Hey, guess what? I'm we-todd-it!

Last night I fell asleep on the couch watching Garden State. I first woke up this morning at probably seven something when The Bunny and The Chicken came downstairs. I say "probably" because I don't really remember, but I suspect I grunted and rolled over.

Some time later, I was alert enough for Bunny to point out that she and Chicken normally spend a Saturday morning cuddled up on the couch watching cartoony type stuff. The implication of this being that me sprawled out on the couch was busting up their groove. I grunted and rolled on to the floor.

I'm not sure how long I stayed on the floor in front of the couch, but I don't think it was very long. I was soon up on my feet and heading for the recliner, where I quickly dozed off again.

At some point, The Bunny asked if I was awake enough for a latte. I'm always awake enough for a latte! Or so I thought. Bunny brought me a steamy hot cup of morning sunshine, which I rested against my bare chest while I let it cool and continued reclining.

I nodded off again, spilling steamy hot morning sunshine on my chin, neck, chest, and groin.

Holy fuckbuckets. I jumped up out of that chair like I was on fire, which I kind of was. I'm a little scalded, but not so bad that you could call it burned. The redness has faded but my skin is still a little tingly.

Lots of people use coffee to get themselves moving in the morning, but I'm taking it to the next level.

So, yeah. Went and did that whole parade thing. It was a little better than in recent years, but still managed to be just as long and tedious.

I have three specific thoughts, and an irresistible attraction to lists.

1. Whoever plans these things seems to think the community doesn't have enough interesting civic groups to fill out a proper parade, so Independence Day is always an orgy of advertising and "floats" promoting various local businesses. This year saw a new low, and from someone I consider a friend at that.

   Before the "real" parade, there's always a children's parade where little ones ride patriotically-decorated bicycles and what not down the parade route. It's cute, and it lets kids feel special and feel like they're part of some big event. Catch that? It's for the kids, dammit.

   Richie the broker doesn't seem to understand that. He was helping a child I can only assume was his son. The boy pedaled his way down the street on his little training wheeled two-wheeler under his father's watchful eye. That part was cute. What was not so cute was what they were towing behind that bike - a little wagon bearing signs reading "Ask my daddy about saving for college!" with the name of his brokerage.

   It's supposed to be about your kid, Richie, you whore.

2. Between the children's parade and the regular parade I saw something that began as horrifying, but quickly became hilarious.

   An older man, probably in his middle sixties, brought his lawn chair to within a few feet of me before opening it to take a seat. When he sat, the decrepit old chair fell apart beneath him. It didn't fall apart all at once, like you'd see in an old slapstick movie, but rather in stages. The chair went CRACK CRACK CRACK and in five or six jarring, but short, movements the fellow was flat on back with an expression of confusion and extreme embarrassment on his face.

   The horrifying part was my immediate reaction that "OMG an old guy was killed by his chair!" The hilarious part was my second reaction that "OMG that was fucking funny!"

   I'm glad to see the guy injured only his pride. If he'd howled about a broken hip or something, I would have felt bad about my schadenfreude. I still would have snickered, but I wouldn't have enjoyed it as much.

3. Between The Chicken and me and the broken chair guy were two high school girls. The way they laughed and joked made it obvious they were friends. They didn't stay a duo for long.

   Along came two boys of about the same age. The four of them started chatting away merrily. The conversation quickly dwindled to a threesome as the two boys made obvious their interest in the girl who looked vaguely like Scarlett Johansson.

   The other girl looked like she was feeling awkward, very left out and a little hurt. Her expression bore just a hint of the idea that this was not the first time this had happened.

   But here's the thing… the neglected girl was just as pretty as the ScarJo look-a-like. She just needs a few more years to grow into it. I've seen girls like her so many times. She's a pretty girl right now. In five years she's going to be a 21 year-old knockout who thinks she's ugly.

   I wanted to punch those boys right in the junk, mostly because I saw myself in them. Just like them, I could never see that a rose with petals that have not yet opened is still a beautiful rose. I saw those boys and hated them for how they ignored the invisible girl, and I hated myself for how I ignored all the girls with beauty I could never see.

So today at the store The Bunny bought for The Chicken a can of this goo stuff. I don't know what the hell it is. "Flarp" or something like that. The gimmick is that when you leave the goop in the plastic canister and stick your finger into it, it releases air bubbles and makes a farting noise.

So it's fart goop. This is a slice of heaven for a seven year-old.

Earlier tonight I went out back on the deck to have a cigarette and Chicken had what he thought at the time was the most brilliant idea in history.

Anyway, his idea was to surprise me when I came back in the house by fooling me into thinking he really was farting. This illusion can best be accomplished if the goop is not in the canister, but rather applied directly to his ass. He was wearing a pair of swim trunks with a pair of briefs underneath. I'm not sure why he was wearing underwear under his trunks, but whatever. He stuck the whole wad of goo on his ass in between his underwear and his trunks and sat on the tile floor to wait for me.

Almost immediately he realized his folly. By the time I made it back inside he was off in a corner of the room near a lamp… well, scraping goop off his ass. "Dad? Can you help me get the goop off my butt?"

Laughing my ass off at my son's misfortune won't scar him if I'm trying to stifle my laughter, right?

Do you know New York City's Watchdog? The poor man is suffering an unimaginable tragedy. Yesterday, Thursday the 21st, he lost his 5 year-old son in a swimming pool accident.

Avitable has set up a Puppy Monster Memorial Fund to help Dawg with his expenses. I urge you to show your support in this most trying time by making a contribution.

Thank you in advance.

(I'm sitting on the couch, watching a movie.)

The Chicken: Stop for a second!

Me: What?

Chicken: Stop!

(He sits on the couch next to me, crosses his legs and pinches together his thumbs and index fingers.)

Me: What are you doing?

Chicken: H-o-o-o-m-m-m-m-e.

(pause)

Chicken: H-o-o-o-m-m-m-m-e.

Me: Chicken?

Chicken: H-o-o-o-m-m-m-m-e.

(pause)

Me: Chicken?

(He scratches his nose. From the inside.)

Chicken: H-o-o-o-m-m-m-m-e.

Me: Chicken, what are you doing?

Chicken: Meditating. And picking my nose.

Several of you asked what the hell that thing is in the second picture in the ring post.

I was just now getting ready to head upstairs to bed when The Chicken came downstairs. He was crying a little. This is not unusual. At least once a week, he'll stumble out of bed distraught about something. The frustrating part is that when he does this, he's either completely incapable or completely unwilling to attempt any sort of communication.

Tonight I heard him on the stairs and waited for him to come to me. He shuffled into the room wrapped in a blanket and looking upset. I asked what was the matter. He didn't answer but gave a general mumble of distress.

I asked if he was ok. He didn't answer at all.

I asked if he had a scary dream. He whimpered a little, which I interpret to be a general affirmation.

I asked him if he wanted to tell me about it. No answer.

I gave him a nice hug and told him he needed to go back to bed. He whimpered again and headed toward the stairs. He quite suddenly took many left turns and ended up walking around the coffee table twice to end up standing in front of me with the same look of sleepy-headed distress on his face.

I gave him another hug and led him back upstairs to his bed.

I asked him if he wanted the window open or closed. He whimpered.

"Chicken. Focus. Do you want me to close the window? Open, or closed?" He wanted it open.

I tucked him back into bed, stroked his hair and told him I loved him. He was wide-eyed, and still whimpering.

I asked if he wanted to talk about what's bothering him. He nodded, but said nothing.

After a long pause, I told him he just needed to go back to sleep and that everything will be alright when he wakes again. I gave him another hug and turned out the light as I left his bedroom.

I like the nurturing aspects of all of this, but I really wish I knew what the hell was going on.

…but the suck wasn't. I posted about picking up The Bunny's rings from the jeweler's and some of you asked for a picture. I am nothing if not eager to please. Three setbacks: 1) Bunny's fingers are indisposed so you get the rings on my fingers, and 2) our camera is kind of crappy and 3) I kind of suck at taking pictures.

 
In case you're wondering, her engagement ring features a 1.5 carat rectangular cut. Her wedding band features 14 small stones totaling 1/2 carat. My band is brushed titanium.

Bunny feels challenged. Right now she's taking many, many pictures trying to get one to turn out.

 
Update:

Bunny's attempt. The rings are perched on the wedding gift from Sister.

For the past few days I've wanted to write a real post. I haven't because I either haven't had the time when I've thought of something or I haven't been able to think of something when I've had the time. This moment is one of the latter. So, when all else fails — bullet points.

• The school year is over now. This is a mixed blessing. Without needing to get The Chicken up for school and off to the bus stop, I get an extra hour or so of sleep in the morning. But because Chicken is home all day, Bunny is awake with him during the day and sleeping during the evening. So I don't get to see her much on weekdays.

• I've been playing around with a Lifestream page. Sorting out those time stamps is a colossal pain in the ass, but this might actually be enough for me to give last.fm another go.

• Fucking Paris Hilton. Three days in jail? Gimme a fucking break. Let's riot!

  I don't have sources because I didn't save any links, but I read several things about this. First, she was sent home "for medical reasons." My thought: what, they can't treat chlamydia and cocaine withdrawal in the jail infirmary? Next I read she was sent home for mental health reasons. My thought: what, whiner baby found jail too depressing? And finally I read that the sheriff of LA County might not have had the authority to send her home and the LA city attorney is trying to toss her ass back in a cell.

  There may be a tiny shred of hope for this yet. If not, we can still riot later.

• Um… uh…

• Three fucking bullet points? That's all I can muster? Wow, I suck lately.

Ok, so I was sick. Really sick. Strep throat, a cold, slept a lot, woke up, slept some more, doctor, penicillin, feeling fine, yada yada yada. (And thank you for the well wishes.) But I'm so bored with talking about it. I would much rather talk about my most favorite subject ever: stupid people.

I am huge fan of the summer Olympics. Huge. I love the summer games. I love the pomp, the spectacle. I love the idea of the Olympic truce. I love the iconic images. Oh, the images! I can see perfectly in my mind Cathy Freeman kissing her medal in Sydney, Michael Johnson setting a world record in golden shoes in Atlanta, Mary Decker falling in Los Angeles, Tommie Smith's black glove in Mexico City. Joy, triumph, agony, controversy.

There is one image that will stick with me for all the wrong reasons. Have you seen the newly announced official logo of the 2012 London games?

Great gravy, what the fuck are they thinking? Are they going with a caveman theme? Who thought this was a good idea? Did the committee leave Pebbles Flintstone in charge that day?

A professional designer got paid a lot of money for that. Some of the "amateur" designs submitted to the BBC and to london2012.com are brilliant and inspired, and the committee chose that… thing?

Is it too late to give the games to New York? At least they had a good logo.