Thursday, July 20, 2017

12 Things That Happened Within 12 Hours of Landing at Newark Airport

1. I stepped outside of the terminal in Newark New Jersey and straight into a fucking sauna.

2. I wanted to leave immediately for the week in Maine, where we are headed for a family wedding and vacation.

3. I wrote a long blog post about the caloric content of jizz, and then thought better of it.

4. Isaac said it smelled like rotten smoked salmon on the New Jersey turnpike, asked if there was "good fishing" there, and complained about a 45 minute car ride when there are three 6 hour car rides in his immediate future.

5. I noticed that my parents replaced the curtains in their Bronx apartment for the first time in 40 years, thanks to a 25-year-old gay Mexican-American interior designer who is married to a friend of my mom's, and he is now my best friend for saving my parents from themselves style-wise.

6. I drank two enormous iced coffees to compensate for 20 hours of lost sleep.

7. I began to stress out about all the people I'd failed to tell about this trip and my face exploded from pollen.

8. I once again took grim stock of 40 years' worth of junk in my parents' apartment.

9. I got into an argument with my parents about why they insist on using a standalone GPS when Google Maps is blatantly superior.

10. My New York accent came back in force as I apologized to the people on the hallway of my parents' building for standing there half naked in my pajamas as I watched Isaac scooter up and down the hall on a rusty Razor Scooter.

11. I put my head into an air conditioning unit in an attempt to cool down.

12. My dad dressed up like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly, and my mom left for Boston with the keys to the car Geoff and I need to pick up Paige at camp in New Hampshire, and had to drive 2 hours back to give them to us.

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

Kind of a Bummer That I am Not Going to Die in an Asteroid Strike

I mean it. 

It's dark, I know. And I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea. I don't actively WANT to die, and I certainly don't want to kill myself. It's just that dying in an asteroid strike would kind of solve like, a LOT of problems at once.

Know what I'm saying?

From small to large, I wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore. Everything from "I have to poop on an airplane that hasn't even taken off yet, this crossword puzzle is way harder than it should be, and why are they playing Muzak Nirvana" to "I wonder if something bad will happen at work while I'm away" to "I hope my children outlive me" to "What if I never really know non-familial love in its purest form?" will be a moot point.

To say nothing of the YOOGE favor an asteroid strike would do for the whole planet. Sure it would destroy a bunch of species, but hopefully the little roaches and mice and shit would survive and the asteroid would just rid the universe of the scourge of humanity forever.

I don't even know what the Daily Wire is, so my only remaining hope is that this "assurance" of my NOT perishing in a fiery cosmic event is FAKE NEWS.

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

The Green Parent Magazine Exists and Goodbye Cruel World

If you don't believe me, here's their website. The always-hilarious Gabriella Paiella over at New York Magazine's The Cut already tore this mag a righteous new asshole, but I can't help myself. I need to jump on the snark bandwagon too. 

You see, the very fact that U.K.-based The Green Parent parenting magazine exists makes me want to get the EVER-LOVING FUCK UP OFF THIS PLANET, Y'ALL!

There is sooooooooooooooo much to work with here, just on the cover alone, and it's not like I've seen any more, since I do not have now, nor will I ever have, the print edition. It's overwhelming, really. 

Like Where. Do. I. Start?  Deep breath. NAMASTE. I think the only way to approach this is to take every cover line one at a time and break it down to its true essence of punishing insufferable-ness. 

Let's take it from the top:

Share Joy!: This is so vague. What does this even mean? Like I feel joy when I find a crumpled up $20 in my ski pants that I didn't know was there. Am I supposed to share that with my kids? Doesn't that send like, a totally capitalist message or something?

Raising Kids With Conscience: I totally told both my kids Trump is a YOOOOGE asshole and that's as far as I got with this. Now they repeat it to anyone who will listen. This counts, right?

Win a Child's Bicycle: This is literally the only thing that makes sense on this entire cover.

Reignite the Passion: Ways to Heal Your Relationship: Ah, the old "re-ignite the passion advice." I can't tell you how to reignite passion, but I can tell you how to un-ignite it: eat a shitload of kale salad and Brussels sprouts while you're on your period. Works like a charm every time!

Awaken Joy: Raise Happy Children!: How is this different from "sharing" joy, exactly? Like what do I do to "awaken" it? And how do I put it back to sleep when it becomes annoying? For example, Fidget Spinners have awakened joy in my kids, but they've awakened profound irritation in me, so I'm ready to put my kids' joy back to sleep if it means my joy gets to wake up again. See the paradox?

Self-Sufficient Mother: "I Will Write Three Poems, Organize a Protest, Email the Prime Minister, and Do All Our Farm Chores.": OMG. Okay. Let me start with at least one poem: Roses are red, violets are blue, "self-sufficiency" is not Protest Brunch, Online Slacktivism, and cleaning up some chickens' poo. THE END, Emily Dickinson.

Share Your Heart's Calling: Start Your Own Blog: DERP. GUILTY AS CHARGED.

Bake Love: Satisfy Your Cake Craving!: The last time I tried to bake a cake, I mixed all the dry ingredients together by mistake and had to throw it all out and start over again. It was then that I realized the best way to satisfy my cake craving was to go to a store and buy a cake that someone else made.

How to Get Kids Into Comedy: Step 1: give them a subscription to The Green Parent.

Create a Love Nest:
 Here's what's in my love nest: Peed-in PJs, a sharp plastic sword, and a mini rubber basketball. I have a feeling that's not what's envisioned here.

Plant Medicine: Get the Best Night's Sleep: If they're not talking about bong hits before bed, I don't want to hear about it. If that's what they mean, BAM, already on it.

Inside: Free Guide to Natural Beauty: I hope this is a blank page, because natural beauty means NATURAL BEAUTY, right? I am so confused.

10 Reasons for Dads to Babywear: Okay, I got this. (1) Woke; (2) Bae; (3) Beard wax; (4) Kombucha (my friend's four year-old son literally said "MOMMY, OPEN THE KOMBUCHA!" at dinner last night, not kidding); (5) sanctimony; (6) craft beer; (7) maximum sleeve ink exposure; (8) daddy blog fodder; (9) dadsplaining opportunities; (10) make everyone who sees you want to punch you in the dick.


Monday, July 17, 2017

Is it Just Me, or is Julytober Next Level Depressing This Year?

Talking about the weather is boring AF, I know this; and I used to dismiss the impact of the weather on my mood. But after 12 years of living in Alaska, I'm starting to see the connection. 

The changes in light between winter and summer definitely impact my sleep cycles dramatically—I’ve always known that. Now I’m starting to think “Julytober” is taking its toll on my mental state as well.

I keep searching for explanations for why I have been so depressed the past week or so: missed life experiences; difficult relationships; professional and parental frustrations and shortcomings; generalized self-hatred; Alaska’s fiscal crisis; the collapse Democracy as We Know It™ etc.

It’s probably all of those things, but it’s compounded by this shit-ass late-June and July we’ve had with endless rain and cold temperatures. Several Juneau peeps separately mentioned to me—perhaps in solidarity—that they are in an epic funk right now, and Julytober seems a likely culprit.

There’s something about looking out your window all day into a cloud from the minute you wake up to the minute you go to bed, with no discernable change in light or weather—and staring into a never-ending blanket of gray. 

I realize it’s trite and stupid to complain about the rain when you’ve chosen to live in a rain forest, but really I’m not complaining so much as observing the fact that the monotony of gray can make a person feel genuinely crazy.

I realize, too, that I’ve grown pretty desperate for and dependent on at least a few decent weeks of real winter and summer each year, and when those don’t come along, I experience some genuine malaise.

A friend suggested drugging the water supply with antidepressants, and that even folks who objected to fluoride in the water a few years back are at this point so bummed out by the incessant bleak that they’d welcome a municipal intervention. Personally, I'd push for something stronger—like MDMA maybe.

Regardless, I think the time has come for me to get a S.A.D. light and make some sunny lemonade out of this trashass lemon of a July.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

May I Invite You to Facebook Messenger?

Good Evening Fine Sir or Madam!

It is my deepest honor to extend a very special invitation, made only to my closest, most treasured social media friends. 

Please know that I do not make this invitation lightly, although you could be forgiven for suffering under that particular delusion since all I had to do was click "invite" with my thumb next to your name when prompted.

I assure you though: you will NOT want to miss this. Surely you are in need of one more electronic distraction with a distinctive BING! that offers yet another excuse to stare at your phone feeling bad about yourself and society.

Along those lines, Facebook Messenger has a special feature where you can see who has seen your messages, so that when that person does not respond for several weeks, you can let yourself imagine every conceivable scenario as to why, ranging from innocuous neglect to sadistic ghosting. 

Your guess is as good as mine!

Only the most VI of VIPs receive an invite to Facebook Messenger. While the plebes seem content with mere texting, the true Brahmin participate in the most exclusive community on the internet, consisting of a mere several billion elite individuals.

I'm sorry for the delay in letting you know about Facebook Messenger, which undoubtedly you had not heard of or considered joining before I so graciously invited you. You see, Mark Zuckerberg himself must personally approve each and every new invitee to Facebook Messenger, and not everyone makes the cut.

I hope you'll accept this invitation and, upon confirmation that we are now connected by messenger, send me a sticker of a vomiting cartoon face or a GIF of Drake in ironic ugly glasses cheering at a basketball game.

The First Lady of France is Basically a Race Horse, According to Trump

Happy Sunday, fam! Six quick things first:

1. Isaac is on his fifteenth episode of Ninjago on Netflix and has probably lost 900 brain cells by now. 
2. It's raining to beat the band (again). 
3. All of Juneau is inside a permanent cloud. 
4. I am marching steadfastly toward day-drunk on my second cup of First World dairy-free, gluten-free, almond-milk Bailey's. 
5. Geoff is playing Skid Row and Paula Abdul songs on an acoustic guitar.
6. And finally, I just upped my Prozac by 10mg in an attempt to claw my way back from a brutal depression-spiral of my own making.

What better time, then, to comment upon the news du jour out of Paris, in which POTUS took the world stage only to treat the 64 year-old First Lady of France, Brigitte Macron, like a race horse at the Kentucky Derby when he told her she was "in such good shape." 

Trump then turned to Brigitte's cougar-cub, President Emmanuel Macron, 39, and said to HIM--as if to confirm the observation--"She's in such good physical shape. Beautiful." It's a miracle Brigitte didn't drop a gallon of piss on the spot!

For those who haven't followed their Mary Kay LeTourneau-esque romance, Emmanuel Macron, the President of France (who bee-tee-dubs is two months younger than me and therefore presents me with a major challenge in terms of life achievement catch-up), married his high school drama (!) teacher who is 25 years his senior.

Now of course, a 25 year age dif is NO BIG when it's the distinguished gentleman who's 25 years older.

But upon learning of the Macrons' December-May romance, the whole planet basically went into a collective wide-eyed, jaw-dropping shock that a man of Emmanuel Macron's age and station in life would go anywhere near--much less MARRY--a wretched, menopausal hag like Brigitte Macron.

For as everyone knows, women are to be discarded after age 29 like old chewed-up Juicy Fruit gum that you stick under the seat of the Bronx 7 bus on your way to Inwood. They start to get gray hair and wrinkles and their titties sag like wet beef jerky. They are deadass trash, and must be put out to pasture to play canasta far away from offended eyes.  

There is simply no point to their existence.

Melania Trump, who at 47 is 24 years younger than her repulsive benefactor, is an exception because of how hard she works to maintain her "ten" status.

Trump knows this important matter of state, and in representing Our Great Nation, made sure to let the world know as well. 

As Trump's gray matter continues to deteriorate into sun-downing dementia, his brain is being reduced to a primordial ooze in which he lacks any semblance of a filter. So the first thing he can think of to say to THE FUCKING PRESIDENT OF FRANCE is that his grown-ass wife is in "such good physical shape," like she was a thoroughbred on auction at Belmont Stakes.

Ladies and gentleman of the United States, YOUR PRESIDENT! 


Saturday, July 15, 2017

Juneau Could Really Use More Dog Shit Wait No Juneau is Actually Fucking CRUSHING it on That Front!

When I posted yesterday on Facebook the sarcastic (and, I thought) relatively uncontroversial statement that Juneau could use more dog shit--especially wet dog shit--I didn't expect the lively debate that followed. In retrospect I should have, because even the most innocuous statements seem to trigger debate in the comments section of any online forum.

One friend leaped to the defense of dog shit by saying that it was just as bad as wild animal shit (Maybe? No idea. I do know that Bears don't routinely eat Purina), and that there was way worse stuff than fecal matter in municipal water runoff like steroids and drugs and diesel fuel and mine tailings. 

While I don't dispute any of that, this line of reasoning doesn't QUITE tackle the question at the core of my post yesterday, which is whether Juneau could use MORE dog shit, as opposed to how the EXISTING dog shit stacks up against other stuff you probably don't want in your morning shower or coffee.

So I will address that question, less sarcastically this time, by saying that Juneau is definitively CRUSHING it at dog shit. 

Dog shit is everywhere! It's in little piles on the sidewalk in front of businesses downtown, it's on the trails in little baggies (or not), it's at your kid's school, it's in your yard whether you own a dog or not. 


Let me get out in front of this one and say I love dogs and would have one myself if not for two things: allergies and shit. 

Their fur makes my face explode and leak snot and tears, and their shit makes me just leak tears. Kids are no better than dogs, I realize, although dogs in Juneau have happier and better-attended lives than kids in many parts of the world. And in terms of their carbon footprint, human children are much worse. But still, if all goes according to plan, kids do stop needing you to manage their assholes, and that's a huge plus for me.

When I woke up at 4:25 this morning light was streaming under my bedroom door. I thought someone had left a light on overnight but it turns out it was the SUN.

Since I was already crying for no reason, I figured I would wake up my sister wife who does triathlons and she picked up her cell phone out of a dead sleep with a groggy "hey dude" and is now coming to pick me up for a hike.

My main goal now is to feel less depressed, get home in one piece and before anyone misses me, absorb some Vitamin D, and step in dog shit with my sneakers that have the extra deep grooves in their soles.