Get your customs here

Somewhere along the way last week Buster crossed over from 7 years old to 8. Because this was viewed as a somewhat significant event, it seemed only fitting to celebrate in a significant locale. After very little thought and probably no prayer, Buster chose Chuck E. Cheese. A place loved by kids and, more or less, feared by parents. Being neither, I guess I was a sort of indifferent.

Sure, I could think of better things to do on a Saturday afternoon, discuss ways to improve the sewer system of some third world village, for instance. But I could also think of worse things. If my options were Chuck E. Cheese or being torn to shreds by bears, I would chose Chuck E. Cheese with little or no hesitation. A little known fact that before it was decided "Where a kid can be a kid" would be their slogan, some of the less stuffed shirts as Cheese HQ were hoping for "Better than being shredded by bears. Guaranteed."

Since this was Marisol's baby (so to speak), I didn't have to do much more than show up prepared for fun. This wasn't too much of a task since I'm pretty much always on standby for fun. A good thing since I'd hardly gotten in the door when Buster grabbed hold of me and dragged me towards all manner of sensory overload.

It touched my heart a bit that while his Mom was greeting his guest and getting everything ready to go he wanted me to share these moments with him. In return, I figured maybe I'd give him a few pointers in skee-ball or blow him away with my ridiculous skills at the basketball game. However, I quickly realized that the only part of me that was needed was my hands. His cup full of tokens and tickets wasn't going to hold itself now was it? Though I realize he would probably have grabbed the next familiar face he saw, I like to think he chose me because no one but no one could dispense a token faster than yours truly. Even after all these years college continues to pay off.

Either because they're good people or were paid to do so, Chuck E's cheesters handled all the set up, take down and provided the "entertainment". This they manage to do in a rather efficient but somewhat impersonal fashion since they manage to hold 6 (!) parties at a time. Each party has their own table, cleverly identified with a balloon with the birthday boy/girl name on it. The guests sit down, are delivered a pizza that rises to the level of edible but somewhat less than good and marvel at the fact that all the other tables are doing the exact same thing. Each table has a handler, ostensibly to ensure a smooth event. I strongly suspect, however, they're really there to ensure that each table stays on schedule and doesn't think they're actually going to sit past the allotted time.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, the animatronics come on and a band of something or others strike up a tune. Figuring kids focusing in on one particular thing might not be enough, they also add in a video on one side of the band and a animatronic chef playing the drums for no apparent reason on the other. Needless to say, all are playing different things at different times.

Ordinarily, this sort of thing would be right up my alley, but here I find it less than appealing. And in the middle of all this the handlers start to dance to, I guess, one of the songs being played by one of the three groups. I can't be sure because at that point I was quite certain that my my coke had been spiked with LSD.

With anticipation at a feve pitch, Chuck E. Cheese comes out and any kid that wasn't screaming before is screaming now. For those unfamiliar, Mr. Cheese, while lacking the elegance and dignity of Mickey Mouse, is a mouse who likes to skateboard, wear cool clothes and high-five. That seems to be about it.

Though the kids seem to take him at face value, it all seemed a bit too much like Poochie from The Simpsons for me. A character developed after years of intense R & D for maximum realism by a group of folks who've never been around a kid. Somehow, I just knew he was going to say "Hey, doooodes. Let's go be cool" or however it is the kids talk these days.

I suppose the joke's on me though. The good folks at Cheese HQ are doing something right. Scarcely after Buster had opened his last gift, the handlers were already cleaning up this go round and setting up for the next. I briefly felt sorry for the handlers and figured that after the third event in a row, they wish they were elsewhere, but then I remembered at least their not being torn to shreds by bears. Guaranteed.

Laziness pt. 18

Q: Mr. Putin, how do you like your glasnost served?

A: With a slice of beefcake.

Where's Melissa Sue Anderson when you need her?

Believe it or not today marks one year since I started doing this and this makes post #137. This information is offered for no reason other than most blogs fail to make it a year--I still despise that word, blog, if for no other reason than its connotations of mindless ramblings of self-centered boobs. Erm. Most blogs don't even make it past a couple of months. And pretty much all should never have been started. Mine is no different, but I enjoy doing it anyway and am quite the civic-minded gent as you know. As for the quality? It's a free service I provide so how much can one really expect?

Because there's nothing more depressing than looking back and realizing how much time one has really wasted, here's a brief trip through the year that was. (Apologies I don't have this soundtracked with some syrupy song and accompanied with a hazy, slow motion video. Instead you'll just have to hum "Thank You For Being a Friend" to yourself and read very, very slowly until someone cuts off the computer.)

Some numbers:

Total posts - 136
Posts that were useful/informative - 9
Trips to major U.S. cities other than Atlanta - 1 (Boston)
Trips to England/France - 1
Welcome signs for delightful French actresses seen - 1 (Juliette Binoche)
Delightful French actresses actually seen - 0
Record stores I finally went to - 2 (Twisted Village - Boston/Ultima Thule -Leicester, England)
Records purchased (cd) - 202
Records purchased (vinyl) - 63
Songs on ipod - 18,464
Trips to Disney World - 2
Marathons ran - 1
Other races ran - 3
Total miles ran - 1323
Throw-ups after long runs - 6
Pairs of running shoes - 3
Adorable nephews born - 1
Diapers changed - 0
Pictures of adorable nephew taken - approximately 30,000
Times Tech beat UGA in sports folks care about - 3 (1 each in football,basketball,baseball)
Super funny professional comedians met - 2 (Patton Oswalt,Paul F. Tompkins)
Unfunny professional dolts met - 787
Vaughn Meader references - 1
References even more arcane than the Vaughn Meader one - too many (including the title of this post)
Bad Jokes - far too many
Countries other than U.S. that visited this site at least once - 24
Countries that are now satisfied U.S. population consists of a lone, dorky, wise-acre who listens to weird music and has no life - 24

I could go on but I figure that's enough to show just what a quality waster of time I've been around here. Now let's go explore the future together!!!!!!!!!!!

Giants under the sun

For some unknown reason, Sonic likes to pump 80s music throughout their rather fab fast food franchises. Probably because, for some unknown reason, some people actually enjoy 80s music. Yeah, I know...the music is fun. Whee. Well, so are water slides but you don't see me clamoring for more of them now do you?

Anyway, during our weekly Saturday night Sonic stop for ice cream, Marisol and I were pummelled by the usual 80s soundtrack: Madonna, Culture Club, Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam with Full Force, etc. Since she has a much greater patience for things in general, but 80s music in particular, Marisol sang along to the occasional song. We lamented how much of a wasted talent Boy George was. (There's probably a pun in that previous sentence, but I'm not sure how much of a "talent" Boy George actually was.) It was all very intense and as riveting as any discussion on the oeuvre of some late-20th century cross-dressing, singing sensation could possibly be. Perhaps even more so. Perhaps not.

As I'm sitting there wondering how this all relates to post-modern gender roles and eating my hot fudge sundae--mostly eating my hot fudge sundae, on comes Owner of a Lonely Heart by Yes, one of my all-time favorite musical combos. I've seen them numerous times through the years. I have all the albums, including multiple copies of most of them. I can bore even the most disinterested with all manner of minutiae on the band, from line-up changes to the equipment used on which song. I can even tell you why Savannah, Georgia, of all places, plays a role in Yes history. Though vilified by some in the critical community as being the sole reason Punk had to happen, I'll gladly, willingly and continuously defend Yes and their entire genre (Prog) until the day I die. So there.

That being said I really have no need to ever hear Owner of a Lonely Heart again. Sure, it's a catchy tune and somehow managed to find its way to the top of the charts, the first and last time of Yes' career. Its video even made these prog rock gods, brief stars of MTV. Surprising since to it's still one of the more bizarre videos I've run across to this day. This would probably be a good place to put that very video. Oh well.

But back to my Sonic evening, Marisol is not much of a fan of repetition in music. Though she doesn't realize it and couldn't care less, she's very much of the punk ethos of song structure: get in, get out. There's been a few times I've heard her singing along to something and then after the third repeat of the chorus announcing, "Okay, that's enough of that. Let's move on to the next song." It's actually kind of cute the way she does it and doesn't really realize it. I'm sure you agree.

So during the seemingly endless fadeout of Owner of a Lonely Heart, she quit caring if the protagonist's freewill is deceived at all and demands an end to the song now. Look, I may not need to hear the song again, but as stated above, this is the fighting side of me she's dangerously close to walkin' on.

Marisol: "Enough. Geesh. New song, let's go."

Me: "You know Yes is just about the end all, be all for me. Even if I don't want to hear this song again."

Marisol: "Yeah." What she really means is "So. I don't come to you with my problems." Actually, she does, but that's sort of beside the point.

Me: "You'd really love one of their 20-minute epics. They go through all sorts of sections and changes. Awesome. Why, did you know Yes put out a double album with only four songs on it?" This sort of knowledge usually drives women wild. It also explains my tremendous success with them.

Marisol: "Uh...why?" She answers unimpressed, without missing a beat and with a succinctness that would make Lester Bangs proud if he wasn't dead.

Me: "Uh, well because...they just did. That's why. It's all about the search for the meaning of life, God, creation and Lord knows what else. But it's all very deep and means SOMETHING. Apparently. These songs needed breathing room. They couldn't possibly have been contained within the tradition 4-minute pop song structure. It is possible that Yes was high back then."

I paused to give her a chance to process the profound knowledge which I had only just began imparting on her. Letting the silence linger, I was confident that she was formulating a question that would demand more of this esoterica. That I could help her navigate these Topographic Oceans as it were. Finally the silence was broken.

Marisol: "Did they give us any napkins?"

And I didn't even get to tell her about the bass solo on side four. Shucks.

Raise your hand if your sure

In my morning scanning of all things internetty, I ran across a rather pointless article on Yahoo about ways to ensure a job interview will go south. Like most articles of this type, it's filled with all manner of suggestions. Most of which range from the glaringly obvious to the obviously glaring, e.g. don't be a liar or a bad comedian. So walking in and announcing "I'm 'bout to git all up in this interview, bee-yatch." is not recommended. Not only because it manages to violate both of the aforementioned rules, but it also lets the interviewer know you're a complete tool whose death would be welcomed by your family. Apologies for being the rain on an otherwise gay parade, but unless you're an 18-year old gangbanger from the hood--by virtue of applying for a job you're almost certainly not--never threaten to "git all up in" anything. It's not 2004, you know.

In the midst of the article's 'help' there are a couple of head-scratchers though. To wit, smiling too much can be a bad thing. A suggestion which, in turn, suggest the author is even more of a miserable bastard than I and not, as implied, really concerned that the interviewee will appear nervous. Of course you're nervous going into an interview. Why wouldn't you be? Your life is on the line. This potential job may be the final strand keeping you in respectable society and off the streets working for a biznessman named Huggy Bear. So a smile, nervous or not, is wholly recommended. Look how at ease it puts most folks when dealing with used car salesmen. It lets you know they're one of us.

Continuing with the nervous theme, the most ridiculous assertion is that one can sweat too much. I'm not sure why the author is under the assumption that you'll be interviewed by an inhuman, emotionless Vulcan or that you're interviewing for a job as a contract killer, but that's about the only way I could figure some level of nervousness wouldn't be forgiven. How does one could cut down on the sweating anyway? This seems to be an unfortunate aspect of being born and a fact that most accept. I suppose the sweaty interviewee could launch into a tirade about how God cursed the human race with sweat glands, but I'm fairly certain so doing would be seen in a less than positive light. Unless you're being interviewed by some godless God-hater, that is.

Nevertheless, the article suggests that wearing too many clothes, or more specifically, an undershirt, could cost you a job. Unless the job is at Hooters or Chippendales, I can't really see how too much clothing would be a turnoff. As a proud wearer of undershirts and one who's been known to sweat, I must take offense at such a notion, but now understand why I'm working here instead of some fancy high rise in New York. Damn elite corporate scum.

However, I must give bonus points to the author for writing what is without a doubt the stupidest tip I've ever run across for anything. No small feat considering the tips and helpful hints I get at my job on a daily basis. But then, I generally ignore the EPJ on most everything anyway.

Broadway Danny Zuko

Being a fairly decent boyfriend (if I do say so myself) and an all-around good guy, I took Marisol and Buster to see Grease in Atlanta this past Saturday. Though I saw the movie upon its release 48 years ago and wore out the soundtrack when I wasn't listening to Kiss back then, I'd sort of lost touch. Though there were no hard feelings at the end of my relationship with Grease, it wasn't one that I've ever had much desire to revisit either. And truth be told, I suspect Grease hasn't missed me a whole lot either.

Every new crop of preteen girls seem to find something more relevant than the last in the coolness of leather-clad guys who know how to rumble and smoke, but can still sing and dance as any well as any Joel Grey. And I suppose preteens can relate to lyrics about "being lousy with virginity" and "getting lots of tit." That the movie, soundtrack, musical and place mats are more popular now than ever says something about us as a society. I'm not sure what, but it can't be good.

A few weeks ago on one of our amazingly, incredible nights on the town, Marisol purchased the Grease soundtrack with the promise from me that we'd "definitely" listen to it on the way home. I "forgot" since I had no intention of hearing "Summer Nights" again. I keed. But even the most cold-hearted bastard couldn't help but notice Marisol's excitement over her new purchase. Therefore, I vowed then and there that we'd take it in when the production came to Atlanta. True, I figured that would be sometime in the middle of the next decade. It just happened to be coming to Atlanta in a couple of weeks. Hot damn. Figuring that Buster could use a little more culture than he was getting from SpongeBob Square Pants we decided to take him as well. It certainly seemed age appropriate.

For Marisol the couple of weeks wait was interminable. I, however, was willing to wait a little bit longer. Not because prolonging the anticipation sweetens the enjoyment, but more because I figured that gave the world a little more time to end. Again, I keed. The big day arrived and after an uneventful drive to Atlanta and an even more mundane march to our seats, we sat.

The crowd grew restless and a gent came out to tell us all about the super-fab season of musicals that was on tap. And maybe we'd like to get some tickets now for some of those. Amid heaves of tomatoes and cries of "Give us Zuko" and "Get to Greased Lightning, greaseball", mostly from me, the host announced that this production would contain songs from the movie not in the original Broadway version.

Apparently, this announcement was a big deal since the audience oooh-ed like they were going to be privy to some special performance that a more pedestrian crowd wouldn't appreciate. I must confess, however, it had no real effect on our enjoyment of the proceedings. Or lack thereof. I did briefly consider standing up and asking if the original production wasn't sacred then what was, but decided were I ever going to riot it would be over something a little more visceral than a musical. Even if said musical involves delinquent teenagers, hot rods and the somewhat questionable notion that being good is good and all, but if you want to get the super hot dude with the duck tail you'd best become the tramp he really wants. Good girls go to heaven; bad girls go everywhere, I suppose.

It's probably not much of a shock that I'm for a constitutional amendment to ban musicals. There's scarcely any need for anyone to ever "jazzbox" and there's even less need to do it whilst singing. And even more less need to do it whilst singing in the midst of telling a story about how tough life was for horny teenagers in the '50s. Nevertheless, I kept looking over at my two companions and couldn't help but notice they kept enjoying the show more with each number. A warming sight to this silicone heart if ever there was one. Honestly, my protestations to the contrary, it really wasn't that bad of a way to spend an afternoon. Well, compared to having to actually endure life in 1958.

Adorableness pt. 3

Babies having babies. When will we learn?
(l-r) Buster, Claudette and Baby Zeigler

Vocal interpretations by Greg Lake

My father is many, many things. Patient, decent and bunion-footed. Heartless, cruel and cynical, however, he is not. How Andy and I got that way is a mystery of some import. Probably not to the level of who actually built Stonehenge, but certainly on equal footing with who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong. But that's not really relevant right now, I suppose.

Anyway, as we were watching the news at lunch, on came the "developing" story of the ship that's disappeared in the Atlantic. At some point over the last few days it's occurred to the powers that be that, in general, ships don't just disappear and that, perhaps, there is strangeness afoot. Maybe even pirates. Again. Oh dear.

Being the fan of civilized culture that I am, I don't have much time for pirates. I'm grateful for the fun ride they sourced at Disney, and often drop "avast" and "yar" into casual conversation just for fun. But I'll admit the overall pirate contribution to our planet Earth has been less the positive. However, until they hoist the jolly roger on the top of the local courthouse I can't say that I'll give them a whole lot of thought. This is probably of little interest and even less comfort to the families of the folks involved in this latest pirate go round.

Perhaps because of the lack of thought I'd given to this very issue, I'd never placed it in the context of the bigger picture, which is where dear old Dad comes back in. I was suitably impressed when the helmet haired anchorman informed the two of us "The Atlantic is a very large body of water." On this I cannot argue; in fact, I believe that is why they call it an ocean. But it took my Dad to really understand the full impact of this story by announcing, "I wouldn't want to buy a yacht right now."

Putting aside that I'm pretty sure this is a freighter, i.e. big ship with few to no topless sunbathing babes on it, and not a luxury vessel that's gone a' missin' and the impact on the world's wealthiest will be minimal, the decency of my Father shines through. For if the richest among us can't be happy, what chance have we, the common folk? Well played, old man.

Civility, decency, truth, justice and the American way are all losers here. There will no doubt be much handwringing thereof, but, aside from James Bond villains, who weeps for the yacht market? If you cut them do they not bleed? Those yachts just aren't going to sail themselves and, frankly, there's only so many Russian oil magnates in the world. In these terse financial times do we really want another industry going belly up? How many international playboys and trophy wives will be forced to retire to their Swiss chateaus, unable to find safe, luxurious water transportation to their remote islands off the coast of places you'll never visit anyway? Beats me, but I'm pretty sure 1 is too many and 1000 is not enough.

Starting left but turning right

When I was smaller and less cynical...well, smaller, I used to enjoy the all-request shows on the radio. Since I spent most of my days listening to the radio rather than going to school, I suffered through a seemingly endless cycle of awful Doobie Brothers songs, oh so smooth Steely Dan tunes and generally unnecessary pablum, most of which seemed to have Paul Rodgers singing in a bluesy rasp. I'd sit there for hours on end hoping to hear some Yes song that I already had in my collection and probably had just finished listening to. Meanwhile, my friends chatted up girls. Boneheads.

So what a godsend the all-request hour. For one brief hour, the entire programming was turned over to us dutiful listeners, some of whom, I liked to think actually had taste. The inmates were in charge of the asylum. No doubt, the dusty vaults of years and years of free records were a treasure chest waiting to be discovered and giving an hour a day would ensure we'd never run out of quality obscurities. Up until the very end of the hour, I always expected the throngs of us more refined, cultured ears to break through and pummel the masses with ELP's Karn Evil 9 3rd Impression, instead of the (still) overplayed Karn Evil 9 1st Impression, part 2 (Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends...). It never happened. This is probably just as well.

Instead, we newly empowered listeners were more like the dog who finally caught the car: now what? The more I listened, the more I noticed that the request hour really didn't differ a whole lot from regular programming. Instead of Hot Rockin' Ronny hipping us that "Up next is Bad Company with their song, Bad Company, from their album, Bad Company," was Doug from the sticks hoping to hear "a little Bad Company by Bad Company because that song is, like, bad." Being fairly clever and all, after several years I began to suspect that the DJ was just playing what was next on the playlist with some yahoo "requesting" it. Surely, no one actually wanted to hear Bad Company. And if one actually did, it was a fairly safe bet that it was coming up right after they got through playing Bad Company. There was no need to waste a request. Boneheads.

Flash forward a few years and I find myself interning at a real radio station that had real, live DJs. Ever since watching WKRP (still my favorite show of all-time), I'd dreamed of being in this environment, going behind the curtain as it were. I'd talk about music all day, hang around with super-cool people and take drugs with rock stars. And there'd be a sales guy with impeccable fashion sense, a goofy owner and a night-time DJ who, while cool, really didn't fit with the overall vibe of the station. Of course, we'd have all manner of hi-jinks as well. And try to see if turkeys could fly.

Though I enjoyed my time interning and have some good memories, the reality was more like actually meeting the Wizard of Oz: a myth-destroying soul crusher. For every cool DJ really into music and eager to talk at length was another one who just landed at that particular station because he saw a help wanted sign. As interested in music as he was the dissolution of the Soviet Union, which is to say not at all. Then there were the lifer DJs, the ones who bounced from station to station, format to format with an genre-appropriate name. Alex Steele for a rock station would become Al Friendly for a top-40 station would become Uncle Al for an oldies station.

Those "dusty vaults" were a simple wall of cds that probably wasn't much larger than what I had at the time. The "totally happening" on-the-spot-remotes where "everybody really should be because it's where the party was" were usually just me and a DJ at some abandoned location hoping for a teenager or some drunk to pester us for a sticker. Trust me, a bored DJ trying to fool folks into thinking an empty bar is the nexus of fun is an image that even Charles Bukowski would find desperate. Go wild.

But it did confirm my suspicions about all-request hours. They were rigged. Even the phone calls weren't live but were usually taped at some point during the day and played back when needed. Even now, I still feel bad for Jim from Scranton, calling in at 1:30 pm and being told by the DJ that his request was coming right up, only to hear the very call much later followed by his "instant request." I suspect Jim from Scranton had been hanging from the ceiling fan for a couple of days by then, which is what he gets for listening to The Smiths anyway.

Looking down from Olympus on a world of doubt and fear

I'm not sure if it's WDW specifically or just being on vacation, but generally people are friendlier down there. There's a surprising amount of patience that comes along with an overcrowded resort full of screaming kids and annoyed parents. Maybe because we're all in it together. I don't know. I do know that I find myself striking up conversations with total strangers from time to time, which is something I would NEVER do in the real world. Yes, I hate strangers just that much. But at WDW if there's a fellow wearing interesting apparel, usually plaid, I've been known to comment on his sartorial choices.

Being a runner, I have this ability to recognize what could best be described as "running clothes". It's a pretty useless ability I will admit, but we can't all cure cancer, can we? So when I see a gent wearing some high-tech, moisture-wicking, shiny clothing along with running shoes standing by himself doing nothing much, I thinks to myself, "Self, there's a runner. Why not go over and talk to him because that's what runners do to fellow runners. Trade secrets, compare ipod playlists, swap bread recipes. "

Almost immediately I was reminded of why I generally avoid talking to people. Especially strangers.

Me: "You must be a runner."

He: "Used to be, but mainly cycling. Did 100K. EVERY ride." (Emphasis his)

Fearing I was too stupid to know the basics of the metric system and recognize this was a ride of some significance, he quickly added, "That's 60 miles you know."

Me: "Yeah. Way to go."

Hey pal, I watch the Tour de France. Got a brother with a degree from a fancy institute of technology to boot. I know all about the metric system. Suddenly this didn't seem like a great idea.

He: "Look at my calves. There huge!"

Yes, he actually requested a complete stranger, another male no less, look at his huge calves and flexed accordingly. My loins remaind unstirred. Though they were indeed "huge" and were no doubt intended to let me know I was in the presence of a deity just down from Olympus, I was able to contain myself enthusiasm. Just. I did bow, but only slightly.

Me: "Yeah. Way to go. You got me beat."

So for the first time and hopefully last time in my life, I find myself comparing calf muscles with a complete stranger at Disney World. I'm generally not into such blatant displays of homoeroticism, but sometimes one gets caught up in the moment. Particularly when making idle chatter in an ice cream line. And when fortune smiles like that, I suppose an ice cream just has to wait.

He: "Yeah, my father in law's was a runner but his knees gave out and he's barely 60. Knew as much as I was doing, I'd be next. So I got me a $2000 treadmill."

I was in awe of his continued awesomeness and started to offer that I run outside for free. But I figured this was another of his one-upmanships so I needed to reestablish my dominance. I considered telling him I had a $50 ipod shuffle. However, I knew I was all but defeated and resistance was futile. So I stayed with the script.

Me: "Yeah. Way to go."

For the first time and hopefully last time in my life, I actually hoped that Buster would run up screaming, maybe even bleeding (but not seriously, of course) for me to come quick.

He: "It's really awesome. But I don't get on it that much."

I can't really blame him. That would take away valuable time from him marvelling at his "huge" calves. There's only so many hours in a day and when a large chunk is already spent flexing and massaging baby oil on them yams, well, priorities. Speaking of which, bowing my head because I knew that I'd been beat, I mustered up the courage to split. I figured that if I'd been invited to feel up a dude, learned about his $2000 treadmill and, in general, how incredible he was in the span of about 2 minutes, there was no where to go but down. Unless, he was going to tell about the time he turned that water into wine or walked on water. I decided these were stories I'd just have to miss.

Me: "Hmph. Guess I need to go. See you later."

He: All right. Take 'er easy."

It's a toss-up between who gave the dumber final remark. I had no plans to see him again. We certainly weren't going to hit up at Dumbo for a couples ride. And unless I have an incredible string of bad luck that finds me looking for $2000 treadmills in New Jersey, I can't imagine ever running into him again.

But "take 'er easy"?!?! Is this 1975? Are we comparing calves in a Chevy van with Frank Frazetta artwork on the side and a bumper sticker that says Gas, Grass or Ass: No one rides for free? Somehow this all seemed fitting for reasons I still can't even understand. Perhaps this is the way people still talk, and I'm just really, really not with it. And I guess I should give him credit for not calling me "bro" or even worse, "brah." Regardless, I made a vow then and there to never speak to a stranger ever again. Probably won't even speak to most people I know unless I'm bleeding or they're on fire. I'm sure people will understand. I apologize in advance but my fragile psyche can't take many more instances of friendliness being met with an impromptu Mr. Universe contest. Keep on truckin'.

I think that is the case

Obviously, I love the whole of WDW, but if I had to rank the parks from favorite to least, Magic Kingdom would be tops by a ginormous margin and Animal Kingdom would bring up the rear. I don't hate Animal Kingdom and usually spend the better part of a day there on my trips, but generally, it's not a repeat stop like the other parks.

Since Buster is slightly enamored with animals I figured I'd spend a bit more time there this go around. We did. Just not looking at animals. Sure, we did the safari and gawked at all the animals, even took a few pictures along the way. For some reason, Buster has an odd fear of rhinos and was fearful they would come after him if he left the safari vehicle. Being as Disney and good, old common sense frowns upon leaving the vehicle, I assured him we were probably safe if we followed the rules. Maybe not as much adventure that way, but it greatly increased our chances of walking out with all limbs intact and our skeletal systems free of any fractures.

But what really grabbed Buster's goat was the new Expedition: Everest roller coaster. He'd been rather geeked up about it all along. I had told him before we left that I would ride anything he wanted to ride, but honestly figured once he saw Everest, he'd back out. I think Custer guessed more correctly at Little Big Horn. We did it once, which was fair enough. My eyes shut most of the way, praying he'd never want to do it again. My prayers were answered for about 10 minutes. And then we hit it 5 times in a row whilst Marisol patiently waited in the gift shop. Thanks, Mom. Somewhere in the middle of the second ride, I was able to open my eyes and maybe, almost enjoyed ride #3. The fourth spin found things getting a little dicey in the stomach region and on the fifth I vowed I would not ride Everest again on this trip. Had we not told Buster firmly that that was it for the day, he'd probably still be riding it right now.

Everest was not reserved just for fun, however. I also used it as an opportunity to drop some knowledge on him, telling him all about the real Mt. Everest. I know all about it since I watched both seasons of Everest on Discovery Channel; not because I actually read a book or really cared. Though it took some convincing, he did finally accept that this tall structure, for WDW, was not, in fact, the highest peak in the world. That there was an actual, real Everest and it's taller than all the buildings put together on the entire Disney complex. His mind was blown and he scarcely said much the rest of the day. I suppose a crack about his silence being a blessing would be a bit too predictable.

Speaking of predictable, there is the Florida weather. In the summer, it's always going to be hot, humid and one can count on an afternoon thunderstorm just about every day. This trip was no different, except that I discovered that when it rains really, really hard Disney has really, really bad drainage. So I squished around Hollywood Studios and Epcot on subsequent evenings wondering how they could bring Abe Lincoln to life, but put enough of a slope on walkways for water to run off. I vowed to fire off a nasty letter to the powers that be about such matters, but have thus far resisted the urge. Like most white folk, I find civil disobedience and community activism ain't all that important once you get home. Unless its something really important, like the cable going out or McDonald's getting one's order wrong. Then it is on.

Hawaiian gospel music is something

It was about this time last week that I was heading down to the Volcano pool at Disney's Polynesian Resort. I suppose when I pulled out of Marisol's driveway shortly after 4:30 am, I didn't really figure our first stop in Disney would be the pool, no matter how volcanically impressive it was. But then, I never fail to underestimate the pull a giant hole full of chlorinated water has on a 7-year old. So when my somewhat leading question of "What do you guys want to do first?" was answered with "Go to the pool," it was all I could do to shrug.

Pools have never been my thing. I'm far from hydrophobic and am actually quite competent with all the major swim strokes. Admittedly, the Butterfly generally doesn't see a whole lot of action. I'll go so far as to say I've only regretted a handful of my swimming excursions. However, were I offered the choice of going to a pool with a really cool slide or "the happiest place on Earth" I'd pick "the happiest place on Earth" every time. I would have presumed most people not named Andy would take that option as well. Apparently, Buster's super secret lost middle name is Andrew. So with Magic Kingdom beckoning in the distance, we headed for a swim.

One of the more pleasant aspect of being poolside is that females tend to wear fewer clothes. Likewise, one of the more unpleasant aspects of being poolside is that males tend to wear fewer clothes. And at a family resort like WDW, the overriding characteristic of both sexes could best be described as sagging. The French Riviera this ain't. Thanks to all the running, I don't sag quite as much as I used to, but I more than make up for that with my complexion, which could best be described as White Out on a particularly white day. Given the pummeling my eyes take at the pool, I suppose it's only fitting that I blind everyone else.

Though the swimming segment lasted a wee bit longer than I'd had hoped, we did leave the same day we arrived which was no small feat. Every time I'd suggest to Buster that there was even more fun just across Bay Lake, he'd throw water in my face. He found this funny for some reason. Finally, I'd had all I could take and ordered the lifeguards to remove him from the pool area. Sure, this upset him but we were at WDW to have fun, not swim and by gum, we were going to have fun even if it meant scarring him for life. I knew Buster would admit his error when we saw Cinderella Castle and apologize for wasting such precious, precious time on something so frivolous as a swimming pool. I'm still waiting.

We still had plenty of time to hit all the high points. Actually, we had enough time to hit them a couple of times, except for Splash Mountain. This water ride is one of my faves and since it's normally closed during January, I haven't been able to ride it on my past few trips during the marathon. Therefore I was pumped. Pumped is a tad strong and a bit scary, but I was eager for Marisol and Buster to experience a soaking at the hands of Brer Rabbit. Perfect sense that for this I left the pool.

Alas, the 110-minute(!) wait assured we would not be thrown into the briar patch until another day. Other families were not as fortunate and I could see the pleading looks coming from the queue, begging for the sweet release of death. Feeling the queue's pain beginning to assail our joy, I ushered Marisol and Buster towards Pirates of the Caribbean because what's more uplifting than pirates pillaging unsuspecting villas?

For the rest of the day we gradually made our way around Magic Kingdom and nothing of interest to the world at large really happened. Forgive the assumption that something of interest had already happened. Though the crowds were large as expected, they were not overwhelming. Or at least nothing a swift kick in the pants couldn't take care of. Buster was offended by the pirate giving rum to the kitten on Pirates and vowed never to ride it again. Marisol did her best to get sick on Big Thunder Mountain and vowed never to ride it again. For my part, I continued to be amazed at how miserable "the happiest place on Earth" makes some people, but then I like to assume that if they're miserable at WDW then they're probably miserable everywhere. Except Andy. He's usually pretty happy at Tech games.

Laziness pt. 17

Attention, Please Note, Etc.: If you stumbled upon here through a Google search expecting to hear of my meeting with Captain Beefheart, prepare to be disappointed. I've never met him. Ever. I am somewhat of a fan though I'm pretty sure he doesn't know I exist. *sigh* But just in case, "Hi, Don." I accidentally published my working title of this post (How I Met Captain Beefheart) before it was changed to Laziness pt. 17.

Look at the other posts around here, the titles are generally non-sensical or somewhat cryptic. This one was no different. Except. Said working title was apparently immediately entered into every search engine known to man and now anytime anyone searches "meeting Captain Beefheart" this is what they get. My mistake. So...sorry I can't give any clues as to how he really felt about Zappa or what his favorite brand of cola is. Probably Coca-Cola, Beefheart's pretty all-American.

And now the actual post.

I promised I would return, and for the most part, I'm good at keeping promises. As expected, WDW still charges for internet access. I still refused to pay. Perhaps on my next trip I'll organize a protest against this ridiculous policy. Until then, I'll continue to bear a burden only people with nothing much else to complain about can understand. Never fear though, I'll give a complete rundown of all the parts of the trip I choose to run down over the next few days. And probably a word or two about Seth's, Bonnie's & my delightful evening with high-quality yukster, Paul F. Tompkins, in Atlanta. Maybe even a random tale from my past. Oh, there's so much to look forward too. In fact, the only thing that gets this combo more excited is some good old-fashioned, white-bread Dixieland. Well, that and clear cutting.