Showering with zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Somebody's son, I'm not saying who, but somebody's gigantic, sasquatchian teen, fell asleep on the toilet today and revealed some unusual ablution habits.

He runs the shower while he's pinching a loaf. When he fell asleep, he ran out of hot water. So he turned off the hot water, but continued to run the cold water because "it makes the hot water heat up faster."

This kid gets good grades in science. He reads a lot. He . . . look, I don't know what to say. Kids get weird ideas. Maybe it's because he's a vegetarian. I don't know. But I'm knocking every ten seconds to make sure he's awake . . .

Did You Say Penis? I Thought You Said Penis! Penis!

I wish I'd never studied psychology. I wish I didn't know about Freudian slips or marker locution, or any of that psycholinguistic, semiotic mumbo jumbo because if I didn't, then I wouldn't know my daughter's got procreation on the mind 24/7. I used to live in a disabused state of blissful ignorance. Now, I get this.

Dad: Hey, can somebody get this bag of dog food off the table?
Sarah: What!? Dad, did you say penis?!

Dad: You want a glass of orange juice?
Sarah: OMG! Dad said penis!

or

Dad: . . . so you have to divide the quadratic dividend into the coefficient of fourteen to get zero for a.
Sarah: Did you say penis?

I know I'm supposed to realize she's grown up, that she'sa woman now. I know I'm supposed to realize her hormones are raging through her like the Niagra filling a teacup. I know. But I don't want to know. I want to remain the blissful inebriate king I was when she thought she was Pochahantas, when she said she was going to grow up and marry a cartoon.

By definition I am a Dad because I am the sole male progenitor of my own spawn. But by habit, I'm fairly certain I am a mom as I spend most of my day doing laundry and cleaning floors. I am the limo. I am the grocer. And I am he who obtains pads. I've learned to deal with a lot of womanstuff and I think I do it with all the aplomb such trans-traditional-parenting requires. Once you find yourself standing in the HYGIENE aisle on your cell asking your daughter if she needs heavy or regular flow kotex, your manhood's pretty much a wash.

But the sex line is one I will approach fully Gandalphed. I'll wag my beard, staff stabbed into stone, and thunderously proclaim YOU SHALL NOT PASS! And my daughter will poke her head around the kitchen door and ask: "Did you say penis?"

As a boy, I had sex on the brain with the same drooly retardation as any other kid. I just didn't know girls did that too. I really didn't. Like my father before me, I found it hard to believe girls even pooped, much less thought about peen. But having replicated into the opposite gender, I have had all my girl illusions shattered like porcelain princess dolls run over by a van full of girls-gone-wild videos. When I was a kid, I didn't know:

• Girls fart.


• Girls name their boobs.


• Girls think about sex.


• All the time.


• God help me.

This illusion, I think, serves some evolutionary purpose. I don't know if it's Darwinian or Lemarkian evolution, but it came out of a desire for fathers to ensure their girls marry someone who is as smitten and retarded about them as their father, because that narcoleptic effect allows the girls to remain in control for years, giving them time to establish their man as something just above the level of pack mule.

I like the illusion. I like being ignorant. I like it enough that I'm inches away from stabbing my eardrums with an ice-pik so I can remain deaf and stupid and not hear my daughter say the word penis. I don't care if she grows up to be a fluid dynamics scientist and wins a Nobel prize for her invention of a urinary canal replacement device, I don't want to hear the P word come out of her mouth ever again.

As I've remarked before, my girl was born deep into the aftermath of the sexual revolution. She has the exact plans for herself as any Victorian railroad tycoon's first born son: that she will receive an alarmingly expensive quality education at a college built during the age of steam; that she will walk out of that college into a job in science or law, promptly receiving a salary slightly smaller than a wrongful death payoff; that she will rock a sweet convertible from day one, vacation in luxurious leisure villas on exclusive island mountain resorts; that she will marry a man just as smart and witty as she is who will immediately give birth to and raise her nine children.

I said as much recently as the family frequented the best new sushi joint in Chicago, Makisu, which is actually in Skokie. We were all sitting around the table sinking our teeth into a plate of White Dragon maki when the wine and the joise d' vive washed over me and I said I was so happy, that my kids seemed destined to do well, that I was really proud of my daughter's acceptance into a summer Arabic language program.

Dad: I'm so proud of you.
Daughter: [snorting Rame cola through her nose] Did you say penis?

Chestnut from the Nut Chest

Getting into the Holiday Spirit, I offer you a gift, this handsomely wrapped BEST OF post from last year. I swear it's worth your time. Don't believe me? Check out this handy quote . . .

But I don't blog for myself--I do it for you, dear readers, and to give up merely because there were risks, discomforts, or potential blindness would be cowardly. I pressed on. I pressed the blunted pik into my left nostril, tilted my head 45 degrees to the right, flipped the switch, and blew the top of my skull off.

The Water Pik Netti Pot Listerine Don't Try This At Home Sinus Irrigation Disaster

Father! Please Refrain From Feeling the Family Jewels!

It’s a man thing. It’s unavoidable. We can’t help it: God designed us so that our hands fall in our lap and, well, since they’re there, we figure we ought to use them for something cause we’re all about practicality and getting her done and, so, sphericum ergo, we scratch.

Sometimes we don’t even itch. In fact, I’d have to say in this day and age of soap and instant hot showers and excellent laundry services and all the other things that separate us from the Amish and the 18th century, we rarely have any real reason to claw the baubles save one: it reasserts our manhood.

My daughter doesn’t buy it, however. In fact, if I scratch myself in front of her one more time she might stab me with her iPod.

It’s not like I plan this. I don’t have an Outlook reminder that says “8:47am Scratch Balls.” It’s unconscious. It’s a tic. But tell that to my daughter. This morning I walked out into the living room where she’s waiting for the limo to take her to school and it’s picture day so she’s dressed like a rock star. I mean she looks stunning: black silk dress, choker, diamond earrings, and an unnaturally prominent display of boobage.

I’m wearing a modified wife-beater T-shirt, Jack Daniels jams, and my head looks like it’s being humped by a drug-addled squirrel. Then I hustle the boys.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaad! God! GOD! What’s your PROBLEM! Do you have to do that in front of me EVERY TIME?!”

“IT’S A REFLEX!”

“I don’t care! Stop it!”

“Ok,” scritch scritch.

“DAD!”

“Doh!”

“Don’t be such a man!”

“Sorry.”

“Now get me my black strapless bra.”

I swear this is verbatim.

My kids are TRYING to be the death of me.

I'm Giving My Son Eyes in the Back of His Ass

I'm taking Roon to the plastic surgeon and get him eyes in the back of his ass.

The kid will sit on anything. He sits on the remote, on game controllers, on entire stacks of folded laundry, on my laptop--if it's on the ottoman even for a second there's a near certainty it will end up as a permanent imprint on his dimpled butt. Like a rebus of uh-oh.

I'm particularly upset about him sitting on the phone since they all look alike and I'm running low on Lysol.

Thinking about this makes me wonder what other specializations might be worthy of parental plastic surgery fantasies . . .

A nose in back. Faster fart detection.

Extra wide nostrils. Better booger access.

Night vision. So they can sleep with the lights off.

Prehensile probyscis. So they can hoarf their food and play video games simultaneously.

Eyes in the back of their ass. So they can see things before they sit on them.

Cleaning Tips for the Very Laz...ehh, I'll finish this headline tomorrow.

[My Attorney] is away for three weeks on an all expense paid cruise on the fourth floor of a Motel 6 in D.C. along with nine million other lawyers all trying to prove a very complicated version of "nuh uh." They're working, literally, around the clock, sleeping in shifts, surviving on nothing but sirloin and pinot noir (domestic—the cruelty!). Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I'm working so hard I can barely . . . . zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Oh my god I am on a titanic laze. I haven't gotten out of my chair for four days. I'm surrounded by spent cheetoes bags and pizza boxes. The kids are surviving on Ramen noodles and canned corn. I'm managing to keep them on schedule. They're taking showers but they're drying off with old t-shirts and handfuls of dirty socks.

It. Is. Awesome.

Or it was. Until we discovered [something horrible] and I had to pry myself off the chair to call Orkin. Suddenly it occurred to me that a stranger was going to enter my lair and I looked around at the piles of dog hair and chicken bone chains and threw up. The I went ape shit on the house. I cleaned everything. I cleaned under the lazy susan. You know, in case this guy walks in and says "I need to look under your lazy susan in case there's [something horrible] under there. Under the lazy susan."

Sperm Wail

Today I walked out onto the Mother Theresa tarmac to retrieve Boy and saw him from all the way across the lot, beaming at me, loaded with promise. What a moment. I mean, he's like a little Kennedy doll and he's picked me out, made eye-contact, from like 50 yards and I know he's just bursting with pride. It's like he's barely containing a nuclear bomb of pride and I'm so glad. I could use it.

I had a bad day. My mac deep-sixed at THE VERY MOMENT I WAS UPLOADING A CLIENT'S FINISHED WEBSITE. I mean like as my finger hovered over the return key, as the space between the fingerprints and the Baleek china surface of the mac grew increasingly smaller until I could practically feel the nano indentation of the word "enter," the screen froze and my mac died it's third and least noble death.

Also, I absorbed the brunt of the snot gargling this week and received my dubious infection like a church wafer, spending most of yesterday lying in bed watching Top Chef re-reruns and wondering if I had the temerity to stand erect in the shower long enough to shave (I didn't). I actually went to the store in my "cold clothes"--cut-off -jersey-raggy-old-shorts that look like I cleaned a crime scene in them with a matching t-shirt complete with an espresso-tinged ellipses running down my front like some weird t-shirt semaphore, a semiotic self-referential version of "I'm with stupid," the kind of high-end hyper-intelligent garb Umberto Eco would wear to a micro-brew ten-pin bowling alley old-school martini joint.

And my guitar was out of tune.

And my headlight went out.

And did I mention my Mac had crashed? I mean, I had just spent something like 8 hours crunching through a Flash site from scratch, turning it into a beeeautiful work of art that screamed through transitions and just looked gorgeous--for free. And can't. Show. It to any. Body.

And I got bad customer service from the Mac store. This is what kills me. The MAC store, my place of worship, Middle Managemented me. I know the face, I've worked retail. I know when I've hit the customer service terminal wall.

So walking across the hot sticky tar (90 degrees in Sept!) and seeing my son broadcasting a radiant ear-to-ear and knowing that he's at this top-shelf school and knowing that he's finally working at the level he deserves, I'm thinking he's going to say something like:

• Father, dear, you were right! The Brothers Karamozov really is incredible!


• Wow; the similarities between Latin and English are stunning. Did you know . . .
  or even


• I owned pre-calc today!

Because your kid, smiling, smart, achieving, can blow the bad day away. That genuine enthusiasm, the kind of all-in yeah-baby crash-the-car bravado that only kids can provide, can clear it all out like a firehose. Reset. Do over.

And that's what I wanted. And just like any good Wuthering Heights remake, I loped in slomo across the blacktop to my prideful, beside-himself with accomplishment, scion of 5th grade intelligentsia, fruit of my loins, heir to my . . . fortune; mini me, my boy who drops in beside me and says:

Dude, today we totally talked about sperm!"

Birdwatching

I am 44 years old. Fourty four. It's an incredible thing to say, to have reached this level of maturity, this sanguine, sage, and wise perch on the dim side of middle age, and I truly wish I had some nugget of wisdom to reveal to you, my gentle, inebriated readers, but all I can say is that being 44 just means I've been 11 four times.

It's not my birthday. I just that I'm coming to the realization that I will never completely grow up.

I tell my kids all the time that people don't all grow up in a straight line. I tell them that being adult is not the same as being mature. I tell them that most grown-ups are just nine-year olds with jobs. They believe it, because they've known me their whole lives.

I was thinking about this today and my son and I engaged in a little surreptitious bird watching.

A lot of people think birdwatching is for hopeless geeks or the British. But their thinking of the popular sport of spotting actual living feathered bipeds. I'm not talking about those birds, I'm talking about the finger variety.

I don't know what the hell drives me to do it. I mean, seriously, go on Facebook and look at my iRead bookshelf. I read about linguistic theory, guillouche construction, and history. I'm no idiot. I don't think I'm an idiot. Maybe I'm an idiot.

Is it possible for your inner child to be precocious?

So me and the Roon are in the eye doctor's office today and she's got her back to me and says "Ok, now look at your father," and while she gazes into his eyeball I start flipping the bird.

Where does it come from? What prompts this? I'm in the room with a dignified professional, someone to whom I'm paying a hefty bucket of coin, yet as soon as her back is turned I go tween, flipping the bird, and making my son laugh.

The doctor half jokingly asks, "Am I that funny?"

Now a normal adult would take this as a cue to drop the shenanigans. But I just amp it up so that she has to give the kid a second to cool out before she finishes the next eye.

If she had turned to look at me, it would have been one of those questioning looks often shot wordlessly between knowing adults as a kind of verification that they both consider the kid they're considering to be home schooled by drug-addled baboons. She would have seen a middle aged man with a grim, serious, no-bull-dooky look on his face. The kind of face that keeps me from getting mugged. The kind of face that scares pre-schoolers and dogs.

Unless she checks the security cameras, she'll never know that this seemingly grumpy father was practically mooning his son while her back was turned. She'll never see me mock vomiting, or pretending to eat my boogers with the melodramatic trance-like gustatorial delight of a Rip Taylor gourmand. She will always think my son was laughing at her.

And that's part of the joke, this secret stand-up routine that goes on forever between me my spawn; that it's just between us, a sacred covenant of comedy, a language of fart jokes, family guy references, and guerrilla wet willies that only we can partake of or comprehend.

And I'm OK with it. People make assumptions about me. I wear a nice suit, comb my hair, know my way around a three course dinner, and can list the differences between a Malbec and a Pinotage until everyone's eyes glaze over. But if my kids are in sight, somewhere in the conversation I'm having with the adults, I'll recognize a moment when no one is looking at me and I'll catch my kids' eye and I'll use my middle finger to push up my glasses. Or I'll say something like 'there's only one thing I can  say about . . . ' and use my middle finger to count. Or I'll tap the top of a glass with my middle finger while I'm looking at them and they'll howl in the back ground, absolutely entertained by the sheer purposeful bravado of my depraved immaturity.

Is it professional adult behavior? Is it even worthy and admirable? Is it the kind of behavior you should manifest for your progeny? Blowhard says what?

Hell if I know. No parent truly knows what works. For me, it's a combination of calculated neglect, abject clarity, and unmitigated honesty. I try not to ever pretend to them, to ever act as if I have all the answers or even the final say. And I haven't told them this part: that half the time I'm flying by the seat of my pants, figuring it out as I go and, most terrifying, I just as often base my parenting on what I learn from them. That's not a Hallmark platitude, either: my kids are frikkin smart. Most of all I'm not restrained around them. I allow my inner retard to go wild, to let my monkey brain take over, and to flip the bird in secret as often as I can. I think it teaches them that growing up doesn't mean you abandon childishness. It means you celebrate it. I think that works.

That and fart jokes.

The Miraculous Immaculate Crack-Head Christmas Tree

ometime after we abandoned (were evicted from) our flea-bag abode, My Attorney and I found a spanking gorgeous condo and moved up in the world. It had a pool, laundry, air conditioning, two bedrooms, and two baths. It had sliding doors, a small balcony, a decent kitchen, a big open living room with cathedral ceilings--and crack-head roommates.

My Attorney has a heart the size of a 1971 Buick Riviera and has a couple of penchants which have thankfully tapered off since we’ve been together so long but which, in the beginning, were . . . frustrating.

Penchant (a) is a heartfelt and often overwhelming urge to rescue lost dogs. In the first years of our enshackenation, she rescued and cared for no less than six dogs. We had one dog as a pet and, off and on, a couple of cats. So there were times when the house, she was doggy.

When I say lost dogs, I mean, more specifically, the four footed dead. Because My Attorney’s penchant for rescuing lost dogs somehow only manifests when those dogs are on the brink of death with little or no hope for recovery and are certain, destined perhaps, to bring us heartbreak and vet bills like we’re trying to buy a private Caribbean Island.
Penchant (b) is similar but applied to humans and is a sudden and irrepressible urge to help people less fortunate than ourselves and by people I mean her secretaries and by less fortunate I mean crack addicts.

Take Christmas, 1990. My Attorney had both a doomed hound AND a crack addicted secretary living in our spanking new condo. This would be our first Christmas in a nice place where we could actually invite people over without worrying about them being hit on by the homeless and we were happy about it. But true to a form that has become life-long, at around Christmas, My Attorney got sent out of town and was going to return CHRISTMAS DAY.

I forgot about Penchant (c): My Attorney is a Christmasaholic and has a hard time if all the Holiday icons aren’t in their proper place. Growing up among Senators and Commissioners in a neighborhood that would’ve made Norman Rockwell kick a hole in a Harpers Magazine cover, she is used to a traditional Christmas. And by traditional, I mean turkey-in-the-oven-miniature-city-complete-with-a-petting-zoo-under-the-basement-tree-snow-on-the-ground-nog-in-hand-carols sung-garland-hung-candy cane-red-scarf-MARTHA STEWART BE DAMNED level traditional and being that we lived in a second floor condo in Borelando, FL., some of those things just weren’t gonna fly. In particular, we had the following:

• No tree. A sin against God.


• No presents. Too broke.


• No lights. Too broke.


• It was not cold.

Worse, before My Attorney had left for wherever she was going, we’d had a pretty bad week because the secretary she was loaning our spare room to had secreted her insane redneck tattooed criminal crack head boyfriend in her room and he went crazy EVERY NIGHT. He’d scream about being a “rock star” and then they’d Rock the Casbah. Noisily. The whole reason this girl was staying with us was because this reject had beat the crap out of her. Suddenly he’s there and it was very wrong. Finally, I kicked him out and he came back later and banged on the door and threatened to kill us all. Then, somehow, they got hold of our Texaco card and bought beer. For Daytona.

So we kick them both out and My Attorney flies out of town.

My Attorney was acutely aware of the nakedness of our Holidays. To make matters worse, I hate Christmas and always have. So here’s My Attorney, Xmas Addict like a meth-head, due in on the plane Christmas morning to arrive at our tropical condo with no fest.

Worse, I was not exactly working a sweet job. I was in my post-newspaper-post-band management-unemployed phase and working what may be my single least impressive job ever: the midnight sandwich guy at Subway. I would come home every morning, 2 am, smelling like onions and mayo. I got ripped off all the time by my crack head boss and I got hit on all the time by drunk guys coming home from Southern Nights, the tranny cabaret around the corner. And I didn’t make any money. It was horrible.

So I talk to My Attorney on the phone right after close the night before she’s leaving. I’m my usual mayo & onion smelling Bah Humbug self and she’s feeling pretty alone out wherever she’d been sent and she’s lamenting the lack of Christmas cheer and the fact that we can’t afford a tree (Christmas trees in Florida are 5 times what they are in Illinois) and I’m trying to be supportive but, again, I smell like lunch and I‘m wearing a brown nylon uniform and it’s 2 in the morning in December in Florida. I hang up, lock up, get into my pathetic tiny little car and drive home.
So, tally it up: it’s hot; we’re broke; we have no Christmas; we’ve been harbouring a fujitive; we got ripped off; I haven’t even mentioned the bats, but: bats; and I smell like onions.

I walk out to my car and somehow, in the middle of the night, the temperature has dropped to Orange killing cold. I can see my breath and there’s a freezing layer of fog everywhere. Driving along the deserted highway at 2:30 am through this fog is other worldly and I’m puttering along, muttering to myself about what a crap boyfriend I am to not have a decent Christmas for My Attorney—at LEAST a tree—when the mossy body of a beached whale looms out of the fog and I almost wreck my car.

I skid to a stop, bumper just touching it’s tail, get out of the car, right in the road, to find a 14-foot tall Blue Spruce lying in the road. A HUGE Christmas tree! Right in the road! At 2:30 in the morning! In a FOG! With NOBODY AROUND! Clearly I was experiencing divine providence. I didn’t hesitate. I slung that tree over the top of my car where it hung off the front and back by a couple of feet. I was only a block from our condo so I reached up and grabbed a branch and drove like a 90 year old Myopic gnome into the parking lot. I drug the damn thing up the stairs and wrestled it trough the door and propped it up against the living room wall where the tip of it stuck up past the railing of the second floor!

I knew My Attorney would be back in the morning so I had to work fast. I didn’t have any money so a late night Walgreen’s run was no solution. I needed ornaments and garland. (I thought about the bats, briefly.) I popped corn and strung it into a Garland. I gathered all the Christmas cards we’d gotten and covered the facing side of the tree with them. I found a lone box of tinsel. ONE of those tiny little flats, enough for one toss on a regular tree. I carefully separated EACH strand of tinsel and placed it on the branches so that—after an hour—the tree was passably tinseled.

When My Attorney arrived, she came in the front door desultory and dejected. She couldn’t see the tree yet and I took her bags and said I’d meet her in the living room.

I came back down and she was crying; she was overjoyed. She had her Christmas.

Proper Potty Training for People with Penises

For sending parents into drooling catatonia, nothing compares to potty training. It's first of the classic thresholds of child development and the first time you and your spawn have a shared weird experience. Trust me, there will be more.

All parents will have to teach their kids this simple skill. Every "What to expect when you're Expectorating" book out there has a chapter devoted to the minutiae of merde and most of them try to convince you that potty training is an intricate, delicate, and difficult period, requiring endless couch-time for the parents and their progeny. Most guides imply that improper potty training can lead to lifelong neuroses and Emo music.

My kids were so easy it was almost spontaneous. I sat the boy down on his little chair at exactly the right moment and the resulting efficacy of exporting his effluence sans diaper made an instant impression on him.

My great neglect at that moment was a lack of follow-through. I should have explained immediately that the chamber of reflection has a dual purpose, that one can use it for sitting or for standing. I figured it would come up in the very near future and shelved the whole idea and went back to doing laundry.

[My Attorney] was on deck for the next Number 1 and wasted no time in teaching the boy proper penis procedure: sit, release, wipe.

She told me she was teaching the boy how to pee in the bowl and I didn't think twice about it. I just crossed it off my to-do list. Only later did I wonder about the obvious mechanics and thought to myself, how does she know what to do?

"You taught him to shake, right?"

"What?"

"You know--shake."

"Shake what?"

"His thing."

"Why!?"

"Guys shake."

"Before or after?"

"What did you teach him to do when he's done?"

"Use a tissue, duh."

"Oh my god. Babe, how exactly did you teach my son to pee?"

"I don't know, like everyone pees: you sit down---"

"@#!^%$ ^$##@!"

I want all the new moms and moms to be to please listen up and listen up good: leave proper penile procedural to the papas.

When it comes to penis training, the dad has the upper hand because the dad, presumably, is furnished with the same equipment as the son. He has, in fact, been training his entire life in peni practicalia, and, again, presumably, knows things that, as a mom, you don't know.

Specifically, and this is paramount penis procedure, are two habits unique to the water closet ways of woman-kind: tissues and sitting.

Pay very close attention: men don't sit down to pee. Pay even more attention: when we're done, we S H A K E. We don't W I P E.

I realized [My Attorney] had been teaching the toddler to touch up his tallywacker with a tissue for two weeks before I found out. Then I realize that it is too late--TOO LATE--to change. He's been trained.

Then it really hit me: my son pees like a girl!

His life as a man was finished. Now when other boys make jokes about writing their name in the snow, the Roon will have to ask them what they're talking about. I had a vision of him walking into the urinal bay at school and wondering out loud,  "Dude, where are the wipes?"

He would be an urinary outcast; a pee pariah.

I acted fast. I called him over.

You know you're supposed to pee standing up.

Gross!

And you don't wipe.

What? Well . . .  well . . .what do you do?

You shake.

Shake what?

What do you think?

Oh my god! Dad, that's gross! Gross! It'll go everywhere!

I was too late.

I went out to the garage. I dipped my hands into a bucket of crude oil, lit a cigar, and thought about guns. I had to protect my manhood and for some reason I thought it was at stake. I thought maybe the boy's manhood was at stake too. I remembered great pee moments from my childhood:

• Peeing into the wind off the back of a moving pick-up truck;


• Peeing onto an electric fence;


• Writing my name in the sand at the beach then drinking three whole cokes because my name is 22 letters long and I was trying to write in cursive and I ran out at christopher pa--


• Peeing off the side of a boat


• Peeing off the top of a building under construction


• Peeing into the campfire


• Peeing into the bait-well in our boat


• Peeing on a cow


• Starting a forest fire . . .

Those are cherished memories, the very building blocks of a boy's life. How was my son supposed to ---

Hey dad, you're right. It totally works. I can pee standing up.

Awesome. You made it into the toilet?

Toilet?

13 ways to say "My Cousin Marge is Visiting"

1. Rampaging Orc Horde.


2. Pierre is in Town.


3. Crimson Tide.


4. Monsoon Wedding.


5. Mighty Mighty Bosstone.


6. My Little Hula Girl is Playing Ragtime.


7. Punctuation Marks.


8. SHUT UP! JESUS! CAN'T YOU, JUST--GOD! I HATE YOU! GIMME A CIGARETTE!


9. I LOVE YOU!


10. SHUT UP!


11. I'm working on my ribs sauce.


12. You don't love me any more!


13. Mommy's special time (hide the knives . . . )

------