Big Daddy Paul

Weddings are fun events where you get together with your friends and celebrate the fact that someone else will soon start arguing over who has to put away the laundry. We just got back from a super-fun wedding and I thought I would help you all out by giving you some practical guidelines to help maximize the entertainment value.

DO show up for the ceremony. I know it is tempting to just go to the reception site early and starting drinking all the free booze, but occasionally something bizarre happens at the ceremony, and, when it does, you surely don’t want to miss it. At Saturday’s wedding the priest asked the bride and groom if they had a ferret. Yes, a ferret. This was right after “Love is patient, love is blind…” and right before “I will love and honor you all the days of my life.” Totally random! The only way to appreciate the awkwardness of this moment was to sit through it, and that is why you always go to the ceremony. DO NOT go to the ceremony and confuse the sacraments with free booze. Trust me, you should not be asking for seconds at the head of the communion line.

DO have a few drinks at the cocktail reception. Drinking alcohol at this time is socially acceptable and will help you deal with the people staring at your tits (I am especially self-conscious about mine, and it is so much easier for me to shout, “Eyes up here, buddy!!!” with a drink in my hand.) DO NOT do shots at the cocktail reception. I repeat, DO NOT do shots at the cocktail reception. You may have a shot later in the evening if you suck at dancing and want to get better at it. You may also have a shot later if the stranger you have been randomly making out with has breath reminiscent of a sea otter. Both of those loopholes occur much later in the evening, though. If you do shots at the cocktail reception, you will most likely be the be the guy mistaking the groom for a waiter. Don’t be that guy.

No dirty dancing here!

DO have a fun time dancing. It doesn’t matter if you are any good at it (I’m awful) as long as you bring enthusiasm and keep your elbows down. DO NOT dirty dance with the bride. For that matter, DO NOT dirty dance with any parents of the bride. In fact, let’s just say, DO NOT dirty dance. When you dirty dance, you are really just telling the world how sad and lonely you are. I guess I should also say, DO NOT break dance, dolphin dance or humpty dance. Nothing good will come of it. By all means, if “Total Eclipse of the Heart” comes on, DO NOT stay on the dance floor. I learned this one the hard way, and wound up at the bottom of a huge dog pile with beer and dirt all over my suit. That song just packs to much raw emotion and should be avoided at all costs. When you hear Bonnie Tyler say, “Turn around,” DO so, and run for your life!

DO thank the hosts of the wedding, telling them how lovely the event was. DO NOT nod at them on your way out the door, holding every unopened bottle of alcohol that you can manage to get your hands on and singing “God Bless America” at the top of your lungs. That is tacky, and I shouldn’t have done that. DO make an exit. DO NOT make a stupid one.

DO attend a post wedding brunch, if you are so invited. It’s a good way to wrap up the weekend and tell silly stories about what happened the night before. DO NOT stalk the married couple, banging loudly on their door early in the morning and yelling, “WHERE THE DONUTS AT?”

That’s about it, I have to find a dry cleaner and some donuts now…

8 am: I buy season passes online. A couple of friends told me that they are totally digging Six Flags in Vallejo with their kids. I am anxious about what I am going to do with Malcolm over the summer, so I figure this would give us an easy out during the week. The only theme park we have taken Malcolm to is Disneyland, so the bar is high. Still, Malcolm is not very adventurous, and as long as they have a train, we should be in the clear.

11 am: Rode the train. In spite of the fact that it has a “Thomas The Train” theme, it has all the production values of a trailer park porno. Looking around, that seems to be the norm. The rides don’t have all the bells and whistles that Disneyland has, and the difference is notable. Malcolm doesn’t seem to care that much, even though the ride lasts a pretty pathetic 60 seconds.

11:30 am: Just saw a second toddler stumbling around with a 32 ounce soda and wearing a leash. I understand the comparisons between having children and dogs and all, but I draw the line at the leash. I can’t help but to chuckle, though, at the thought that if you didn’t fill your kid’s gullet with soda all day, you probably wouldn’t need the leash. Just saying.

12 pm: So, the first time it happened, I thought it was just a overly affectionate high school kid, but now I see it is official corporate policy. All of the park employees here give you high fives when getting on and off the rides. This does make the lines a little slower, but I kinda like the personalized touch. I’ll tell you what, though, I sure wouldn’t wanna work here. Having to touch all those sticky, snotty, dirty hands a million times would get seriously gross.

2 pm: We brought our lunches and headed back to the parking lot to eat them. We did this because A) I am cheap and don’t want to pay $8 for a meal for each of us, and B) I try to avoid feeding Malcolm crap if I can avoid it. Don’t get me wrong, I would enjoy nothing more than dining on chicken fingers and funnel cakes all afternoon, but we are at an amusement park. Amusement parks are one of the few places in the world exciting enough to hold a child’s interest all day. Feeding crappy foods and sugar to a kid will only make things worse. I want a sugar crash about as much as I want to wear a tank top, although there are plenty of each around here.  I’ll save the funnel cakes for a rainy day at the library.

2:30 pm: On the way back into the park, we are slapped in the face a second time. There is a go kart track by the front gate and they look ridiculously fun. All of us were totally excited on the way in the park, until we got there and found out that they charge extra for the go karts. What the fuck is wrong with Six Flags? Why would you charge to get into the park and then charge more for one of the rides? Malcolm had a total tantrum when we told him we weren’t going to pay the extra $25 for all of us to ride the go karts. Inside, I was having one too. If we have a meltdown every time we enter the park, we are not going to be coming here any more.

2:45 pm. We got Malcolm to ride a roller coaster! He is normally quite a wuss when it comes to thrill rides, but he smiled after he got off. Usually he cries and needs mommy to hug him for ten minutes. High Five!

3:30 pm: I bought some sunglasses here earlier in the day. It was ridiculously bright and I didn’t want to squint all day. Then, I rode a ride called Medusa, which, with all its banks and turns, gave me the sensation of being born, complete with me crying loudly at the end.  I was smart enough to take the glasses off my head before getting on the ride, but not smart enough to put them somewhere other than loosely attached to my shirt. That was the shortest period of time I have ever owned an article of clothing. Squinting aint so bad, anyways.

4 pm: I saw a woman in skimpy jean shorts with an eagle tattoo on her thigh. Really? I’m all for tramp stamps above the rear end or a cute butterfly near the foot, but an eagle on the thigh? I can’t imagine why she thought that was a good idea, but I bet crystal meth was involved.

5 pm: They have a parade here! Actually that was too nicely put. Here, their “parade” is a couple of high school kids and their friends in costumes being pulled in a flatbed trailer by a golf cart. The costumed characters waved wildly to passers by, who largely ignored them. The streets aren’t even roped off, allowing us to walk right through the parade. No one even cared. At Disneyland, little girls camped out on both sides of the street and screamed at Ariel and the other princesses’ names during a loud and festive parade. Here, the lousy the six flags mascot (think an old, white Erkel) led a motley crew on a journey that had all the energy of a group of hungover conventioneers on the way to an early morning session on actuarial accounting. Nobody screamed at them, except to get them out of the way to take a picture. Seriously, this is their mascot:

Their motto may as well be Six Flags, creeping you out since 1912. All in all though, it was a pretty fun day. We had some fun on some rides, but mostly just enjoyed a nice family day together, doing something that we normally don’t do. We won’t come here all that often, but there are worse things to do on a weekend than hang out as a family and make fun of kids on leashes and meth heads with bad tattoos. High five.

This post is the written version of the Sesame Street bit where they talk to all of the different people around the block. Instead of interviewing the people and being sweet, I am going to be sarcastic and talk trash. Call it Sesame Street for bitter stay at home parents.

I like the Butcher Lady at the Grocery store. She is super cute and really into Malcolm and I. Every time we see her, we are met with a steady stream of  free slices of ham and salami. Actually, she could be a super mean troll, but as long as we would be met with a steady stream of free salami and ham, we would like her. When Malcolm is not with me, she asks about him. She brings a little ray of sunshine to the world of cured meats.

I believe that the coolest guy in the world is our garbage man. I am not sure that I have ever talked to him, but we converse like old school chums through a complex system of winks and nods. We greet each other on Thursdays with a big smile and Malcolm totally enjoys watching him work. Things are so tight between us that he gives me special privileges. Sometimes, I am late getting the garbage cans out, and he actually comes back for them. He also lets me dump dead bodies in the back of the garbage truck.  I would like to try and strike up a conversation with him one of these days, but the noise from the truck is deafening and his ride smells like shit.

I am creeped out by the manager at the bank. He is a really friendly guy, but has one quirk so amazingly weird that I fixate on it. He fingers are extremely long and way to0 knuckly. It’s as if he has three extra joints in each finger and each knuckle points the digit in a new and unexpected direction. I can’t imagine how hard it is to control those things, it must be like orchestrating a fistful of old churros. I had to watch him write out a loan application once, and I nearly threw up. He asks about Malcolm and Amy whenever we meet and we sometimes chat about the economy. While doing this, all I can think is, “Show me your fangled claws! Whip ‘em out and scratch someone in the face!!!”

The one person I am on the fence about is our Mail lady. We have a bit of a checkered past. When we first moved into our house we began noticing that someone was leaving plastics bags in our gutter. A closer examination revealed that the bags were filled with urine. At least I thought they were filled with urine, I did not actually smell or taste the liquid for verification.

Artists re-creation of the trucker bomb

We noticed a steady stream of peebags for a while when I arrived home one day and found the mail lady sitting in her truck speaking on her cell phone. Right by the door of her truck was another trucker bomb, perfectly aligned with the open window. It appeared that she had been peeing into a plastic bag and then tossing the bag out her window before leaving. I am not sure if she peed in front of our house or did it on the route and just saved the bag for us, although I can’t tell which option I prefer. So why am I on the fence? It has been a few years since we have been peebagged, and it’s like we have reached a sort of detente. It’s like the old adage goes, “A postal delivery worker who pees in a bush is worth more than two who pee in a bag and ditch that bag in front of your house.” I’m not sure who said it, but it’s pretty famous.

So, those are the people in my hood. Who are your people?

While visiting Tunzel and Matt, I was treated to quite a rare luxury on the airplane. Before you go jumping to conclusions about a hot stewardess and an unlimited stash of peanuts, let me tell you that my tastes are pretty simple: free time.  Being a stay at home parent brings a seemingly endless array of tasks that should get done during the day.  An airplane ride, however, forces you to do nothing, and I relish every moment of it.

I decided that I would borrow Malcolm’s portable movie player and watch some movies on the 5-6 hour flight to and from Boston.  The question then became, what should I watch?  Sadly, I cannot just pick a movie that I want to see, there are a number of issues that I am forced to confront.

#1 – No dirty movies.  On a recent flight the guy next to me watched what appeared to be “On Golden Blonde,” except that Ed Norton was in it.  Satisfied that the appearance of a legitimate actor made the movie “Art” and not “Porn” I occasionally glanced over at the large computer screen next to me while pretending to read my book.  This worked out extremely well, until the woman on my left looked at me (intently gazing at what appeared to be the “cowgirl” position), then looked at the computer screen to my right, and made a frowny face.  Caught in a classic “Sophie’s choice,” I had to choose between watching “Sophie” and Ed Norton make friendly or reading my book.  I lacked the personal restraint to avoid eye contact with Sophie, and after seeing the scorn on the face of the woman to my left, I vowed that I would never put anyone in the difficult situation of risking public scorn because they cannot avert their eyes from dirty movies.

#2- No tear jerkers.  The second hurdle I had to overcome is my penchant for crying on the airplane.  Mostly due to excessive consumption of white russians and weird little bottles of wine, I have cried during the following movies: My Giant, Jerry McGuire, and (I am pretty sure that no one has ever cried to this before) Mulan 2.  Having been laughed at by high school girls, burly Texans, and my own wife, I wanted to steer clear of anything that could possibly tug on my heart strings, which, I guess, become even stringier at 30,000 feet.

#3- Cool movies only.  I wanted my movie selections to emote some coolness on my part.  Believe me, I am not cool, but everyone doesn’t need to know this right away.

This is why I need help for people to think I am cool

I figure that if I watch cool movies people around me will think that the aroma around me is “hipness” and not “Funion breath.”  I also think that the right choice in movies could even bring closer to my ultimate dream of getting into a bathroom with a hot stewardess and an unlimited amount of peanuts.

So, the first movie I watched was Two Towers, the second movie in the Lord of the Rings trilogy.  I followed that up with Return of the King, the final Lord of the Rings movie.  These movies had the benefit of being extremely long, which was good, but also had the unintended consequence of making me look like a total nerd.  Since I was not consuming white russians, I kept my crying down to a few sniffles surrounding the consuming but unspeakable love between elf and dwarf.  Even those were a little too much for the guy next to me, who just shook his head at me.

On the way home, I watched Rendition, a movie about our country’s policy of abducting suspected terrorists, taking them abroad and torturing them to get information from them.  I didn’t really know what the movie was about, but I think I prefer racy Ed Norton scenes to a naked man being choked and electrocuted. I followed this up with Mel Brooks’ History of the World Part 1, but immediately turned it off when the first scene of the movie depicted 10 ape men masturbating wildly.  I caught a break when the airline movie was the Will Ferrell movie Land of the Lost, followed by episodes of The Office and 30 Rock.  I put my computer away, saddened by the fact that not a single person would think I am cool, that people still laugh at me for crying at silly times, and that hot stewardess with unlimited peanuts have been replaced by flight attendants selling cheese platters.  Still, a kid’s gotta dream eh?