A Halloween Skin Flick

Halloween cometh and I am excited.

As a kid we used to go to my grandparents house because she lived in the good neighborhood were we were bound to get at least on candy bar. As compared to where we lived, out in the middle of no where in bum fuck Arkansas. Our neighbors probably would have given us some chicken feed and perhaps would have let us use their outhouse.

I wish I was kidding, but sadly, I'm not.

Anyway, Halloween was a good time as a kid. I used to go as a scary Hobo, year in and year out. At the time I liked the costume because I thought I was unusual and at least original. Plus, my mom got to put on a fake beard. I thought I was making the choice to be a hobo.

As a parent, I now realize how manipulated I was. My parents encouraged me to be a hobo every year because of the money. I just threw on some of my grandfather's old clothes and put some black on my face. Didn't get much cheaper than that. As a parent myself, I can appreciate that.

Last year my boy went as Captain Kirk. I chose it for him because I knew there would come a time when he wouldn't want to listen to me any year and I thought that this would be cool. This year he is going again because I have convinced him it is a "cool spaceman". He's still gullible enough to believe me. But as a compromise, because I'm not quite as cheap as my parents, I got him a cool sword at the dollar store. Captain Kirk is so cool that he goes with any weapon of his choice, suck it. I don't want to hear the naysayers, you have no place on this blog.

Slowly as we grew up Halloween got less cool and fun though. I'm not sure what happened, but once you grow out of Halloween, it becomes just another day. I have tried to fight this for years and until I had kids, it was a losing battle.

However, year in and year out, at least I try to get into the spookiness of the season. Every year I read a scary book and watch as many scary movies as possible. I know that it is a lame attempt to capture what was in my youth, to once again live to be scared like Stephen King's IT did to me. It's getting harder and harder but at least I'm trying. Netflix is making it easier.

My book this year was called "Elsewhere", a predicable story about people who are scared of ghosts but not realizing they are ghosts. I give it a 4 out of 10 on spooky meter. Since the book crapped out though, I have been making the rounds through Netflix and again, I am becoming disappointed.

There are certain things that every horror moving must have. The first is bad acting. Luckily, this is in great supply on the trash I have been making my way through. I would highly recommend "Grave Dancers" should you be interested in this. Secondly, there has to be some sort of a twist. You know, I am your father kind of thing. I've found a couple but nothing that really has blown me away.

Finally, there needs to be some nudity. How you can make a horror film without showing some T and A is beyond me. This is the only reason as a kid I ever watched any of the Friday the 13th movies. So far, this is the one real element of horror movies that has eluded me this year and I don't get it.

Seriously, you're not classy movies people. When you show someones brains getting spattered across a truckstop bathroom, you've left the argument for "art" way behind. Come on people, these are teenagers! They demand coitus!

For example: "Teeth". This delightful little flick is about, wait for it, a girl who has teeth in her vagina. Just by the description of this film, there has to be some nudity in it, right? It's about a monster vagina, there has to be pay dirt.

Nope. Nada. You never see the monster. This isn't Jaws people, it's about a toothed vagina! Nothing.

The next movie: The Death of a Ghost Hunter was equally disappointing. There was a short bathtub scene but it was more glimpses than anything else.

Searching for skin in bad horror movies has become my white whale.

"Wicked Little Things"--a wicked little nothing.

"The Deaths of Ian Stone"--the death of my faith in horror movies.

"Survival of the Dead"--describes the audience after watching this non T and A flick.

I am beginning to think that they don't make movies like they used to, thus pushing me father and father into cranky old man mode where I talk about how they used to make "Talkies".

I hit a little pay dirt, and redemption, in a movie called "Lake Dead" which was truly one of the worst movies that I had ever seen. However, with that said, there was a very good doink session between two randy characters in the woods. Then they end up dying. This scene alone brings me back to my Nightmare on Elmstreet childhood and redeems the whole genre.

However, I am beginning to believe that I will never get to relive my Hobo wearing, outhouse visiting Halloween childhood. But I am hopeful.

Next up on the list is:

A Brush With Death: A group of cheerleaders spend the night in an abandoned farmhouse.

Or

The Initiation of Sarah: Humiliated and rejected by the stuck up Alpha Nu Sigmas that accepted her more popular sister...............blah blah blah.

Perhaps I can find my Moby afterall.

The Loaf

I ran a stop sign on the way to get a loaf of bread. I do not feel bad about it. If there was a cop there watching, I still would have done it while giving my best Bo Duke rebel yell. I then would have found the nearest dirt road to ditch him on and complete my maneuvers by jumping over hay bales in my SUV. Don't worry, I stayed at a holiday in last night, it's cool.

I have to get to the store quick to get more than one loaf of bread. It's personal now. I have to get there before all the weekenders show up and take all the bread. The weekenders, they are my nemisis. They are the people working all week and then descend on the grocery store like locusts every weekend. It starts on Friday around 4 and doesn't let up until Sunday night. After they are done, it's like the zombie invasion has come and all the supplies are gone besides one can of cream corn. But if cream corn was on sale, I would go get it. I would brave the hoard because this is what my life has somehow become. Chasing food sales with a vengeance. I am the Van Helsing of grocery shopping.

And I have to get at least 3 loaves of bread. It's the good bread, not that high quality cardboard that I usually buy for the kids and me. The stuff I buy is usually $1.38. That's right, I know exactly how much a loaf of bread costs. The good stuff runs me almost 2 bucks. However, this weekend, and this weekend only, there is a sale on the good bread for 99 cents a loaf. This is the bread that you must handle gently or it will tear. It's the down pillow of breads, light and fluffy while still providing warmth in the tummy. The stuff I usually buy can be used as home base by the local kids playing baseball. It's tough and rough, which kind of explains my children. I feed them ruffage, gives them a good constitution for the future. I'm trying to introduce them to grits as well, the very sustance of my own childhood. So far, they hate it. But you won't hate it when you spend your whole day stacking bricks and mixing cement. Wait, that was me as a kid. My kids spend thier whole day hitting me on the head and jumping on my crotch.

As I jump the curb and leave the road behind me, I ponder how I came to this point. When saving 39 cents on a loaf of bread was a matter of great importance. Does it really matter enough to run down the poor cows in the field that I am now driving in? Somehow, to me, it does. I buy roughly 8 loaves of bread a month. That makes a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches, another staple of ours. That means that if I can buy 8 loaves at 99 cents, stack the extra's in the freezer, then I save a total of $3.12 a month. I am running over orphans for 3 bucks. I'm not proud man and yet, I do not change my tactics.

When you are working on a single income, the grocery bill is one of those areas that you can move around a bit. Shop a special here, get something a day old here, and pretty soon you can buy a good loaf of bread every once in awhile.

I jump back on the road while screaming my apologies to the cows and make it to the store. The parking lot is full. When I normally go to the store there is no one there. There are only a very select few of people that shop on Mondays at 9 am. I am no longer accustomed to waiting in lines. I like my purchases to be freash and not picked over. The only screaming kids I want around are my own. And I want my cheap bread.

And if it's is smushed by the weekenders? If it is torn apart and picked over, trampled by greedy weekender hands? What do I do if it is?

So help me god on all that is holy, someone's car is getting keyed.

The Shuttlecock

I took the minions to the art museum. You may be disagreeing with this, knowing our children as we do. But I parent like other people do extreme sports. I base jump parent. It's the only way to live. Some other parents may go to the potter barn or a nice china shop as an afternoon outing. But really, if something isn't labeled as priceless how can you live on the edge as we like to do? A broken fancy flowered tea pot can be replaced. A broken Rembrandt lands you in jail. Sometimes even I question why I do the things that I do with the kids. I'm sure it would be easier to just sit home counting the piles of laundry that remain undone but it wouldn't be as exciting.

We have a good art museum here. It's got a lot of fancy stuff by a lot of fancy painters. And the modern art area is in it's own complete section which makes it easier to skip entriely. I don't even have to walk through it. Judge me, I don't care. But I just can't seem to understand how a bunch of toilets nailed to a wall is art. I don't know what emotion that is supposed to spark. I freely admit that my understanding of art consists of "that one has boobs and that one does not."
I would also like to tell you that I want a better understanding of art. That would be the mature thing to do. But I have no desire to do any such thing. The redneck in me is alive and well.

The real reason that we wanted to go to the art museum on this particular fine day though was because of the giant shuttlecocks in the front field of the museum. Seriously, gaint shuttlecocks. Those things that you play badminton with. We have two of them right in front in a giant field. They are about 2 stories each. I don't get why they are there but I do like the fact that they are there. I know, it's modern art that I don't get. And I know that they contain no boobs at all. But still, this one I find very cool because there is a hint of silliness in it and I like silliness. None of us should take ourselves so seriously.

For a while I wanted to picnic under the shuttlecocks and today was that day. So after running the ring of fire that is the European section of the art museum, we headed outside.

Today was also field trip day at the art museum. I try to avoid field trip days. My kids seem to think that they get to go with the groups and sometimes I may or may have not lost them. Hossmom reads this blog so I need to be careful what I say.

All the field trip kids were also outside. And they were near my shuttlecocks. They were all over them. They were climbing on them. They were hiding around them. I'm even sure there were some awarkward first kiss moments under there as well. My point is they were treating this thing like Jodi Foster in the Accused.

So we couldn't picnic under the artwork. I also don't like field trip days because they fuck up my plans and it's frowned upon when you smack around kids that aren't yours. But we made due, we ate underneath some trees. Not a giant shuttlecock, but charming in it's own way.

Eventually the field trip kids went back to their Pink Floyd schools to be another brick in the wall and Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss ran to the shuttlecocks.

Little Hoss leaned against the giant shuttlecock and apparently that was enough to send Paul Blart the mall cop out at us. He came running down the stairs yelling "Don't touch the art!", almost tripping over a destroyed Monet that was not my kids fault. The minions froze, as did I.

Out of breath, panting, he explained that no one is allowed to touch the giant shuttlecocks. Not the three thousand field trip kids, no. Apparently they can make it their own personal urinal. But we are not allowed to touch it.

I thought about arguing but the guy had a point. Don't wreck the artwork. I get it. My children try very hard to not destroy anything that doesn't belong to me. My stuff they have not problem with destroying. And eventually we may destroy every priceless piece of artwork out there but at least we will be polite about it.

Although what gets me is that the docent didn't have a problem with the 3000 kids before us and somehow we got singled out. Perhaps Little Hoss' reputation proceeds her. That I could understand. But most likely it was because large groups scare him and he was looking for stragglers of the pack. Someone nice and easy that he could correct, perhaps the little sick ones that he could separate from the herd. That way he could go back to his bosses and tell of how he inserted himself in a child riot and was able to keep the artwork safe. His bosses would be pleased, give him a raise, and he could drive home in his Volvo.

We left the shuttlecock alone and watched the docent leave. We picked up our mess and stood back looking at the giant shuttlecocks.

We still don't get it. But at least we aren't touching it.

Daddyshome

I have just returned for the annual Stay At Home Dad Convention. Fun times and I find myself better for it. Curious in what a bunch of dads learn at a convention? If so, check out my special post at Daddyshome and you'll get the idea.

Welcome to My House

**Hossmom has been working a lot of late hours and I came up with this little ditty very late at night after every creature in my house crapped somewhere they weren't supposed to. Best case scenerio: my mind is gone. Worst case: This is my reality.*****

Pick a tune and sing along!

There are stains on the floor
Fabreeze don't work no more
The cat ain't here anymore
And the dogs are keeping score!

There are crayons on the wall
They lock bathroom stalls
While ignoring my calls
And then stomp on my balls

Chorus:
OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH--------
It's all beginning to fall apart
Wreaking my failing heart
Don't know where to start
Everyone wants a pop-tart
Welcome to my house!

Vivi thinks pooting is really funny
Glen Close once cooked a bunny
Our noses are always runny
And I make no money!

It's a wreck inside
I've lost all my pride
Bring your sherpa guide
I want to run and hide!

They wreck all my stuff
Homer drinks Duff
Things are getting kinda ruff
I'm not very tough.

Chorus:
OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH--------
It's all beginning to fall apart
Wreaking my failing heart
Don't know where to start
Everyone wants a pop-tart
Welcome to my house!

Hossmom's not home.
I look like a garden nome
Where the hell is my phone
The kids want an ice cream cone

The yard is a wreck
There's poop on the deck
Raise your hands, what the heck
She punched me in the neck

For dinner we had toast
I don't want to boast
Put it in gear and let 'er coast
I do better than most

OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH--------
It's all beginning to fall apart
Wreaking my failing heart
Don't know where to start
Everyone wants a pop-tart
Welcome to my house!

Just One Chance

Redemption. Everyone deserves it or at least a chance at it. The young make mistakes that may define them and the old have memories that won't fade. Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, especially those that need it.

I began walking up to the plate. The bat on my shoulder was heavier than I remembered from my past. I haven't played softball in 3 1/2 years, since the days of Team Beer. You may remember reading about some of those triumphs, the days of glory and epic comebacks. Days where a hard slide often predicted the outcome, an outcome that we are reminded of now only by the scars left from that slide. Week in and week out we played on Team Beer rising from one of the worst in the league to forgone champs.

Those days are gone though. We have all moved on, had kids, changed cities. Work got more important, family time became a higher priority. So I left Team Beer, as many others did. I hung up my glove and put away my cleats.

But I was asked to play with my Dads in a charity softball tournament benefiting SIDS. I hadn't played in a little while. Hadn't caught anything other than a green bean being thrown at my head. But a chance, just a chance, to relive some of the past triumphs. How could I say no?

That's how I found myself walking up to the plate with the bases loaded with two outs in the very last game that we would play that day. The first two games didn't go well for us. I thought that, since this was for charity, that it would be a bunch of teams just playing for the fun of the game. That everyone would be playing around, we would be laughing, it was after all for charity. The first game showed me that I was wrong.

I don't like douchebag players in general. In any sport that I play, douchebags always seem to show up. You know the players. They are the ones that exploit loopholes in rules rather than let skill decide a game. This was the first team that we played. They refused to swing the bat. They wanted the walks. Mr and Mrs. Douchebag watched each pitch go by, not swinging. In a charity game. For fun. Lunch was provided for free. Elmo judges you.

We lost that first game by 19 runs. They might have had 2 hits. They celebrated their ability to stand still and do nothing at all. Who doesn't swing in slow pitch softball game for charity? For babies?

My competitive juices were now up but it was not enough to make up for some of my own mistakes in that second game. Some balls I fielded well, made strong throws to first. Others I let roll right under my glove. I had a chance to make an easy catch in left field. It hit my glove and bounced out while laughing at my small penis. It hit the ground and made comments about the promiscuity of my mother. I have had better games.

But all that was behind me as I stepped up to the plate. The third game was different. They were there just for fun to, just like us. I'm pretty sure the left fielder was hammered. This is the type of game I thought we would be playing all day. Everyone swung at the ball, jokes were being made, nothing was being taken to seriously. It was actually fun. But after losing the two previous games by a combined total of 1 million to 4, I wanted to actually win one.

We were down by 1 run. The bases were loaded. It was our last at bat. There were two outs. I dug in to the batter's box.

I should have had inspirational speeches going through my head. The voice of William Wallace should have been bouncing around inside my brain followed up by the Gipper being hugged by Vince Lombardi. But they weren't.

My knee's hurt, the first time in my life that has been an issue. With all my football and other sports, I have never had knee problems. Now they actually ached. And it turns out that I have also discovered what shin splints feel like. I threw my elbow out in the second game. My lower back was about to have a spasm. I was no Crash Davis and I could not breath through my eyelids.

I could hear Little Hoss cheering "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" louder than thunder. She's always my biggest fan and supporter and is never afraid to show it. Both of my kids where there and saw me make all my mistakes. But could they now see something different, that Daddy could still do it and come through? I don't want to fail in front of my kids, that's what was going through my mind. Please god, let Daddy be big and strong just one more time.

The pitch came. My forearms were burning and ached. The ball arched high and slowly rolled over it's apex to begin it's downward descent. My eyes got big. Redemption quietly came toward me as Little Hoss' voice got louder.

I swung.

Everyone deserves at least a chance.

Eat Your Dinner

I am living a cliche. My whole family is. We are participating in one of those tried and true parental moments that every family has to go through. Depicted in countless movies, written about so much so that it's a more popular topic than Twilight fan fiction. And it's a right of passage for every child so that when their own children pull this shit, they can at least get the payback that they deserve.

Little Hoss is sitting at the table. She's slouching in her chair and has been there for a good 30 minutes. She won't eat her dinner. She is just looking at it like it's some sort of toxic waste that I dug up from the backyard. But if it does decide to mutate and smack her in the head, I won't be disappointed. It's a test of wills and I'm not sure if I'm winning or not. But if I lose this battle then I might as well go ahead and plan for her to be knocked up when she is 15 and her boyfriend needs to live with us because his parents kicked him out. I hate Chester and always will.

Little Hoss can be a bit of a picky eater but not that bad, compared to what I've seen. If she complains during dinner I always give her the same response. You can either eat your dinner or go to bed. It's one of the other and I don't care which one you choose. At least that is what my outside look says. I actually do care because I want her to eat her dinner. She has never chosen to go to bed. She hates going to bed. Thus she eats or at least nibbles.

Tonight she chose to go to bed. Son of a bitch. I hate it when Little Hoss calls me on my bullshit.

She was up in her room for 20 minutes. I don't know why today of all days she chose to rebel against my authority. It's been rough. I'm tired and dinner took a long time to cook. All I want to do is read a book, maybe kill some zombies and then go to bed myself. That is not happening.

Eventually she comes down thinking that everything is forgotten. But it's not. Hossmom and I can't forget this one. It's either bed or dinner so back to the chair she goes. She sits and stares, stares and sits. Hossmom portions out what she has to eat. 1 green bean, 2 mouthfuls of rice and 2 pieces of porkchop. At this point it's not how much she eats but the fact that she eats because we told her to. That was a half hour ago and still nothing.

Every kid does this. I remember doing this. One time as a kid my brother, sister and I were told to eat our peas. Disgusting little things, really. We banded together, we unionized. United we stood and declared that we would not eat our peas. My dad just looked at us. I have learned throughout my childhood that it was not a good idea to challenge my father. Usually he broke any stand off with a belt and by god I thank him for those lessons now!

So we sat there, looking at the peas, while my father retired to the living room to watch Solid Gold and thier dancers.

My brother is stubborn and does not take direction well. He refused to eat anything. My sister, who is equally as stubborn but somewhat more devious, started hiding her peas in her glass of red Koolaid. Me, I'm a good boy. I don't like trouble. I took each pea like it was a pill and shot each individual one down with a chaser of koolaid. In the end, I ate all my peas. But also in the end, I was the only one that did. Things haven't changed since then. My brother still doesn't take suggestions well and my sister is still a bit passive aggressive. Me? I'm still the good boy although now I am looking at my own daughter pulling the same shit. It occurs to me that she may be a perfect mix of my own brother and sister with nothing of me in there. Stubborn and devious, that's Vivi.

I have tried everything. I gave the "starving kids in Africa speech." I complained about how long it took me to cook dinner. I threatened her with the loss of toys and privileges. I have become my own mother. Sweet Jesus it's true. Pretty soon I'm going to start flinging dishes in the sink and screaming about sacrifice.

There is a scene in the "Christmas Story" in which Randy, Ralphie's little brother, won't eat his dinner. The dad claims that he is going to get his screwdriver and cram the food down. I respect this man because now I understand this man. Although I would never use a screwdriver, I'm not a monster. No, I would use something that would do the job better such as a crowbar and a mallet.

But in the end, I take the mother approach because deep down, I'm a big pussy. I sit next to my daughter and start to joke with her. I start doing "dinosaur" bits on her leftover food. I ask her to show me how a dinosaur eats. Pretty soon her dinner is finished. She ate her one greenbean and rice and I ate the entire rest of the plate. A couple of things dawn on me as we leave the table.

First: dinner did in fact suck. The rice was plain, the green beans were overcooked and the pork was not seasoned. Perhaps my daughter just has a more advanced pallet. Second: I need to be more stubborn and devious and hide things in the Koolaid.