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This just in…

Posted in A life not terribly hip | 29 Comments

Happy Holidays suckas; long time no post…

Like, 10 1/2 months. Word y’all – Dominator here. Figured since Dad has become the World’s Laziest Blogger, I’d drop a little holiday cheer on your grown-up arses. Not that he has any readers left (‘cept you, Grandma, much love to my midwest homies). I mean, what’s with the unannounced blog hiatus? He’d probably say raising me is a full time job and he’s got no time to blog. Whatever. I’m probably the lowest maintenance kid ever – that ain’t it.
Here’s the real deal…he "discovered" Facebook. A real Dad-gellan, I tell you. Friggin’ Pops de Leon of the Internet age. Always loading dorky new apps, friending about, attacking vampires. Snore.
Anyway, did a little Xmas photoshoot this morning and thought I’d bless you all with one of my pics. The rest were shoddy (photog was a total amateur).
Seasons greetings.
Peace out,
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Hey you…

You’ve been tagged.

INSTRUCTIONS: Select five people to tag; those people must then go forth and copy on their own blogs:

1.       Kristan

2.       ChuckDaddy

3.       PinkHobbit

4.       DeeDub

5.       FXS

What were you doing 10 years ago?
Exactly ten years and eight days ago I moved to Portland from West Lafayette. Slept on a twin mattress on a friend’s living room floor (and did so for eight months thereafter). Interviewed at a local temp agency called Adams & Associates, the first one listed in yellow pages; they wanted to place me as an administrative clerk at their top client, "Waggener Edstrom," some little tech PR agency in town I’d never heard of. I said sure.  

What were you doing 1 year ago?
Lying on a beach in Antibes, in the French Riviera, on my honeymoon. Enjoying food, wine, culture and time with my new wife. And freedom.

Five snacks you enjoy:

1.       Spreadable swiss cheese.  

2.       Ghetto bread.

3.       Pistachios.

4.       Haagen Daz rocky road.

5.       Trail mix.

Five songs that you know all the lyrics to:

1.       Name your butt rock song, esp. anything by GnR.

2.       Pink Floyd Dark Side (all).

3.       Most songs from the Wizard of Oz and Grease (No apologies, my mom made us watch both every year growing up.)

4.       Baby Einstein (no lyrics, but I have the f’ing music drilled into my head – trust me. What does it mean when you actually start enjoying it?)

5.       Suspicious Minds, Elvis.  

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:

1.       Relive my honeymoon every year, only on the Amalfi Coast in Italy.

2.       Do pro bono PR for Laughing Cow, maker of spreadable swiss cheese.

3.       Work less.

4.       Buy the Cubs.  

5.       Give some of it away, most likely to the Autism Society and MAWF.

Five bad habits:

1.       Overt coolness.

2.       Unparalleled modesty.

3.       Speeding.

4.       Interrupting.

5.       Blogging.

Five things you like doing:

1.       Music.

2.       Cleaning (no shit). 

3.       Convincing people of their wrongness.  

4.       Movies.

5.       Reading.

Five things you would never wear again:

1.       Mullet.

2.       GnR concert tees.

3.       Braided belt looped up, under and down.

4.       A watch.

5.       Chuck Taylors. 

Five favorite toys:

1.       PC.

2.       Snowboard.

3.       Doorway jumper.

4.       XBox 360 (when operational).

5.       iPod.  

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Calling for a national day of mourning

For the sad departure of Fake Steve Jobs from this world. Simply the funniest blog ever. The NY Times got him. He will be missed.
FXS: did you know all along?  
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Dear Nike

Dump Michael Vick now. I promise to never buy another piece of Nike merchandise until you do. Dog fighting? Fuck that.
Posted in Uncategorized | 8 Comments

Go, Mark Cuban, Go!

I just caught wind that Mark Cuban applied to buy my beloved Cubbies. Oh, what a great thing this would be – the guy spends whatever it takes to build a winner, and, unlike the NBA, there’s no salary cap*. We’d have a WS team probably in two years. Fingers, toes, eyes crossed.
*Just watch the league scramble to "re-think" not having a salary cap if this goes through. Cuban’s estimated net worth is $1.8b, so he’d easily be able to compete with the AL’s $200m payrolls.
Posted in Boilers, Cubs, sports at large | 1 Comment

Dear Dominic: I’m sorry I woke you from your nap

Dear Dominic,
Today I woke you from a nap. You had just closed your eyes, when I erupted from the living room – screaming, clapping, the whole nine yards. You see, the Cubs just beat the division-leading Brewers 6-5 on a two-out, two-run walk off homer. They clawed their way back from a 5-0 deficit after the first inning, and in doing so cut Milwaukee’s lead to 6.5 games in the NL Central. It was amazing.
Does the joyousness forgive the transgression? Is there ever an "ok" circumstance under which I should allow myself to wake you from a nap? No and no. So in this public forum, with the world as my witness, I’d like to apologize for my childish moment of weakness. Truly thoughtless. Though it’s true you immediately fell back to sleep, nothing forgives this behavior. I only hope years of family therapy will get you to at least understand why this could have happened.
Your Father
Posted in A life not terribly hip | 5 Comments

My kid can eat

Just started my 12-week parental leave from work, and to kick things off Carrie and I fed Dom real food for the first time last night. Rice cereal and formula. Delish.
See some of the action below…
Posted in A life not terribly hip | 12 Comments

Bees: My Hitchcockian Novella

Opening credits roll as we fade into a bright, sunny, mild spring day in Portland, Oregon. Our main character had just finished with some yard work and had adjourned to his PC to fix his broken internet connection. Part of the tedium, of course, is shutting down his computer – we join him here. It was the moment in the day when sunlight was directly on the window to his right, shrouded in white curtains.
His loud and rickety old 2001 Gateway stubbornly closes down, and rather than the moment’s usual silence, our guy hears a steadily increasing buzz in his midst…
Curious, he looks down at his computer to make sure it was really off. It was.
He looks to the windows to his right. On the curtains appears the shadow of what seems like hundreds of flying insects. Alarm sets in.
Cautiously he opens the curtain. GASP! A giant cloud of angry bees hover inches away on the other side of the window pane. Some crawling inches from his nose, trying desperately to find their way into the room – presumably to devour our hero.
He immediately jumps out of his chair, stumbles backwards and runs to the adjacent room to get a safer view, hoping his eyes are deceiving him. They are not. Well, actually, they deceived him the wrong way – there were in fact THOUSANDS of bees swarming against the front side of his house.
He pushes aside his panic to think (think goddammit, think!). He calls his father in law in hopes he’ll have the answer. He does not. All he can recommend is opening the yellow pages to call a beekeeper.
"FUCK!" our hero thinks to himself.  (note: The hero and his wife, being the progressive internet-age yuppies they are, haven’t owned an actual phone book in years. With search engines capable of rendering results in seconds, there’s no need for such analog things as phone books. Unless…)
That’s right, the internet connection is broken. What now? All kinds of insane ideas run through his mind: go find a bottle of Raid? Baracade all exits? Pack up the family and move to safe harbor?
The moment quickens, the plot thickens. The dog barks. His PC is dead. This was it. His moment had come, he was sure of it. He looked up to the heavens and asked for a miracle.
And then it came to him, as if spoken by God himself – "you fool! Your PHONE’S internet connection is still active!" Desperate, and at the brink of death by a thousand bee stings, he pulls up his mobile browser and punches in the search term "beekeeping portland, or"
First result: Portland Beekeeping Association – including phone numbers for everyone on its leadership team!
He dials the president’s number. It rings. And rings. And rings. And then – another miracle – someone answers: "Hi, you’ve reached the Smith residence, please leave a message…"
He hangs up, nearly defeated. Who in their right mind would actually be available on a sunny, warm, mild spring day in Portland, OR?
He has reached his last resort. He dials the vice president – a fella named Pete. It rings twice and then there’s an answer. A human. A woman. Mustering every ounce of courage and dignity, he asks for "Pete the beekeeper."
"Let me guess – a swarm at your house?"
"Yes, how did you know?"
"You’re the third person to call in three weeks. It’s happening a lot right now."
Embarrassed yet restored of a sense of calm, he asks if there’s any way Peter could come over real quick and and help us out.
No, she says, he’s out trying to get a swarm in Sellwood right now. But she will surely pass along the message and he’ll call back just as soon as he can.
He thanks her defeatedly, and with beads of sweat forming on his forehead, he hangs up. He decides it’s time to face the villain head-on. He puts on his shoes and heads outside through the back door.
The swarm had formed into a concentrated ball of madness just above his computer room window. With a sense of horror he now knew what he was up against – the ball of bees was roughly 18 inches in diameter, comprising about 5000 bees. All madly trying to penetrate the surge and find the Queen, who was busy somewhere in the depths of a gutter, building her nest and emitting the irresistible pheremone that had led them all here.
The phone rings suddenly. An unknown caller. "Hhhhelllo..?"
"Hi, is this John? It’s Pete. I understand you have a swarm?"
(Fade in Coldplay’s "I Will Fix You" to accompany a montage scene) Our hero hangs up with a deep breath of relief. Pete arrives, gets everything set up, dons his beekeeper get-up. Climbs a ladder and sweeps half the bees into a bucket. Pete doesn’t get the Queen, and isn’t sure where she is, so he sets a trap that will surely draw her and the others in by night’s end.
Roll credits to Queen’s "We are the Champions." 
With only minor embellishments, this is a true story. It all happened today. The Queen’s still at large, so there’s still a couple thousand bees balled up above my head on the other side of the wall. Pete’s coming back tonight to get the rest of ’em. So far none have come into our house, which is good because Carrie’s allergic and Dom could be too.
I’m including a picture of the bee ball below.
Anyway, this is my story. If the money’s right I’ll gladly sell this script to whichever studio wants it.
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