliot moved back in with me, and now Margaret and I were married so Mag of course lived with me as well. She and Elliot fell in love so quickly, and with such intensity, I actually grew jealous. "She's my cat." I'd tell Margaret. "She loves me!" But that wasn't true anymore - Elliot would follow Mag around, jump into her lap, sleep on her side of the bed, and always choose her over me. A year later we moved into the house we now live in, and brought Elliot with us of course. Our landlords didn't want any pets, but we explained to them that if we couldn't keep Elliot then we simply weren't going to rent from them. Keep Elliot we did, and son, she ran this house. She would spend each day on the guest bed, watching out the window for either Mag or I to arrive home from work. She'd watch us walk up to the back door, and then jump down and run into the den, throwing herself on the floor on her back and waiting for us to pet her. When I'd sit down to watch TV she would jump onto the couch, walk across my lap, and lay next to me purring. I'd pet her, but when I reached up to press a button on my laptop or something she'd reach out her paw and put it on my arm, extending her claws just enough so I'd be sure and know she was there, telling me, "It's petting time right now." She'd sleep in bed with us quite often, and sometimes would wake Mag up in the middle of the night was touching Mag's face with her paw. Mag would wake up and say something to Elliot and Elliot would just lay there and purr (sometimes so loud it was impossible to go back to sleep).

                   On the way to the hospital Mag was sitting in the backseat with Elliot as I drove. "Don't worry baby," I told her. "Obviously there's no way she could have broken her back so it can't be anything that serious. She's freaking out right now because she doesn't know what's going on, but the vet will and they'll take care of it. It's probably some weird cramp or something." It was truly horrific, seeing Elliot scared and trying to move, turning back and forth but not able to use her back legs. I felt that the horror was on our end though - it sucks for us to see her like that but she's just scared and will soon be cared for. I told Mag on the way, "Listen, I can't get tomorrow off so maybe you should call your boss and let him know you might need it off. They might have to keep her overnight and you might have to come get her tomorrow morning."

                  We got to the animal hospital and took her inside. I filled out paperwork as they took Elliot from Margaret into the back. A few minutes later they called us into a small room and said the vet would be there in a minute to let us know what was up. We waited nervously for a moment or two, me assuring Margaret that everything was going to be alright, and then the vet came in. She explained to us that what was going on was a blood clot. There was a lot of technical speak but basically the top half of the heart grows large to compensate for a smaller bottom half, sometimes some blood clots form up there, and they can get thrown out and clot up the blood stream. This was what had happened and was why she couldn't use her back half, and why her back paws and all were growing cold. It's not preventable and just something that happens sometimes - especially to young cats. I'm thinking in my head, "Okay, blood clots. What do I know about blood clots? How do they fix these? Flush them out? Why are we standing her talking about all this - let's get moving and get it fixed!" I was about to say something to that effect when I looked back up at the veterinarian. She has large, expressive eyes and I figured it out about half a second before I heard the words, "euthanize her."

                  Margaret started crying and turned and walked into the corner. The vet almost started crying but I, the manly man, stayed in practical mode. There was a long silence and then I said, "So...that's pretty much the only option?" She told us it was, and that sometimes they had tried pain medication and stuff but that nothing had ever worked and they had always regretted trying it. The blood clot causes intense pain and is untreatable. She said she'd give us a minute to talk about it and then left us alone in the room. Mag cried. She cried in the way that only girls can cry, beating on the chest of the guy that's holding them and crying not just out of grief - but at the unfairness of a world in which grief exists. "You know we have to do this, right?" I asked her, and she nodded. I was pretty teary-eyed myself, but having someone else to comfort always helps me hold my own emotions in check. A minute or so later the door cracked open and a tech brought us a box of tissues and left. "Hang on a second," I told her. "Can I talk to you in the hall?"

                   I left Margaret in the room, stepped out into the hall, started telling the tech what we wanted to do, and just broke down crying. I cry very rarely, and never in public, but I just leaned on the wall in the hallway crying and crying and trying to talk. I finally was able to tell her, "This is what we need. You bring her back in, we tell her goodbye, and then we're going to turn and walk out of the building and you take care of the rest. We'll come back tomorrow afternoon and get her body. Whatever I need to sign and whatever I need to pay let me do it now because we're going to leave as soon as we say goodbye." She asked if we wanted to be with her when they put her to sleep but I said no, we wanted to say goodbye and leave and for them to do it as soon as possible. I paid her, signed a release form, and went back into the room.

                  Margaret sat in a chair against one wall, and I sat in a chair against the other, each of us staring at the floor, or another wall, or anything but one another, and crying. They brought Elliot in and cautioned us to be careful - that she was in a lot of pain and therefore biting and clawing a lot (I knew already - I still have a swollen hand with four deep fang marks on my hand where she bit me while we were loading her up in the truck). Elliot just laid on the table and meowed to us though. We hugged her, we kissed her, we cried, and we said goodbye. They asked us if we wanted a moment alone but I told them no, to just take care of her as quickly as possible. We turned, put our arms around one another, walked stoically across the waiting room, through the front door, and stopped in the parking lot and just wailed like babies.

                   I'm crying now as I'm writing this. It's so weird to me. I've lost pets before, but I was always young or not that close to them. I know people have real tragedy in their lives. People have lost siblings, lovers, parents, children, and much, much more. 70,000 people die every single day around the world. But as Stalin once said, "One death is a tragedy; one million is a statistic."  I'm not in a competition over who has the most right to grief - I don't want grief or strive for it. Maybe I shouldn't feel as sad as I do, or have cried as much as I have. All I know is that it hurts a lot and sucks so hard. When you have a pet you know that you are going to out live it. Humans have a longer life span than almost all creatures that could be considered pets (I don't know many people who have a sea turtle for a pet). Still though - this was an inside cat who we took great care of, I thought she'd been around for at least another ten years. We already talked about, and I thought a lot about, the fact that Elliot lived with us before our kid Flipper did. He'd grow up with her as our pet and she'd be as much a part of our family to him as his mother and father were. She'd die eventually, hopefully in her sleep when he was like 13. Not now, not one hour after being fine.

                  She's buried now. We got her on Saturday and took her out to Mag's parents house. Clayton came out and met us and we buried her next to Mag's Yorkshire terrier, who died almost four years ago. We told her goodbye, planted a lantana on her grave, and cried a little bit more. The greatest part of the grief is over. Replaced by a quiet sadness that will fade with time, once we get used to not seeing her when we get home, or sleeping in bed without her.

                   On Friday we got in the truck and drove back home in near silence. Holding hands and taking turns crying as we made our way down the roads back to our home. We walked in the door and Mag lay down on the floor, in the spot where Elliot would always lead us before turning on her back so we'd rub her belly. I laid down next to her and we curled up in an awkward ball and held each other and cried. Then I got up, walked outside, took the hamburgers off of the grill and threw them away. I walked into my room and got out my clothes for work the next day. I took a shower. I went to bed. When faced with death, what else can we do?

R.I.P. Elliot. I loved you way more than anyone ever would have thought I had to capacity to love an animal.

Fatherhood the Blog - Week 18

I know there's a messed up paragraph near a picture. I tried 15 ways to fix it but this is the best I could do. I'm sure your eyes can adjust to a different size text for a paragraph. My apologies.           

      Well life is much different now that we know that our child is a boy. Although, to be honest, I flubbed that one pretty bad today. While at Wal-mart, you know, doing my thang, someone asked me, "Did you post a blog about whether it's a boy or a girl yet?" (yeah, I'm super rich and famous). "It's a girl," I told him. "Wait, I mean boy!" I don't know where that came from. After returning from vacation I was talking to a close friend and said something about my son-to-be, and he said, "Wait, it's a boy? I thought it was a girl."

"No," I told him. "It's a boy."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure it's a boy."

"Oh...well I get those two things confused a lot."

            Now that Mag knows exactly what her little hatchling is going to be, it's time for mama bird to kick into over drive in the nesting department. We've recently realized that we're like...I don't know...halfway? almost halfway? through this pregnancy and haven't done a ton besides daydream and talk about this child incessantly. It's time to get things DONE. We actually already have some baby equipment (which is all huge and takes up more room than my things) - we have something called an, "exersaucer" which is a dumb name for something a kid sits in and hits buttons on or flips levers or looks in a mirror or whatever; we have a baby swing - which is probably the best piece of baby equipment ever. I famously used to pinch Clayton's pink little toes when he slept as a baby in his swing, and then run away to escape punishment when he awoke screaming (I still do this to him whenever we sleep under the same roof); we have a walker -  basically an exersaucer with wheels, so the child can roll around with impunity; and we have one of those amazing three wheeled running strollers so we can look fit and sexy running our boy up and down the sidewalks in front of the giant houses on our street, pretending to be a rich young couple.

Mag sent me this while I was writing. Drawer knobs
for the baby!

              These four pieces of equipment would barely fit into our guest room so we quickly realized that we're going to have to move out the guest bed in order to make room for all the things one little tiny child will need. Now that we know, as I said before, that this alien is a male, Mag has begun picking out patterns for fabric and a design motif for the room. She mentioned sports to begin with, and I went along half-heartedly but to be honest wasn't really into it. I don't know, it just seems so old-school and semi-sexist. I want my son to be into sports, but I want my daughter to be into sports too. More importantly, I want them to be

into whatever they're into. I played soccer when I was a boy, but that's the only sport I've ever played. A sport theme just seems so... I don't know, lame. Her second idea, however, was old-school airplanes. I like that a lot. Her father is a pilot, and used to be in the Air Force. My brother is in the Air Force Special Forces. Her grandfather was a fighter pilot during WWII. On top of all of that, I love history. If I could make a living being a history student for the rest of my life, that would be my job. Also, aren't bi-planes just the coolest looking? So anyway, she's down in Columbus today, going to a few fabric stores and looking for some fabric with airplane patterns. There's a ton online (evidently this isn't a super original idea) so hopefully she'll be able to find some. In the mean time I'm here at home supposed to be sanding down the boy's chest-of-drawers so we can repaint them. I'm going to stencil some plane designs on each drawer afterwards and paint them. I'm thinking of a motif where the top drawer is the sun, the second drawer a plane, the third drawer a paratrooper, and the fourth drawer the ground. I don't know though, I'm going to play around with it and see. However, some rain started falling and some thunder kicked up so I'm doing this instead while watching Breaking Bad.

This is, by far, my favorite picture of my son. He looks like
a super chill evil alien with a mohawk.

           Another thing we can now discuss is a name for our kid. We had like four full (as in first and middle) female names picked out but had trouble coming up with male names. Of course, the child had to be a boy. Mag had liked, "Brooks Cameron" but as soon as it was announced that the He was a He she told me, "He doesn't seem anything like a Brooks Cameron to me." In the two weeks since we've found out we've gone over about 50 names, and I don't like barely any of them. There are about four that we have on our, "Eh, Maybe" list, which isn't very many at all. Mag has abruptly fallen in love with the name, "Andrew" which I find just bizarre. I've never really liked my name. I don't hate it, or anything, but it probably isn't the name I would have chosen. It doesn't help that (probably in honor of me) shortly after I was born there was a rash of everyone naming their sons Andrew so I've met about eighteen thousand Andrews all between two and five years younger than me. And all incredibly annoying. Mag has never made a habit of telling me how much she likes my name or anything, but suddenly she wants to name our son after me. It's flattering really. However, I am not a vain man. Far from it. In fact, I am a selfless man. I try to think about my son when it comes to naming him. What name will he like? More importantly, what name will girls be attracted to in the year 2028? While, let's face it, he is my son, and he is an O'Dell, he shouldn't really have a problem attracting the ladies, I still don't want to burden him with anything that might get in the way.

              And now, a brief story to cap off our week in child-rearing:

    On Monday, while we were at a doctors appointment (everything is fine by the way) Mag pointed at a carved Willow Tree statuette on a shelf and said, "That's the kind I want." It was, of course, of a pregnant wooden woman holding her pregnant wooden belly. Now, Mag pointing out something she likes is the closest that she ever comes to actually asking for something. I have to beg her for months in advance in order to get any ideas for her birthday or Christmas. So, since she wants it (and since she's being a nice little sweetheart lately) I decided to go buy her one of these figurines while she was out shopping today. I drove over to the local drugstore, where they have this whole section labelled (I assume), "Things Only Women Would Want (But Never Need)." I went inside and wandered around for a moment, for only for a short one, as I was accosted by a too tan, too blonde, to friendly woman who worked there. She asked if I needed any help and I instantly decided to play one of my favorite games. A game called, "Pretend To Be A Dumbass."

              A brief history on Pretending To Be A Dumbass: I do this quite often, and it really is a ton of fun. I first started doing it as a child, when I'd hang out with friends. We'd be talking about something from a time we had hung out before and they'd get all the details wrong, or not remember who was there, or not remember what we did, and I would remember every detail in stark clarity. I'd pretend, however, that I didn't remember either - if I did then I felt I'd just look needy, or clingy, or like I put more importance on our time together than they did. Since I'm all grown up now I still play this game aW lot. When I'm around rednecks I change the way I talk, using, "I reckon" a lot and purposefully messing up my grammar. It's great fun, completely pointless, and a fascinating way to waste time.

            "Yeah," I told the lady. "Somebody told me you sold those wooden people here."

            "Wooden people?" she asked.

            "Yeah...you know like those people...that are wooden?"

            "Oh!" she laughs. "Those wooden people! They're right over here!" She takes me to the Willow Tree display. "Is there one you're looking for in particular?"

            "One that's pregnant. Do they have those?"

            "Oh yes! We definitely have those!" She jumps down and sorts through them all and then goes and gets an older lady and they eventually tell me that no, they don't have any of those.

            "Have you tried Hallmark?" they ask. "Do you know where Hallmark is?"

            "No," I tell them. "I don't even know what Hallmark is."

            They explain to me where, and what, Hallmark is and tell me that they sell Willow Tree there and they probably have a pregnant one.

            "Well when are you reordering?" I ask the older lady.

            "Oh I'll order one when I reorder, and that'll probably be in the next few weeks. I just didn't know how soon you needed it. When were you hoping to get it?"

            "I don't know."

            "You don't?"

            "No. I mean...It's no rush. She's still pregnant."

            "Will she be pregnant for awhile?"

            "At least until November, they tell me." (I'm skating on thin ice now, going so dumb that I run a risk of the ladies growing suspicious. It's time to leave). I tell the ladies that I'll check Hallmark, and if they don't have it I'll be back down to visit them in a few weeks. They bid me good day (good day I tell you!) and I meander out of the store, already noticing them smiling and whispering back and forth to one another. I hope it's a good story to tell their husbands when they get home tonight - the story of a sweet, dull-witted, dashingly handsome young man who was trying to buy a gift for his wife. "Why can't you be more like that honey?" they'll ask. "He may be dumb as a sack of bricks, but at least he was getting her a present."

            This, my son, is the legacy I leave for you.

Addendum: 

             After writing this I realized I couldn't post it because Mag would know I was buying her this Willow Tree thing. Therefore I packed up and went to Hallmark, determined not to be stupid. Some things, however, are unavoidable. I walk in, ask about Willow Tree, and the girl points me to the rack of displays. 

"So, do I just take what I want off the rack?"

"No, you tell me what you want and I'll go get it from the back."

"I want the pregnant chick."

"The pregnant chick?"

"The pregnant girl."

"The pregnant girl?"

"The pregnant WOMAN. The pregnant MARRIED woman. The woman pregnant with MY legitimate child. My WIFE."  

This is, obviously, the funniest thing uttered in a Hallmark store in the past seven years (based solely on reaction) but, long story short, I got that voodoo doll, along with a big magnet that says, "It's A Boy!" waiting on the kitchen table for when Mag get's home.  

Andrew's H8LV 6/8/11

      I was on the beach for nine days, and sick all day yesterday. I feel that explains my absence nicely.




H8#3: "You always think you're right..."
          I have a couple of maxims, aphorisms, witticisms, or just plain quotes on my list today. One thing that bothers me quite often is the way people use, or mis-use really, language. I'm not talking about punctuation, or ending sentences in prepositions, or even using, "their" instead of, "there." All those things are annoying, and we should strive to use whichever language we speak and write to the best of our ability, but let's face it, that battle was lost long ago. Still, as a fan of both logic and language, I can find many things to hate on a daily basis (especially by reading Facebook statuses). One thing that particularly bothers me is when (and this has happened to me quite often over the course of my life), during an argument, the person I'm arguing with tells me, "You always think you're right." This is meant to be some sort of insult, I suppose, or something that I am to feel guilty about. OF COURSE I THINK I'M RIGHT. Think this through - if I didn't think I was right, but was arguing with you anyway, I would be some sort of psychopath, creating drama and dissent merely for the sake of drama and dissent. No, the entire reason we're arguing is because I think that I'm right, and you think that you're right.
            Let's address the, "always" thing. No, I don't think I'm always right. I usually am, if we're talking about batting averages, but no, not always. But you know what? If I'm not right I have no problem in admitting it. I don't expect myself to be right all the time, so it's not a point of pride for me to claim I am when I'm not. Therefore I don't normally take strong stands on an issue or subject unless I'm sure I'm right (this greatly improves my aforementioned batting average). However, it bears repeating, of course I think I'm right when I think I'm right. You're merely stating the obvious, not making my argument somehow more illegitimate because you're pointing out the fact that I believe in the strengths of my argument.

H8#2: "This isn't goodbye, this is..."
  Oh God, this one really annoys me. I've heard this a thousand times (LITERALLY) on television, movies, tearful farewells at the end of summer camp (did any of these girls/people honestly think we were going to keep in touch more than 48 hours after we left camp?), and various other places. You can finish the sentence with a variety of words - "This isn't goodbye, this is see you later/ until we meet again/ so long/ hasta la vista baby/ good riddance." Oprah was the latest offender, who ended her unparalleled 25 years in daytime talk show television with this trite unoriginal saying (this is a great opportunity for an Oprah joke, but really, I don't hate Oprah herself. She annoys me incredibly, but I get it, women like her and she probably has done more good than bad). Let's review the concept of this sign off - what does it even mean? The logic hinges on the assumption that, "goodbye" actually means, "We will never see one another again." So the sayer, taking the brave step of refusing to make that claim, replaces it with, "until we meet again." The problem with this, obviously, is that goodbye means nothing of the sort. If it did, we would never use the term. The word wouldn't even exist, except as the ending of eulogies. If that's what goodbye meant, I wouldn't say goodbye every single time I got off the phone - informing the person on the other end I have no intention of ever speaking to them again.
            For this saying to work we have to take a perfectly good word, assign it a completely different meaning, and then boldly reject that meaning in favor of another term (such as, "see you later") that means what the original word meant before we changed the meaning. Who doesn't hate that?

H8#1: Hunting

This is more like hunting than deer stand hunting is.

          I have no moral problem with hunting. I mean, of course I have a problem with some sorts of hunting, like going to Africa and killing elephants and lions to prove how tiny your penis is, but I don't mind the normal, every day, country folk hunting of deer, or pigs, or turkey, or whatever it is people shoot. I understand we have somewhat of a problem with deer overpopulation, as we've killed out all of their natural predators, and I also understand the appeal and efficiency of killing and processing your own meat. I own a gun, and after I bought it I went out in the country to a friend's house (who was out of town) and walked through the fields and woods shooting everything I could see. Once you're holding a gun in your hands you want to shoot things. You want to shoot glass and watch it break, you want to shoot cans and watch them fall, and you want to shoot live things and watch them die (for the record however, I've only ever shot two live things (besides my brother in the head with a .BB gun) - a spider and a bumblebee). So, I can understand the appeal and the need for hunting. Here's what I don't understand: why it's called hunting.
           You see! This does fit in with my other hatreds in regards to the misuse of language. Just think of the word hunting, in regards to anything besides human beings, and what do you think about? How does a lionness hunt a gazelle? How does a pack of wolves hunt a mountain goat? They go out and proactively run down the prey and kill it. They don't sit in a tree, spraying themselves with urine, and hope that a gazelle wanders by not paying attention. When we (and by we I mean you, because I don't do such things) lose our car keys, how do we hunt for them? Do we sit on the couch and wait for our keys to jingle jangle on past? Or do we go and look in every possible place they could be? Imagine, if you will, a movie called, "THE HUNTERS FROM OUTER SPACE," with the tagline, "This time humans are the prey!" That's all the information you have, now create the movie in your head. Would it involve aliens descending on Earth and hiding in water towers hoping that the particular human beings they were hunting would happen to stroll by? I don't mind people hunting, but let's call it, "trapping" or something like that. When you paint your body, wear nothing but a loincloth, and dash through the woods with a spear chasing an animal then we can call it hunting.

LV: Elizabeth Taylor

             Well everyone knows Elizabeth Taylor died recently, and I really knew nothing about her except the fact that she was some creepy old lady who sold awful tacky perfume. The only movie I had ever seen starring her was National Velvet, and I remember absolutely nothing about that movie except that it featured a horse. I used to get her confused with Liza Minnelli. After she died I decided to watch a few of her movies to see what all the fuss was about - I knew she was some larger than life personality from the Camelot era but was she actually a good actress? In short, yes. She's amazing. I've only seen a few of her movies (next on the list are Cleopatra, and Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?) but she's seriously like my favorite person in the entire history of the world. This lady sizzles. I don't remember who played Scarlett in Gone With the Wind but Elizabeth Taylor is the way more awesome version of a real-life Scarlett. I watched A Cat on a Hot Tin Roof where she's married to Paul Newman (who no longer finds himself sexually attracted to her. Obviously the movie has to be fiction) and that seriously has to be the most good looking couple in the history of movies. I defy you to name another pair of actors who play a couple in a film that are better looking than these two.
             Liz Taylor is a huge legend - in the order of Marilyn Monroe and Katherine Hepburn, and I usually hold myself to be disappointed when I compare the legend to reality. Ms. Hilton-Wilding-Todd-Fisher-Burton-Warner-Fortensky-Taylor did nothing of the sort. I'm rapidly growing more and more obsessed with ancient movies, like those from the 50s and 60s and can find none better than she. Elizabeth Taylor, I love you.

X-Men: A First Class Review

 by Clayton


 The fifth movie in the X-Men film franchise was released this weekend, to mostly positive reviews and a fresh excitement from fans that wasn't present for the last two (awful) incarnations. The first film was released back in 2000, which makes this film franchise the longest-running modern comic book film series, a franchise that's made nearly $800 million domestically and featured such diverse actors as Patrick Stewart, Ian McKellen, Halle Berry, James Marsden, Hugh Jackman, Anna Paquin, Brian Cox, Dominic Monaghan, Will.I.Am (seriously), Ryan Reynolds, and now, James McAvoy, Jennifer Lawrence, Kevin Bacon, Rose Byrne, and January Jones (*fans self*). It's undeniably a huge franchise, but even after all this time First Class proves that what's broken can be fixed and the wheel can be reinvented.

What's that on the ground?? Oh, just a conveniently-placed camera

 The Story: First Class takes a bit of a spin on the traditional comic book series by placing it in 1962, at the height of nuclear fear and tension between the US and the Soviet Union. As opposed to the social commentary on minorities that the comics originally began as, or the straight action of later comics and the first few films, First Class attempts to up the ante by placing it in a new timeframe and with a history that most of us who graduated from highschool know the relevance of. The time and history is, of course, only as a supplement to the action and character development, but it serves as a interesting take on the hyper-modern action we've grown used to.

 The story is new, but is Phantom Menace-esque in its heavyhanded foreshadowing. This film doesn't set up the later films and story - it blatantly tells you why each event happens, why every relationship is the way it is. I'd much rather have seen a bit of mystery, or even room left for a prequel sequel, but instead we've been hand-fed each detail. I get that the modern American audience isn't all that smart, and the action movie crowd even less so, but it'd nice when filmmakers have some sort of faith in audiences. That isn't present here.

Even before paralysis, Professor X was more of a
sit-down on the job kind of guy

 The Good: The film may be mundane in its approach and not fully original in its setting, but it is more than adequate in giving us depth. We get to know the characters because there are few enough to be manageable, and we see the relationships that we've grown used to develop and augment in a natural, albeit rushed manner. I thought that the characters were far and away the best part of this film. Almost every single one was cast perfectly, and throughout the training sessions we got to see a telescoped growing up of each character and see them deal with mutation as more than just a convenient power but also as a social disorder. That dynamic is one of the strongest in X-Men's history, and I was glad to see it on display in the film (again, even if it became a bit heavyhanded).

 Technically the film was appropriate. I have a big problem with close-cropped, over-paced, poorly-choreographed action scenes, but for the most the action was diverse and filmed well. I'm overjoyed that First Class declined the temptation of going for 3D, because the action stood on its own without it. The CGI was mostly effective, and from an aesthetic standpoint I had no major problems with the film. The training montage was one of the best scenes because of the block editing done in it, which kept a great pace and gave it a unique feel. Technically I had no problems with the film, and I think its technical merit will ultimately help place it in the top slot so far as the franchise is concerned. I don't think there was a single overbearing slow motion scene if there were any, and we all know I am a FIRM BELIEVER IN NO SLOW MOTION, so I was ecstatic to see that laziness done away with in the film.

*drools*

 The Bad: Kevin Bacon. He was like a 70's-style porn star with a ridiculous power and hilarious scenes of melodrama. He was a terrible villain because he was hackneyed, but not even in a fun way. You want to hate him, but he's so simultaneously pathetic and overpowered that it's impossible to. In a mostly strong cast, Bacon was a shining beacon of mediocrity, at best.

 And again, I hated how overplayed and *bing word* heavyhanded the setup was. This film was both a reinvention and a prequel, but it played out in 90 minutes what could've easily been done in a trilogy of its own. Was it necessary to end the film on the note it did? Possibly, because it ties up in a neat little CGI-laden package everything we need to know before X-Men 1, but it could've been drawn out and done in a more natural manner. I'm rarely one to clamor for a sequel, but in this case it's something I'd be more than happy to sit through.

 ... and the Sexy! JANUARY JONES AKA EMMA FROST ALERT GOES HERE. I think January Jones is a beautiful g.oddess, but she played Frost to perfection. She's an excellent James Bond-style villainess sidekick, but I lament the rise of CGI because it seemed that each time I was beginning to faint from seeing her beauty on screen for longer than thirty seconds she'd turn into a ridiculous asymmetrical diamond chip thingie that was.not.hot. One of her high points, though, was her always-white fashion sense. She was a glamorous villain made even better by her 60's style fashion... which brings me to one of the biggest things I saw in the film.

NOT from a old-school pornography

 THE FASHION OF FIRST CLASS. I love looking at old fashion styles. Shows like Mad Men (ft. January Jones), movies like Girl, Interrupted, or even old Hitchcock films. I love to see how people used to dress and compare it to the plagiarized and watered-down styles of today, and seeing modern films try to emulate older fashion is exciting to me. There were some scenes and outfits in First Class that seemed spot-on, that made me fan myself. And then there would be Rose Byrne tramping around in a CIA mini skirt that was barely low enough to cover her belt, throwing me into a double-take. As time wore on though, I began to see how perfectly the period-piece of 1960's fashion merged with the sex-craze of action film to create this fun, appropriate costume style that flowed with the film. I honestly would watch this film again simply to watch costumes. For my birthday I need an Art of X-Men: First Class book, if such a thing exists. I need taaa examine daaa fashion!!!


 The Verdict: Go see it. This isn't a film that'll change your life, but it's a film that is fast-paced enough to be fun, intelligent enough not to be a drag, and engaging enough to be memorable. It's a good date movie, a good afternoon alone movie, or something just to pass the time. If you've seen any of the other X-Men films, this is a must-see. It rises above the other four in form, and the story is something recognizable enough to be nostalgic. Not necessarily this week, or even while it's in theaters, but make an effort to see this film. And that's the verdict.

Hermione Granger: A Love Story

 To those who may or may not know, I have a publicized history of a solid hatred of Harry Potter. Back in its heyday, I was instructed never to read the series because of its connections with dark magic and sorcery, and I combined this mandate with my illustrious and ignoble aim to be always outside the scope of popularity - resulting, of course, in a strong anti-Harry Potter standpoint. I assumed the books were poorly written chaff being churned out annually to make ridiculous sales, while the movies were much of the same. I had many friends, who, knowing my taste in books and films, encouraged me to give the series a chance, but I remained stalwart in my attempt to ignore all things popular.

 Last summer, shortly after being hired at Starbucks, two of my little brother's dear friends, who I'd spent countless hours with over my teenage years, traveled an hour to my town to see the midnight premiere of Harry Potter 7.1. I hung out with them for a bit and drank with the fatter of the two, always intending to skedaddle home before the premiere, but as time (and alcohol) wore on, I eventually succumbed to the inferior pressure (not peer pressure) and saw the last film with them. This was my first foray into the world of Harry Potter. I was disappointed.

 Not only did I sleep through a decent chunk of the film, I thought the acting was subpar and the action scenes silly. I mean, HELLO, a giant fell asleep in the first action scene! How exciting could it possibly be?!?! I, of course, texted my hate of the film to my old and dear roommate as well as my current coworkers, bragging about how I finally gave Harry Potter a chance and was completely and utterly let down. They all responded by saying "oh, I don't claim the last book!" or "yeah, that movie was boring" or "you have to read the books to understand that film." Flimsy excuses, at best, paper-thin wheedlings that I quickly dismissed as pathetic ramblings of people who inured their childhood in Potter fandom and were unwilling to give it up.

 I was wrong.

 Under threat of possible death (due to boredom, not by someone threatening me), I borrowed the book series from a dear, sweet, sexy friend of mine about three weeks ago. Even with work and sleep, I finished the first book in a record 22-odd hours. Chamber of Secretions was completed a day later. I forestalled on Azkaban, but ultimately conquered the seven-book, the 3000+ page series, in under three weeks. A page every ten minutes for three weeks, discounting the minutes spent working, sleeping, or whining? I'm impressed.

 I came to love the writing style of the series, and while I have misgivings on the depth of the world which Rowling has created, she assuaged most of my fears and doubts by bringing convenient early-book introductions full circle and making them something more than just a secret one-time use weapon. As I read the seventh book, desperate to find something to make me hate the series, I inwardly resolved that the one thing, dated all the way back to the first book, that she had never revisited and was clearly a flaw of hers, was the presence of mandrakes, the death-screaming plants that easily could have been used to fight Voldemort. Then Professor Sprout mentioned them in the final battle and I was devastated, because it meant that I had to become a full-fledged Potter fan.

 Beyond being a fan of the series, though, I came to learn, and to love, something within the series. For those who are not complete and utter idiots and are incapable of clicking links and reading blog titles, this thing obviously is Hermione Granger. One of Harry's two truest friends, Hermione is seriously the best thing about this series. She's infinitely intelligent, a worrywart, a regular svengali, a buddingly attractive young woman, the most loyal friend ever invented, and a cat person. I rooted for her when her cat apparently murdered Ron's rat, when she dumped Ron's late come-ons to flirt with the most popular Quidditch player EVAH, or even when she took a douchebag date rapist to a party simply to piss Ron off. She is the embodiment of everything I love and adore, the person I want to be, and the person I want to be with (oddly enough, these two people are identical!).

 What I brought from the series is a sense in ultimate self-sacrifice and goodness, the message that Rowling wanted to embed in her praiseworthy series. I took, also, an ultimate sense of self-worth and self-love, because all of my awkward, desperate, desiring emotions toward Hermione's personality, her beauty, her intelligence, smarminess, attitude of dismissal, and ultimate reliability, were emotions toward myself. I find a bit of Hermione in myself, and I'd like to find more than a bit of myself in Hermione.

Fatherhood: The Blog - IT'S A BOY

       I try and keep my promises, unless it's inconvenient to do so, or I forget, so I'm writing a Fatherhood blog, thought I don't exactly feel like it. We're currently on day four of our Last Hurrah Vacation (aka A Truly O'Dellicious Tour of the Florida Panhandle Beaches) and I'm ensconced on a little loveseat in a hotel in San Destin, watching the first game of the NBA finals and still trying to decide who to root for: Dallas, because they represent all that is good and holy (and white) and have fought for this for years and put in much hard work and effort, or Miami, since they represent everything that is dark and evil and wrong with sports today. Both seem equally enticing to me.

      So much has happened on this vacation already, and while I'm tempted to tell you all about it I will resist for two reasons 1) This is supposed to be a Fatherhood blog, and 2) Evidently this is about the hour when all the middle-aged men staying in this hotel for their business trip get online looking for porn, because the Internet is moving S-L-O-W. Suffice it to say that we've been to the beach four times, to about six different restaurants, haven't watched television once (until now), we visted a waterpark, and I used the women's bathroom at a restaurant and didn't realize it until a women came in a joined me in front of the mirror. Ain't no shame up in my game.

      Well everyone, I'm having a son. I found out five days ago and I still haven't really been able to figure out exactly how I feel about it. My reaction was sort of just, "Of course I am." Not because I thought it would be a boy (my reaction to him being a girl would probably have been the exact same) but...I don't know really. It had to be one or the other, so the answer couldn't be that surprising. The real shocker in pregnancy is realizing that one is actually going to be a parent - to be complete responsible for the care and upbringing of another human being - a being that shares one's own DNA and could possibly turn out to be a maniacal serial killer, if one doesn't do the whole upbringing part of things correctly. I'm happy he's a boy though. Mag knew he was going to be a boy - she's been calling him, "he" for weeks now with complete confidence. I had no clue, of course, and really no guess one way or another.

       It's interesting to think about though, because now all my hopes and fears (or excitement and apprehension) can be further categorized into gender specific moments that span Flipper's entire future childhood from age five until age 20 (I figure before five it doesn't much matter if you're a boy or a girl, you're raised more or less the same). Will he like sports? Will he play soccer or baseball? Will he be anything like me? Will he be a mama's boy? Will he take my advice when it comes to women? Will he be a dumb violent douchebag or a smart savvy guy who reads lots of books (like his father, of course)? What kind of man will he be? Will he like men? How will he treat women, and how can I make sure he treats them better than I did/do? Will he wish I knew how to hunt and that I took him hunting? A lot of these things I can control - or influence at least, but some of them I have no control over whatsoever. Thinking through these things does reassure me in one aspect, however - I think having a teenage boy will be a lot less scary and stressful than having a teenage girl.
      
       The actual experience of finding out whether Flipper was a boy or a girl was quite interesting in itself. The office isn't an actual medical office, and there are strict rules what the ultrasound techs (or whatever their official title is) can and cannot do. Certain things are considered diagnostic, and the furthest thing they can do medically is say, "I strongly recommend you call your doctor and schedule an ultrasound with her immediately." We even had to sign something that said that we understood that this ultrasound was for, "Entertainment purposes only." But folks, let me tell you this - that ultrasound was amazing. The image popped up both on the computer monitor and on a giant flatscreen TV on the wall. Flipper is like the size of a grapefruit or something, but already incredibly detailed to the point that I could count his fingers and toes (that is, if I could count to 24). The best part is though, that he moves. When he first came on screen he was exercising, or bored or something, because he was constantly kicking his skinny little legs like he was riding a bicycle. I was shocked and mesmerized by his movement and said so, so the tech said, "Oh watch I'll make him angry" and rubbed the maching quickly back and forth over Mag's belly. Flippers started kicking and punching and, well, flipping. It was so great. I also think that he can hear everything we say and knows English already because when she said she was trying to get a good crotchshot (to prove he was a boy) he grabbed his right ankle with his right hand and stretched it up, spreading his legs to the camera. After a little more harassment he'd decided he had enough so he covered his ears with his hands and put his head down. Babies have that famous soft spot on top of their head when they're born - the skull is still forming and the two halves have yet to meet and fuse, and it's even bigger this early in the pregnancy. On the ultrasound the soft spot shows up as darker than the skull, so we have a great picture in which Flipper looks like some creepy alien commander with a mohawk, staring at the camera and flipping it off.

       That's the lame part though - while pictures are cool and all they're nothing compared to actual seeing him move. He's a human being - a living creature that has some sort of thought already if he's deciding when to move and not move, and how to turn and whether to stretch. I mean, I know it's like low-level animal intelligence or whatever, but this is the first time I've seen him since he was the size of a pinpoint attached to a little yolk sack - basically an egg with a heartbeat. Now he's real, now he's no longer a thing, or even an it, but a HE. I don't know, I'm sure all of this sounds silly and corny and, "Well this is obviously HIS first baby. Remember when we were that over-dramatic, honey?" but it's just how I feel. It's a struggle to put it into words. It wasn't some huge epiphany moment or anything, but Flip definitely feels more alive and real and human to me than he has yet so far. I expect that will only increase with every ultrasound, or when I feel him move, and will continue for his entire life - I'll feel even more connected to him when he's born. I'll feel even more connected to him when he can talk. I'll feel even more connected to him when he starts asking tons of questions and trying to figure life out. I'll feel even more connected to him when he falls in love and doesn't understand it and wants me to explain it to him. I'll feel even more connected to him when his heart gets broken and he runs back to me wanting me to explain that to him. I'll feel even more connected to him when he's really and truly an adult - his own amazing person forging a life of his own. I'll feel even more connected to him when he's having his first child, and I can talk to him about when he was my first child. I can only assume that having a baby is like falling in love with another person - at every stage in the process you feel fully and completely in love, until you hit the next stage and realize that your ideas of full and complete love have expanded to the point where the love you previously thought to be so wasn't quite. It's all very exciting.

       We may return to this weird little ultrasound place for another video viewing when we're much further along. It's set up with couches and chairs and it is designed so we invite our family or friends to come see the little bugger themselves (or throw a Gender Discovery Party (not the Jamie Lee Curtis, Chaz Bono, Lady Gaga type)). So if we do so maybe we'll invite some folk. It's just crazy to me, and I want to buy my own ultrasound and go over to Mag (who is asleep in the hotel bed) right now and squirt some jelly on her stomach while she sleeps and check and see what Flipper is up to. It could get quite addictive. Now that we know that he is a he Mag has, of course, been talking about names a lot. We had about six or seven girl names that we really liked, and about three boy names that we sort of liked. Mag had one boy name in particular that she was keen on (I wasn't that big of a fan) and as soon as we walked out of the ultrasound place said, "I don't like that name anymore. As soon as I saw him I quit liking the name. It doesn't seem to fit him at all." Which I found hilarious.

       This is a fascinating journey people. I'm having a ball.

       P.S. I was planning to spice this post up with pictures and all (including pictures of my actual child) but the Internet is being super slow and crappy and I don't even know if we have the DVD with pictures on it with us. I ain't waking Mag to find out because we took Flipper to his first water park today (that is, his first water park besides the one he is in 24/7 (or is that called an Amniotic Fluid Park?)) and they are both just plumb tuckered out. Next week.

The Laziest Man in the World Who Worked Himself to Death

       You know what I am? A real horrorshow, oh my brothers. It is with a deep sense of shame and a complete lack of self-satisfaction that I admit that it has been TWO. FULL. WEEKS. since I posted anything on this blog. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a bevy of excuses chambered and ready to fire off at the slightest provocation (but to be fair, these are just my general excuses that I always have ready for any situation) but I have to admit that there have been at least 17 free minutes within the past two weeks in which I could have strung a few words together in something resembling a paragraph for you poor bored folk to read while getting paid not to work at whatever business has the misfortune of employing you. You see kids, what you don't understand is that I work very, very, hard. I work six days a week. I work 50+ hours a week. I have a wife, two cats, a garden, and an unborn child to fawn over every day. I have books that need reading, movies that need watching, and wine that needs drinking. On top of all of that, while being supremely O'Dellicious may not be quite as difficult as it looks, it still requires a lot of time and effort.

          Paragraph Two, Professor: My excuses, in calendar form.
- Saturday: After work my darling wife and I went to visit my parents and youngest brothers. I took the ten year old to see Thor, but it was too packed and he was too scared so we went into the lobby and played arcade games for an hour and a half and, honestly, I'm pretty sure that was better than the movie. Afterwards we went fishing and then Mag and I went to Olive Garden (which sucked).

- Sunday: My dear old buddy (DOB) and heterosexual life partner (HLP), the dishonorable Captain Black came to visit. He used to be an unrepentant drunkard, but after an unexpected visit to the emergency room and 48 hours on suicide watch (that's quite a habit, when doctors decide your drinking is so excessive as to reach the levels of attempted suicide yet you just consider it a Wednesday night) he now drinks not at all, and can't even eat fried foods. We play a lot of Halo, and go to Piggly Wiggly and buy some bacon and cinnamon rolls and cook both breakfast and lunch together, then he goes home.

- Monday: Margaret and I both work, and then I suppose we do nothing, as this day has been erased from my memory.

- Tuesday: My old friend Jake is back from the beach and suspended in the purgatory of Georgia, halfway between heaven (the Gulf Coast) and hell (Missouri) so Mag and I meet he, his lovely wife, his obese son, and our old friend (and roller coaster anthem [We scream his name at the top of the biggest hill on every coaster]) JIMMAYYYY FORDHAMMMMM at a mexican restaurant a couple of towns over. We socialize or whatever, and then hug and kiss and swear we'll be better at keeping in touch (although everyone knows I never keep in touch with anyone, and have trouble living in any other moment or place asides from the one my body currently finds myself in). I play with ol' John a lot. He's like a year and a half, and that means DADDY PRACTICE. While everyone knows I'm obviously going to be the best father since Chubby Checker it doesn't hurt to polish your already gleaming shoes once in awhile. After we leave the restaurant and return to our town we swing by Bruster's for some ice cream and then by MAC and Toph's to say hey.

- Wednesday: My super sweet sixteen brother Clayton comes over along with my wife's old friend (and by old I mean young, and by, 'wife's friend' I mean, 'everyone's friend') that we've known since like...I don't know, eight years ago or something. I, being a supremely sexy husband, cook a beer butt chicken (and describe the recipe only in terms of dry anal rape, which was obviously descriptive enough as Clayton made it for his friends the next Saturday). We play cards, and I lose every single game so horribly that I have to pretend that I'm losing on purpose.

- Thursday: Getting bored yet? Well I'm not! After a long day of work we head up to the local outlet mall and do some shopping to prepare for our forthcoming vacation. After that, we get some pizzas and head over to MAC and Toph's so the lady's can wedding plan and Toph and I can do everything else that has ever been invented EXCEPT for wedding plan. Obviously, the guys came out best in that deal.

- Friday: Something definitely happened this day, but for the life of me I cannot remember what. We had to go out of town (again) for something, but it escapes me at the moment.

- Saturday: My ridiculously buff little brother rolls into town like a thunderstorm and stays the night with Mag and I. We go out for wings to one restaurant that we haven't tried yet. We walk in and all these caricatures of rednecks turn their creaky necks and stare at us. We walk up the counter, confused as to whether we order first or sit down first, and then I turn to Mag and TT and say, "Let's bail." (words I've uttered thousands of time) and we all run out of the restaurant as if Nazi hunters are bursting through the back door and we're expatriate Nazis (we're not though, for the record). We go to a different wings restaurant and then to the bowling alley. I've been a good little boy and haven't drank all week, so to reward myself I get two beers while bowling. That is, two pitchers of beer. We play a couple of games and of course, Mag wins one and TT wins the other. I try skee-ball. TT wins. I try that little basketball game. TT's hoop doesn't keep score (but I definitely won by at least a thousand baskets). We play some other game, like CarnEvil or Jurassic Park III (like I said, I had two pitchers of beer) and of course TT wins that as well. At home I have the clever idea to play Halo, since TT hasn't played in months I have to be able to beat him by now. We play two four man teams, winning score: 50 kills. Our team wins...TT had 34 of our 50 kills. I retire to bed, weeping into my pillow.

- Sunday: TT stayed the night so he's around until early afternoon, when my mom and lil' bros (LilBros! coming to you this fall on the O'Dellicious network! You will believe a boy can ping pong!) came and picked him up and took him back to the unforgiving terrain of the golden gulf coast of the Florida panhandle.

- Monday: What?ask you. You've been busy for an entire week, poor Andrew. Don't you deserve a day of rest? Even God himself couldn't last seven days! Well kids, I mean what I say and I do what I meant, an elephant's faithful one hundred percent. After a filthy day of hot and sweaty work (during which offices full of women took Diet Coke breaks to watch my muscles bulge under the midday sun)  Maggio and I truck on over to my sister's house, to surprise her husband, who got run over by a Mexican (allegedly, my lawyers tell me I must add) in Los Angeles one year ago. He should be cold and rotting beneath the unforgiving soil, as he was thrown 70 feet and his bike was folded in half, but somehow he didn't even break a bone and made his way back to the fabulous state of Georgia. We eat hot dogs and drink scotch and have a giant debate on racism (par for the course) and generally celebrate his existence. It was evening and morning on the first day.

- Tuesday: After another harsh day of labor Mag and I drive down to our old home county to visit her parents. We eat dinner, talk a lot, and tour the garden and the chickens. Her parents are getting old and all so they're creating farming habits to take up their spare time. They recently got some wild chickens and I have yet to tell them about the time I wrung a chickens neck (the only animal I've ever killed, unless you include insects or fish). It was a truly horrible experience and, if I think about it I can still fill the bones breaking in my hand. After dinner we drive down to Columbus and visit with her brother, his wife, and their two daughters. They're giving us a bunch of baby stuff so we load it all into my truck and then drive the long lonely road back up to our house.

- Wednesday: I don't have to work this morning, but I've made myself a long to-do list and spend a few hours  getting it done. Once I'm finished I head down to the po-dunk backasswards town where I grew up and meet ol' Captain and his ladyfriend (you know that on-again-off-again love you have when you're a teenager and that clings to you like the plague no matter what you go through or how much situations change? Yeah her.) and we go down to the river. We walk, and swim, and talk to rednecks, and honk our horn and wave to strangers and enjoy ourselves to the nth degree.

- Thursday: This was going to be our off day, but having an actual afternoon of rest just seemed to fanciful and bizarre so instead we headed on over to yet another nearby town to meet up with a darling friend's fabulous sister. You see, we're on vacation to night and staying with darling friend (DF) and fabulous sister (FS) needed us to be couriers for something dark and nefarious (or innocent and trivial. How would I know? It was in a plastic bag). From this location we head to yet another town to do what we swore we'd never do - 4D ultrasupersonicfantabulousfuturisticsound. It's a crazy little thing in which you can see your baby in vivid detail (that is, if your baby was dipped in wet clay) and find out whether he or she is a he or a she (to be revealed in the next Fatherhood Blog...and in a dozen Facebook statuses already). We came home, I bought a bottle of scotch in celebration, and thus our day ended.

- Friday: That's today folks. I worked, a lot. You see, we're leaving for vacation tomorrow and I did all I could today to make tomorrow easier and put in a good ten hours. Actually, I'm about to head back in and do another hour or so of work. After work I went and picked up our lawnmower from the repair man and then came home and packed. Mag left with her soon-to-be-married friend to pick out flowers, and I came to the basement to cry over my little kitten, watch Tombstone, and write this blog.

          Life is busy kids. This was going to be a Fatherhood blog but turned into the, "Great Excustations" blog  instead. Tomorrow, as early as possible, we leave for the beach for a full nine days of celebration in the last ditch vacation before we have a child. I think we'll have Internet (thanks Al Gore HARHAR) for at least the first few days so I solemnly swear to post a Fatherhood blog about my daughter/son.

         Errybodyloveerrybodyamen.
- Friday:

Clayton's LV/ H8

   Thursday is commonly known for the fact that it comes before Friday, which is the official beginning of the weekend. Thursday therefore is the last weekday of the week or something along those lines, though people consider Monday through Friday weekdays so I guess Thursday would be the last non-weekend day of the week? I always found Thursday to be funny because in colleges, where all days of the week must be noted only by one letter, Thursday has the sad misfortune of being a schoolday which shared an initial letter with a schoolday that preceded Thursday by two days. So the days panned out to be M, T, W, R, and F. I don't know why R was decided upon, considering H is a letter that Tuesday doesn't have and comes directly after the T in Thursday, but alas, instead of M, T, W, H, F, we have M, T, W, R, and F.

 Other than that, Thursday is the day when I post my LV/ H8 column.



   Hate #3: Those damn tube top dresses.

 Now that summer is almost officially upon us, the world's sense of fashion takes a deep dive as the need to be comfortable and get tan takes preeminence. This often results in overly casual get-ups, ranging from the always-fashionable public tank top to the board short (these two looks are often combined). Women, unable to get away with wearing bathing suits while buying King Cobra from the gas station, resort to other forms of summer wear. Though most of these are unforgivable in any form, the one that most kills me is the tube top dress thing.

 I've seen it done well, I'll admit, but very, very rarely. Even attractive women usually look dumb when they put elastic bands around their breasts and dangle fleece-looking fabric from them with no shape or form. "But Clayton," you may argue, "these are effective bathing suit covers!" Sure, but DON'T WEAR THEM AWAY FROM THE BEACH! Besides, there are far better covers for bathing suits, like sultry robe things, or, you know, a pair of non-beach clothes since you're obviously not using your bathing suit anymore. These tube top dresses serve merely to enhance a football field's worth of bare and unshapely skin while demeaning the sightly parts of the body by blocking them off. Symmetry, my dear Watson. S'all about symmetry.



 Hate #2: Wet cat food.

 Cats are well-known to be evil and malicious predators who one day will take over the human race. They take great pleasure in toying with live animals before viciously murdering them and sometimes eating them. I know that cats probably revel in the pleasure of a wet, bloody meal, but why is that cats love to eat wet, soggy, food? Canned cat food has an overpowering stench of death, decay, and old cat lady, a pungent smell that invades fabric and brain matter alike, enveloping them in odors of despair and hatred. On top of that, have you ever taken the time to feed a cat a can of wet cat food? If you, like most logical humans, deny your cat the right of a bowl and instead open the cat and toss it on the floor in the semi-hope that your poor kitten doesn't rip its face off while trying to eat the slop from the inside of a potentially sharp metal can, you've avoided most of the awful (you will, however, be the first recipient of the horrific smell penned up in the wicked can). If you're being audited by PETA, though, you will take the food and either dump it ungraciously or spoon it laboriously into a bowl, fully aware of the foul texture of the food. It's an attractive mix between tubby custard and baby feces, sitting in a pool of hot ham water. Actually, I'm getting quite hungry.



 Hate #1: Jokes.
 I've read the studies (well, I've read e-mail referencing the uncited studies) about how laughter is healthy for the heart and will make you successful and possibly get you a free match on Eharmony.com. I understand that it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. Yet I also understand that most of my laughter comes from spontaneity, from unplanned events and situations that are ludicrous and hilarious. When I really laugh, it is not at someone's failed attempt to say something funny. This is why I hate jokes.

Women in the workplace? That actually
is a pretty hilarious joke.

 Jokes are one of those social oddities that I've never fully understood. It's as though in place of having a mutually desired conversation, or just a period of silence, people are required to cause laughter when interacting with other humans. Who decided that that we must suffer through countless unfunny jokes in the off-chance that there'll be one or two funny jokes said in a year? Who set the law that people are allowed to spout off stupid repeated string of words, or that I have to laugh falsely at them? I refuse to understand jokes or understand why they're allowed in social situations. They're rarely funny, they're often painful, and they deserve nothing more than my spiteful hate.


 And this one thing I love....

 MIST.

 Across the world there are natural beauties that are regional. Waterfalls, sunsets on the beach, cliff faces, mountain peaks, grassy paddocks, glistening desert plains - these are places of awe and grandeur that make us mere humans pause and say nothing, for we are speechless. But most of us have to travel to these places, or if we live near them, we live near only one or two natural beauties. And even then, once we see something regularly we become accustomed to it and the shock of something so gorgeous wears off gradually. However, pretty much anywhere you live, you can see mist.

Not to be confused with the horror movie cleverly titled The Mist.

  Mist is floating water droplets, pretty much like a non-hot version of steam that often occurs at dawn and oftentimes over bodies of water. It's gorgeous. There's something mysterious and beautiful about the semi-transparent of nature - we can see it, but we can see through it. It serves to enhance the surrounding scenery without overpowering it. It's non-substantial, it's sheer, it's otherworldy.... it's mist. And I love it.