Fire, Pliers, Tired, etc

BB's current therapy: "Fire" by the Ohio Players

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I almost wrote "the Ohio Plyers," which strikes me as mighty funny. Plyers. Pliers.

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I've had some good input regarding Wolfboy's fears. I think I will make a point to implement some structure. The tornado anxiety, at least, is addressable. We'll review our safety plans in the house. I believe he and MOBB did some for Cub Scouts not long ago, though I don't know if tornadoes were covered. I'll do it up right too, putting us in the tub, actually putting a mattress over the top. Yeah.

The gun fear still leaves me a bit concerned and without direction.

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I'm tired. I'm tired of being milquetoast. I'm tired of killing the world with politeness. I'm tired of all of that. I went to a coffee shop in a bookstore tonight, and asked for something simple: iced coffee. And as some of those non-Starbucks places will do, they offered to simply pour HOT coffee over ice. You end up with a lukewarm mess.

And they also offered me many types of artsy-fartsy coffee drinks, many of which they were quite happy to point out actually contained no coffee whatsoever.

Sigh.

There was a day when I'd have just taken something they had since I'd already approached them and expressed interest.

What the hell? I told the guy I'd changed my mind, and thanks anyway. Was that so hard?

And see, this is supposed to be somehow emblematic of a different stance for me, but heck, that's a pretty unremarkable shift, right?

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I'm seriously tempted to tackle the 100 Songs You've Gotta Hear Before You Die like Bruiser did. He got the wheels turning, and really did a good job of not going with the obvious.

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It's been a good evening here. MOBB is somewhere in Dallas, with a new haircut and some sort of highfalutin meal in front of her. She's got her trusty Heather by her side. I hope they're flirting with every boy within sight.

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I've gone a little bit crazy. That's what I've done.

And I like it. I like it here. The people are nice and they have peach cobbler.

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Just had my strawberry Pop Tarts.

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I looked good today. Okay, so I actually do need some sort of haircut.

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My poor sister's been down with the sinus crud for a while now, even visited by her old nemesis, the ear infection. She went through so much misery with that stuff as a child, having her adenoids (how IS that spelled?) removed, tubes put in her ears, all that. She screamed as they brought her home.

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BB's current therapy: "Give Thanks and Praises" by Bad Brains

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The semester started for me last night, and the Advanced Human Sexuality class certainly looks to be every bit as interesting as it ought to be.

And I actually had to take aside one of the few guys in there and explain to him what a couple things were. Dude, it's in the Guy Handbook!

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Okay, so for one of the projects in that class, in fact, we're supposed to write a paper about exploring something outside of our comfort zone. They even provided a list of suggestions: Visit a porn shop, buy condoms, visit a strip joint, ask your family members about how they learned about sex, all that.

Um...

[crickets chirp]

I'm a guy.

That is... well, I've lived a life. I haven't done any of those things in years at this point, but heck, none of that makes me squirm.

I suppose I could go to a gay bar or something, but more than anything it's the BAR part of that I'm uncomfortable with.

I'm open to suggestions, dear readers.

***

Hope for the blues comes from Otis Taylor. He's all the way removed from the current paradigm, the one in which the same old blues progressions are laid out for some fleet-fingered white boy to play endless guitar solos.

The blues has to evolve. All other genres grow and change (well, classical is arguably the exception). The blues needs to be more than basically the narcissistic guitarist's personal karaoke.

And Mr. Otis Taylor is just the man to do it.

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Difficulty does not intimidate me.

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Maybe we ARE reincarnated. Maybe the Buddhists got it right. Maybe I've misbehaved to the point that I'm going to come back as a banana slug or something. As long as banana slugs don't get hired by TV stations I'm cool.

***

Wolfboy asked me tonight how old OLD is. Wanted to know the number at which one is OLD.

I explained that it's a matter of perspective. I explained that I am 39, and have a lot of grey hair. Many people would look at me and say that I'm old.

"But to my father, who is nearly 60, I'm not old at all."

Then I asked him how old HE thinks OLD is.

"18," he said.

Why?

"Because that's when you have to work, start doing the hard, important work."

I smiled. "At 18 you will have a lot of freedom. And there will be girls. Being 18 is good, my friend."

***

In his daycare, Wolfboy is known as Governor Briscoe. He's just got this reputation as a mover and a shaker, a kid who can find an angle on what he wants or believes and make it reality.

This morning, through a careful blend of taking painfully long with his breakfast selection and incisive questions, he managed to get a COOKIE for breakfast at Starbucks.

Yes, call CPS right now, as I'm clearly the worst Dad in the county.

He kept the folks behind him in line waiting just long enough that I started to growl: "JUST. PICK. SOMETHING."

The barista asked if he likes Rice Crispy (sp?) treats. "Ix-nay on the eat-tray," I said.

As he walked away with the cookie and I grumbled aloud, barista said, "Well, at least it's got no trans fats."

Lovely, thank you.

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BB's current therapy: "Mama's Got a Friend" by Otis Taylor

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Well, I guess this is far enough down the worm hole. Good night, have a good weekend.