The Long Cut ...we'll get there eventually

Bugs and Missus

It's never good when visitors keep seeing the same post every time they visit your blog, but it's even worse when it's your wife who's visiting and the post she keeps seeing is one that features a photo of another woman - another woman who is referred to in the title of said post as "cute." Whoops.

My most recent unplanned blogging semi-hiatus started with the usual weekend patio-building business, continued at work with the project that would not die (non-patio division) which was due in June but just keeps going and going and going (and sitting at the computer all day doesn't exactly make me want to pick up the laptop when I get home, you know?), and hit its stride with me getting sick. The weak and woozy kind of sick.

So it sucks being stuck in bed next to a pot ("just in case") all day, but it does give me a chance to make it up to the missus for that Nellie McKay picture she keeps having to see (and to finally get it off the top of my blog).

The missus has been super extra nice to me this week, starting with her coming and picking me up at work Tuesday morning when I felt like I would pass out and/or throw up (I'm pretty sure Ms. McKay never would've done that for me). I've done that whole fainting at work thing before, and it's not something I wanted to repeat. So the missus instantly understood, drove into the city (something she hates doing), and has put up with whiny sick me, which is a lot like the usual whiny me but even more so, if you can imagine that.

Oh, and she's also responsible for The Long Cut's current "about" photo (yes, that's a wine cooler I'm drinking, but it was just a joke, honest) and the photo used in the current banner! The woman does it all - and she's cute, too! Much, much cuter than Nellie. Unfortunately for you, the missus doesn't like having her face out there for all kinds of Internet weirdos to see (not that she thinks Long Cut readers are weirdos or anything), so you'll just have to take my word for this.

So how was that, hon?

The Impossible Dream

Since the train I take to and from work drops me off in the same town that the pool we belong to is located, I sometimes take a short after-work drive and meet the missus and the boys for a little swimming and pool-side dining. That means both of are cars are there, which means that the boys have the choice of going home with either one of us. They usually end up coming home with me because they get bored with having Mom drive them all over the place. Of course, if the ten-year-old's Nintendo DS happens to be in the missus' car he'll go with her [(Mom +  DS) > Dad > (Mom - DS)].

That was the case last night, so it was just me and the five-year-old (that's him up there on the new blog header) in the van. I had Wilco's Sky Blue Sky on, but turned it down with the intention of talking to the boy. He was pretty wiped out, though, and ended up not saying much, just kind of contemplatively looking out the window the whole ride home.

So we get home, he gets a shower, and then I hear this coming from his bedroom while he's getting his PJs on (this is a reenactment I asked him to do, and it's only about 20 seconds long):

Fellow Wilco fans will surely recognize this as the bridge from the Sky Blue Sky song "Impossible Germany" (another 20 second sample):

So not only was the boy listening to Wilco on the way home without me noticing, evidentially he was liking Wilco, too! At least liking them enough to remember that riff almost perfectly. Just listen to the two clips put together:

I don't know if I've ever been prouder of the kid.

Simma Down

Not long after his ninth birthday party - and after being informed that his tenth birthday party would be his last big birthday bash (or at least the last one thrown by his parents) - the nine-year-old ten-year-old asked for a slumber party sleepover to celebrate.

A year ago, having six ten-year-old sleep over didn't sound like a bad idea. Six months ago it still didn't seem like too bad of an idea. Three months ago - when party planning kicked into high gear - it didn't seem like that awful an idea. Last weekend it finally started looking like what it was - a terrible, terrible idea.

We tried to limit the damage by not having the boys come over until 7pm Saturday and having them packed up and out of our house by noon Sunday. But for the seventeen hours in between there was never less than two boys talking their heads off. I took the 10pm-2am shift of yelling at them to shut the hell up settle down and get some sleep (this after letting them officially stay up until midnight) and the missus took the 2am-6am shift.

Soon after the sun came up, I got up to make the boys some monkey bread for breakfast (another not-so-brilliant promise made to the ten-year-old - can I get you hyperactive boys anything else, say, pre-packaged biscuits drenched in brown sugar?). Needless to say, I was a little burned-out.

Just how burned-out? Well, while making breakfast I was listening a story on NPR's Weekend Edition about a big problem Russia's having with people poaching salmon. Igor, who won't give his last name, says everyone on Kamchatka poaches fish.

My reaction? Who cares how the Russians prepare their fish? I don't care if they poach it, fry it, bake it, or eat it raw. Why is this a story?

So, yeah, of course they were talking about the fish being caught illegally, not being cooked in a simmering liquid. Whoops.

You can imagine just how well I did with Will Shortz.

[If, even after reading this, you should decide to make monkey bread for a birthday party, you should know that candles will not stay up in molten hot bread. See photo, above.]

Head Over Wheels

Above is a self-portrait of the nine-year-old after he flipped over his handlebars and onto a basketball court Wednesday night.

Luckily, we're mean parents and make him wear his helmet when he rides and luckily he's a good kid who always does, because it could have been a lot worse. He ended up with a lot of deep scraps between his nose and chin but what scared us most was that he had chipped his front tooth. Which of course is one of his permanent teeth.

So Wednesday night we met one of his dentists at the office and she bonded the tooth where it had cracked since there was a teeny-tiny pinpoint of a speck of the nerve showing at the break. That instantly made me think of all the root canals I've had to have done and boy wouldn't it suck if he had to go through that 'cause he really takes good care of their teeth and it took him years before he wasn't afraid of just getting his teeth cleaned.

But no, when we went back Thursday morning they just rebuilt the tooth and told us that it's really all just wait-and-see. If the nerve was damaged it might take years (or even decades) for the pain to show up. Or it might not show up at all. And it turns out that they don't do root canals of kids that young anyway.

Thursday night he was on the DL for his Little League playoff game (they won!) but sat in the dugout anyway, getting plenty of attention from his teammates. He already looks much better, says that he's getting use to having a "plastic tooth" in his mouth, and definitely should be good for today's game.

I think we'll leave the bikes home and walk to the field.

Well, Maybe The Gramaticas, But That's About It

Not since the Malachis have two brothers looked this intimidating in their helmets.

Blown Over

You've already seen Day One of the four five-year-old's birthday weekend. This is from Day Two (the family party).

Bowled Over

Somehow the four five-year-old gets two birthday parties - one for friends, one for family. This is from the friends party.

Bowling alleys have perhaps the absolute worst lighting for taking photos.

That Starts With "T" And That Rhymes With "P" And That Stands For... Um... Pee

Last Saturday when I posted some pictures from Little League Opening Day, I failed to mention that the boys in the red uniforms belong to the T-Ball team I'm managing this year. That's right, managing. I'm their manager. Actual children will learn the ins and outs of baseball from me.

The five-year-old me is laughing his head off right now, because the five-year-old me hated playing baseball. As did the eight-year-old me. The ten-year-old me said he couldn't play baseball until he finished a book on how the play baseball (thirty-eight-year-old me still hasn't finished that book just yet). The twelve-year-old me thought eating huge bowls of ice cream and watching reruns of McHale's Navy after school was a sport.

I think you get the idea.

When our first son went through T-Ball, I was still pretty new to the parenting side of the whole organized sports scene and didn't have the nerve to volunteer to coach. But I've helped out a couple years with the older one's Little League teams since then, so when the soon-to-be five-year-old (just three more days to go!) signed up for T-Ball this year, I sent in paperwork saying that I would help coach his team. Not manage his team, just help coach it. I didn't what to be too tied up with T-Ball because I also signed up to help coach the nine-year-old's (much more interesting to watch) Little League team again (turns out his team already had enough coaches, thank you very much).

Plus I didn't want to manage a T-Ball team because, well, that would just be plain crazy.

Still, when the message came down from Little League HQ a few weeks later, it was for me to come out the the next board meeting and get the names of my coaches and my players.

I've lucked out that some fathers offered up their help, including one guy who actually teaches high school gym for a living and who really should probably be the manager. For most of these guys (even the phys ed guy) it's their first exposure to Little League as a parent, so they don't know what a real manager looks like.

That so works in my favor.

We've had a couple practices already and the phrase that keeps popping into my head is "cat herding." The list they gave me says I that I should have ten kids on my team, but it's got to be closer to forty or fifty or a hundred. There's no way ten kids run around this much. The kids are just as clueless as their manager and they're all pretty hilarious.

So, tonight was our first real game and I'm happy to report that I only got clubbed in the head once. We played three innings - an inning being one time through the lineup each. Everybody hits. No matter how many time they knock the tee over.

And over. And over. And over.

The kids all started out enthusiastic and relatively focused, but any sign of interest was gone by the middle of the third. That's when every player on my team insisted that they had to go pee at the same time.

Every. Single. Kid.

By the time they returned from the port-a-potty and took the field for the bottom of the third, we had lost them. Playing in the dirt, waving to their little sisters, looking everywhere but at the batter.

And wouldn't you know it - the game ended in a tie (I predict a season full of tied games) - but everyone seemed to have fun anyway. I've figured out that the kids (and most of the parents) don't realize that I'm clueless. The kids just want to have fun (and hit the ball, and run the bases, and run the bases, and run the bases, boy howdy do they love running those bases) and the parents are just glad it's not them out there coaching.

They don't know what they're missing.

An Opening Day In The Life

Flurry Blossom Time

The Easter weekend forecast for our trip to DC:

Brrrrr......

I Don't Believe That Anybody Feels The Way I Do About You Now

This weekend, with the missus (keep in mind that she was suffering from a stomach bug):

The Missus (having heard Nickelback one too many times): Have you thought of getting [the nine-year-old] into some different bands?
Me (gladly open to any [logical] suggestion): Like who?
The Missus (pulling a band name from god-knows-where): I don't know... Oasis?
Me: [???!???]

and

The Missus (stuck watching DVD's with the [also-suffering-from-a-stomach-bug] four-year-old all week): Let me tell you, in Happy Feet, Robin Williams plays about two too many characters.
Me (just happy I haven't had to watch the movie yet): Oh, yeah? How many characters does he play?
The Missus: Uh, two.
Me: [Rimshot FX]

That second one tells me she's ready to go back to work.

Gag Me With Una Cuchara

The nine-year-old's got strep and the four-year-old's been throwing up (and might also have strep). So, in honor of all the Noggin, Nick Jr., and Disney that's been viewed around here lately, here's a SNL clip that should look very familiar to parents of youngsters. Watch it before NBC pulls it.

Cephalalgia, Gorgonzola, Miscellania

A few bullet points while I try to figure out how one of the station wagon's strut springs could just snap in half like that, and how much it's going to cost me to replace it.

• The Headachy One is back! As usual, she's not very happy with me.
• Check out this blog post from Philly's premier cheesemongers and try to guess who they're talking about. That's a lot of cheese.
  
• Someone finally recognized the enormity vastness of my musical knowledge, took a chance on a disc I recommended, and  - lucky for me (and her!) -  actually liked it! I only skimmed the post, but I'm pretty sure that the writer refers to me as "the Greatest." That sounds about right.
• Everybody got their first-day-of-Spring free iced coffee yesterday, right? No? How about your first-day-of-Spring free wooder Italian ice? Oh. Perhaps next time I should mention these offers before they're over.

I'd say "Happy Spring," but that would just remind me of that damn broken strut.

The Father And The Holy Ghost Aren't Too Happy About It Either

"Jesus. It's always about Jesus."

- the four-year-old, when asked what he learned about in Sunday school.

A Novelty Idea

This weekend the boys are having a couple of friends (twin brothers) sleep over so that the parents of those friends can finally have their Valentine's Day date night. Sunday night the boys are sleeping over the twins' house so that the missus and I can finally have our Valentine's Day date night (dinner with the Queen). That means that the boys finally get to try out the AeroBed their grandparents gave to them during their pre-move housecleaning (they - the grandparents, not my sons - are moving to Louisville later this month).

Did you get all of that? Actually it doesn't really matter if you did or not, it was all just to set up another "kids say the darnedest things" quote. So here it is:

The four-year-old, in all earnestness, refers to the AeroBed as "the whoopee cushion."

We've given up on trying to tell him otherwise.

Kicking The Tires: Good; Stomping All Over The Leather Interior: Bad

Thoughts and photos from the Philadelphia Car Show:

I want this. I'm usually a '63 Corvette/'66 Mustang kind of guy, but I'm digging the reincarnated Camaro, due in 2009.

Note to self: Make sure any future cars I purchase haven't been put through a car show.

Wonderful to see that the Kia I'm driving has the same crappy mileage as a Hummer.

Why yes, Mr. Hummer, I believe my clients would be willing to discuss an out-of-court settlement.

Don't drive like my brother. Don't drive like my brother.

Just Make Sure The Game's Over By Midnight

A couple tips for fellow parents of a four-year-old:

• It's cool to discuss the football playoffs in front of your four-year-old, just keep in mind that he's going to scoff at the idea of a "Cinderella team" playing in the NFL.
• Avoid springtime disappointment now by making it clear to your four-year-old that you have signed him up for his first season of T-ball, not Skee-Ball, no matter what he though he heard.

That second one's got me thinking that we might be spending a little too much time downtheshore.

Hair Today...

Why is it that when kids want to make themselves look "more handsomer," the first thing they think of changing is their hair?

This weekend it was the four-year-old's turn to discover the bathroom scissors and partake in that universal rite of passage of taking a little lot off the top.

The missus was home alone with him and didn't have the camera available for an immediate post-trauma photo, so all we have are ones of him after a neighbor tried to minimize the damage with a close close close crew-cut (this just days after we paid for him to get a real haircut).

I know it's blurry, but if you look real hard you can see where the boy took it right down to the scalp.

The missus' fear of Internet stalkers prevents me from showing you the full effect this whole mishap has had on my child's overall appearance, but picturing actor Pruitt Taylor Vince with blond hair should give you a pretty good idea of his new, more handsomer, look.

On The Other Hand, Most Of Us Don't Know How Many Shopping Days Are Left Before Our Birthday

Occasional Long Cut commenter and longtime sister Terry - whose birthday falls on December 25 - will sometimes express the shortcomings of being born on Christmas (and by "sometimes" I mean every chance she gets). She's not the only one with this problem, of course - in fact, there's a whole website dedicated to these whiners folks.

Luckily for her, and everyone else whose party always gets crashed by Baby Jesus, the Boston band The Slip has finally put her lament to music (and pretty good music, too). With Thanksgiving fast approaching, I thought I'd offer a download of the song in time for the holiday season, just so we don't forget those for whom "Noel" often means "no gift."

So here it is, just for Terry. (And Baby Jesus, of course - can't forget him.)

The Slip - "Children of December" [mp3]

All the parents of the children of December
Have a clutch
'Cause their birthdays are the hardest to remember
When you're born on Christmas
Or the day before new year's
They can sing out your birthday
But but but nobody hears
I was lucky I was born in the summer
Nineteen seventy five
It was as hot as an oven
Families that were lovin' each other in November
By April were planning all the new family members
But save one for the empirical boy with his empirical toys
The hots wheels the autobots and the deceptions
Everyone's waiting to see what he's worth
But he is invincible like a breeze on the earth

I was holding something
In my hands so tightly
I was afraid to let it go
I was afraid to even know
I was holding something
In my heart so tightly
I was afraid to let it go

Oh when you're born in December
It's hard to remember
Well the 90s have ended
So what do you call this decade?

I hold every person I meet like a treasure
I defend the ones I love to whatever the end is
And that's why I take it to you through the music
'Cause when the music's connected it's like everyone's protected
January is for Rosie
God bless Rosie
And February is for Tim
We all know about him
March is for my mama still winin' and dinin'
And April is for my my my my pop
May give to Jonas some
June is for the bass
Mine's July July July July July

All the parents of the children of December
Have a clutch
When you're born in Christmas
Or the day after new year's
They can sing out your birthday but but but but but but but
Make a little noise
Make a little sound

Oh when you're born in December
And no one remembers
Well the 90s have ended
So what do you call this decade?

And before a certain other Long Cut reader and longtime sister asks - if there's ever a song about having your half-birthday fall on Christmas, I'll post that one too.

Here's The Scoop

So I stayed up until 12:30 last night this morning the watch the Phillies' unsuccessful attempt to give away their game to Nats. I've been making an effort to get to bed earlier, but staying up last night was okay because I was going to be off today. The missus needed me home so I could take the four-year-old to/from nursery school while she went to some training.

So, the boys would be in school, the missus in Trenton, and (in theory) I would be back in bed. But what ended up happening (somehow) was:

• an unexplainable cleaning jag (the tough stuff, too - kitchen, bathroom, and plenty of mopping),
• a five-mile run squeezed-in before it rained (which didn't happen until tonight anyway), and
• (what I somehow always end up doing on my day off) baking cookies.

Lots and lots of cookies. A batch of tollhouse, a batch of choc-oat-chip, and two batches of oatmeal-raisin (guess which cookie is my favorite). By the time the baking was over (interrupted only briefly by dinner), it was bedtime.

A way-past-my-bedtime bedtime (so much for getting to bed earlier). I'm tired, but it's a good tired - an I've-got-twenty-dozen-cookies-in-the-freezer tired.

I'd offer some cookies to my readers, but they're going fast.

Rides Just Like A Little Bit Of Heaven Here On Earth

I'm a little late with this, but mad props go out to frequent commenter and long-time sister Donna for getting the four-year-old his first real bike. It was a very cool thing for her to do, and I would have mentioned it on my blog even if she didn't tell me I had to.

Now if I could only remember what happened to the nine-year-old's first bike...

That's Me In The Cellar, That's Him In The Spotlight

We've had the first weekend of football, so let's take a look at where my team stands in my fantasy football league (keep in mind, this is, like, my tenth year doing this):

Yeah, that's last place.

Now let's look at how the nine-year-old is doing (his first time doing the fantasy football thing):

And that would be first place.

It's going to be a long, long season.

I Know What You Did This Summer

Speaking of the 4th(!) grader going back to school yesterday (which I was), he has updated his blog with a recap of his summer high points. He's also written a post about some very exciting excited news.

The picture to the right is of the rare Red-billed Bratty Little Brother, spotted outside the school.

Why, Back In My Day, We Had To... Aw, Who Am I Kidding, We Never Had To Carry That Much Crap To School

Older brothers got to start school today...

...while younger brothers have to wait until Monday.

[Don't feel too badly for the little guy, the wait will allow him to squeeze in a few extra days of bugging his mom. She's the one you should feel sorry for.]

Please Tell Me They Still Have Prince Albert In A Can

Is there anything more bittersweet for parents than laughing at an unintentionally hilarious conversation your kid is having with you even though your laughter is making your kid cry?

Boy, that sounds really cruel when it's typed out like that.

There is an excellent children's show on local public radio station WXPN schoolnights at 7pm called Kids' Corner. It's a great (Peabody Award winning) educational/musical/goofy show that never ever talks down its listeners. Our nine-year-old loves it, and loves calling in and getting on the air.

The last time he got on was about two months ago, for a segment called "Science Stump-O-Rama," where kids try to stump a guest scientist with a question that they (the kids) have researched. The nine-year-old was successful in stumping the scientist, mainly because his question was extremely obscure, something about what year some randomly-selected asteroid was discovered.

Okay, so, the other night, Stump-O-Rama is on again and the nine-year-old wants to call in again. So he gets out his Children's Atlas of The Universe and, at our suggestion, looks for a fact that the scientist might have at least a small chance of knowing.

I know that what follows is old, old, old, but it really did happen, and it was completely new to the nine-year-old:

Me: Why not ask something about Pluto, that's been in the news lately?

9yo: Nah, that's too easy. How about... Uranus?

Me: Uh...

9yo: How many rings are around Uranus?

Me and the Missus: [Tee Hee]

9yo: What? Or how about, What percentage of Uranus's gases are hydrogen?

Me and the Missus: [Ha Ha] Um, well... [Ha]

9yo: What?!? How much helium is in Uranus?

Me and the Missus: [falling over].

9yo: [Head about to explode] WHAT?!?!?

Are we mature or what?

[Even though he really shouldn't be privy to Uranus jokes until high school, we did explain to him just what was so funny. He completely got the joke (he really is advanced for his age), his head didn't explode, and he selected another planet to ask about. After all that, he ended up not getting on the air anyway.]

Bop Life

The guilt of leaving your family while away on business for a week can make a Dad do some crazy things. Today's crazy thing was taking the nine-year-old and his friend to an in-store mini-concert by the hot new band, the Jonas Brothers.

The Brothers Jonas are a harmless boy band out of Jersey who seem to have more talent than most of the artists on Radio Disney. Think Hanson with (harmless) attitude. Teenie-bopper fare that the boys can get into too.

It was on Radio Disney that my boy found out that the brothers would be playing at the King of Prussia mall today. In what was obviously a sleep-deprived-weakened moment, I said I'd take him. When his friend came over our house he ended up coming along too. Forty minutes and a bridge toll later, we were there.

We got to the store about twenty minutes early and it was already packed - 99.94% of it with girls. Screaming girls. Screeching girls. I've all seen the old reels of girls screaming and swooning over the Beatles, but I had no idea this sort of thing still happened. And the Jonas Brothers aren't exactly the Beatles. Or even the Monkees.

Their album only came out last week and somehow they already have girls in love with them (and not just any girls, either - girls with the highest pitched voices I've ever heard - feedback-like voices). I can't figure out how these girls have even had time to figure out who the cutest brother is (consensus seemed to be Joseph with Nick a close second, or maybe that was Kevin they were most crazy about, I was having trouble keeping track with my eardrums bleeding and all).

You could tell that the nine-year-old was expecting a better boy/girl ratio - he looked embarrassed at first - but once the band came out, he got into it. He even wanted to wait around for the meet-and-greet but there were at least 300 girls ahead of him, and they seemed to still have some screaming to do. A post-concert trip to Friendly's eased the disappointment of going home sans-autograph.

Next up is some quality time with the four-year-old. I'm almost afraid to ask what he's going to want me to do. Is there a boy band for the preschool set? I wouldn't be surprised at all if there was.

Once In Germany Someone Said Nein

The cake for the ice-cream-parlor-hosted party (designed by father and son):

And they're called jimmies, never, ever, "sprinkles."

[title source]

In-line Outline

I. Son

A. eight years old

B. wants Heelys

1. expensive

a. high cost

b. quickly grow out of

2. dangerous

a. bumps in sidewalks

b. steps

c. unnoticed Mack trucks

3. fad

a. all friends have them

b. only kid on earth without them

c. Son's parents are lame

C. birthday approaching

1. Son expects gift from parents

2. gift must not suck

3. gift must not maim

D. not very coordinated

1. falls down

2. a lot

E. very persistent

1. never stops noticing other kids' Heelys

2. never stops pointing out other kids' Heelys

3. never stops talking about Heelys

II. Odds of Heelys purchase

A. nil

B. nada

C. zilch

D. zip

III. Alternatives

A. unrelenting whining

B. in-line skates

1. cheaper

a. $20 less

b. adjusts to growing feet

2. more likely to be worn with helmet/pads

3. teaches coordination?

4. somewhat cool

a. x-games have them

b. not roller skates

IV. Actions

A. in-line skates purchased

1. Boy happy

2. Boy determined to learn

3. Boy not doing too bad for first day

4. Boy still thinks he has chance at Heelys

B. Parents' logic questioned

1. Boy just as likely to break something

2. Boy requires constant supervision

3. Boy still thinks he has chance at Heelys

V. Immediate analysis

A. Parents' competence questioned

B. Boy's happiness indisputable

C. Parents coolness overstated

Keep Them Dogies Rollin'

Keeping with this weekend's bathroom theme:

The four-year-old has - completely on his own - taken on the responsibility of making sure that our toilet paper roll is never empty. This should be great for everyone, right? We always have a roll on the holder, and he has a task that makes him feel like a big guy, one he can do without anyone's help. So, what could be the problem?

He puts the roll in the. wrong. way. We all know the paper should run over the roll, right? He's got it in his head that it should run right down the wall and well that's just crazy. And of course, the kid's never wrong. Ever. (I don't know who he gets this always-right thing from, but it's really annoying).

Down the wall, people!

I'm not sure if I can put up with fourteen more years of this.

Loss And Gaines

How we spent our Wednesday night (click to enlarge):

A sad end to the baseball season... followed by a surprisingly good Jeffrey Gaines concert.

[Photos taken with the missus' Nikon Coolpix L4 - which we're still trying to figure out.]

I Cover The Waterfront

A couple of weekends ago the fine folks at Camden's Adventure Aquarium offered some local bloggers free tickets to a few waterfront attractions. Free of charge. Gratis. Complimentary. On the house. Did I take them up on the offer? Pfft, what do you think?

All we bloggers had to do was write up our opinions - good or bad - of these Camden attractions. Here are mine. (Click on the photos to see them full size.)

First off, those who run the PR departments of anything in Camden have the double duty of not only trying to get people to visit, but to also come out and visit a site in Camden. The idea of "tourist spot" is still kind of strange when you're talking about a city that's been tagged with the "most dangerous city" badge more than a few times. So let me start off by saying that yes, it's safe to visit the Camden waterfront. It's easy to get to - by car, train, or ferry - and once you're there it's probably as safe as any tourist area. I've seen more homeless people around Baltimore's Inner Harbor and creeper folks hanging outside the Phillie's ballpark. Plus, Camden could really use your help. Come out and support the good people who are trying to reverse Camden's decline.

Okay, first up for us (Me, the missus, the eight-year-old, and the four-year-old) was the Adventure Aquarium. We've actually been members here for about a year, so we were very familiar with this one. Not too long ago the aquarium doubled up its space and added a lot of cool new things. Number one on that list, especially for the youngest, are the hippos. Get there when the place opens so you can see them for the short time they're out of the pool (breakfast time). Inside the pool, these things are amazing - two tons of graceful movement. And they know how to play the crowd. Other non-fish members include the penguins and the seals.

For the fish, the sharks are the big draw, and the aquarium knows it. They've added a shark tunnel - a long glass hallway that runs right through the shark tank. If you've got some extra cash, you can "swim" with the sharks, but from what I could tell you'd get closer to them at the Jersey shore. What's between the hippos and the sharks looks like the cast of Finding Nemo - plenty of colorful and funny-looking underwater dwellers that my kids never seem to tire of seeing.

The aquarium also has a "4D" theater with seats that do all kind of weird things (and not a good weird - so get your minds out of the gutter). Right now it's showing a SpongeBob short that's supposedly safe for four-year-olds but isn't by a long shot. Try answering this question all weekend long: "why did the saw come out of the screen like that?" We got eight free tickets with our membership, but the usual price of $5 a person - for a twelve minute short - is kind of steep.

After the aquarium we hit the Battleship New Jersey, supposedly the most decorated battleship ever (though I've heard that other ships also make this claim). It was built on the Philly side of the Delaware with the help of a lot of guys from South Jersey. Veterans from around here fought hard to make sure the ship retired in the Delaware, and many of those same vets now volunteer on the ship. There are three levels of tours, and we choose the shortest - the self-guided tour, which they estimated would clock in around 90 minutes.

I'm about as pacifistic as they come, but I was still pretty impressed with the enormity of the ship. And yet, everything inside it is tiny. It's amazing just how many people they crammed into one of these things. I'm not sure how soon I would return - I was pretty satisfied that I had seen everything I would want to on our short tour - but it's a cool thing to see at least once, and the kids really seemed to like it. Just know that it's a lot of steep stairs (glorified ladders, really) and some ducking and weaving to get around everything - but that was part of the fun.

The last attraction was Campbell's Field to see the minor league Riversharks. We did this on Day Two, and the missus decided to stay home this time. This is another place that we visit a few times a year, but we never get sick of it. It's a beautiful little ballpark with the Ben Franklin Bridge as its focal point.

Everything's pretty cheap (especially compared to major league prices), just don't expect major league-caliber ballplayers - we're talking AA minor, at best (the Riversharks are in an independent league, so there is no A, AA, or AAA ranking for the team). And if your kids aren't that into baseball, there's a playground for them (a little overpriced at 3 bucks a kid, though). Come out to have some relaxing quality time with the family and you won't be disappointed.

So there you have it. Three Camden tourist spots worthy of my endorsement (I would also recommend seeing a concert at the Tweeter Center, but they didn't give me free tickets to one of those). You could easily do all three in one day (and even take the ferry over to Philly for a while) and still not go too far into debt.

My thanks to the Adventure Aquarium for the free tickets and the chance to talk up a city that could use some good press for once. Any time you want to give me more free tickets, I'm willing to make a return visit (hint, hint - Springsteen's coming to Camden this summer - hint, hint).

At Least I Got Leid

Friday afternoon we attended a Hawaiian-themed Evangelical wedding.

This was followed by a Hawaiian-themed non-alcoholic reception.

I might not be as religious as the wedding couple, but I do know that God never intended for cocktail umbrellas to be used in water glasses.

Over the last two years, we have gone to two wedding receptions (the other being for a Baptist wedding) - neither of which served alcohol. When are some non-fundamentalist friends of ours going to tie the knot so I can tie one on already?

Where The Party Of The First Part Really Wants More Games For His Nintendo DS

Guess who's learning persuasive writing at school.

(Click image to enlarge).

Not In The Cards

First, a few words in my defense: I'd just like to point out that they don't make greeting cards to give to a woman whose birthday happens to fall on Mother's Day. One of my sisters shares her birthday with Baby Jesus and the only sort of cards she receives are the "Happy Christmas Birthday" kind. A sweet little two-fer for the giver: no muss, no fuss.

But, no, nothing that simple for me. Not to mention the fact that my wedding anniversary also falls in May. I'm sure if you looked at a graph of Hallmark's earnings you'd see a huge bump in May, you might think that that was due to Mother's Day, but actually it's due to the fact that the missus receives half of our local CVS card aisle every time the fifth month rolls around.

Usually a last-minute kind of card buyer, this year I was determined to be better prepared. Not long after the calendar flipped into the merry month, I made my annual card pilgrimage. There are few things I hate more than shopping for cards, and anniversary cards are probably the worst.

Sappy cards are out - who talks like that? No go on the non-Shoebox "humor" cards, too - I cannot for the life of me figure out who the target audience is with these. Who gives their spouse a Snoopy card on their anniversary? It's like they're written specifically for married nine-year-olds.

But can you give Shoebox Greetings for an anniversary? The 20% that don't show the husband constantly thinking about sex are very funny, but is very funny what you're going for on your anniversary? It's the worst, truly a no-win situation.

So, like I often do, I ended up buying one of each - one (not-too) sappy, one (Shoebox) funny. (Corny but true - the missus and I ended up exchanging the same sappy card this year. Sweet to the point of sickening, isn't it?).

I ended up finding three Mother's Day cards pretty easily (me + the older boy + the younger boy = 3). You can go for the funny here, but again - too many about naked wives. Not what I want to think about when the word "mother" is on the inside.

By this point I feel like I do at mile 20 of a marathon. I hit the card-buying wall. I decided to split the task into two visits and get the birthday cards another day.

A couple days later I'm at the mall to pick up the missus Mother's Day gift (no birthday gifts this year, just dinner out). I slip into the Hallmark store and boom-boom-boom, I quickly find three Mother's Day cards for her. Chore complete. The end.

Did you notice anything there? Did you catch it?

I'll save you the trouble of having to re-read everything: I got her two helpings of Mother's Day cards and zero birthday cards. So this morning she got three Mother's Day cards with her breakfast-in-bed (personally, I prefer breakfast out on Father's Day). Then, five minutes before we leave for dinner, I get the boys to sign... three more Mother's Day cards! D'oh. I tried to work a little magic with the Sharpie, but, eh, no. (Insert laugh-track here, because it was a move right out of Bumbling Sitcom Dadland, let me tell you.)

So, honey, baby, sweety, I'm sorry (audience sound-track: awwwwww). I tried, really I did. All you need to know is that you're a great mom to the boys, a great wife to an over-grown boy, and you look great for an old lady with two kids. Oh, and that I love you and always will. (awwwwwww).

Happy Birthday, Happy Mother's Day, Happy Anniversary. And Lord help me if I missed anything.

[Image source: deconcept]

Give To Me Your Textiles, Take From Me My Lace

Thirteen years ago today the missus officially became the missus (and I her beloved). Thirteen doesn't really strike me as a lucky number to celebrate, but I did wear the number 13 for most of my little league career and that didn't turn out too... okay, bad example. And in some ways, thirteen years doesn't even really seem like such a long time. The Phillies were in the World Series thirteen years ago and that seems like only yester... okay, another bad example.

The missus surprised me with plans on staying overnight in Philly Saturday night (way, way, way down on the cheap) and we ended up - honest to God - not only in a room that overlooked the Phillies ballpark, but in a room that overlooked the Phillies ball park and had a "Bill Clinton Slept Here" plaque on the door. Holiday Inn Stadium, room 1018, tell them Mark sent you.

Now, how sad is it that when I saw that I would be sleeping in the same room in which the greatest president of my generation (I know that ain't saying much, but still) had also slept, my first thought was, "Jeez, I hope they changed the sheets." And I like the guy. With friends like me, who needs Hillary?

But back to the anniversary. The reason we stayed in South Philly was due to the Broad Street Run - which was Sunday and which I have been training for for the last four months and which ends up in South Philly. So no lazy Sunday brunch - since I had to leave the hotel at 6:30am to get to the start - and for dinner Saturday night, after discussing it for way too long, we actually settled on, pathetically, driving back into Jersey for cheap plain pasta (the traditional carb-loading pre-race dinner). We ended up at Pizzeria Uno, which - surprise! - doesn't serve plain spaghetti. Or any plain pasta. I had to make due with plain grilled chicken and the carbs in my rice pilaf and breadsticks. [I plan on posting about the race once my quads stop screaming at me. Please stop screaming at me.]

So we only ended up with a few quality hours, but it was still great to get away and relax. I think we were able to hit the reset button while we were there. Clear our heads and reconnect a little. For the sake of my blog-reading siblings, I'll stop there - at the word "reconnect." Re-connect, people.

Okay, for real now, back to the anniversary. The eight-year-old made us dinner - some apple/peanut butter/pita/banana thing from Rachel Ray's kids cookbook that he thought was from the dinner section but was actually from the snack aisle. The extremely sweet section of the snack aisle. Then for dessert he made us these orange juice and orange sherbet drinks with an orange slice on the rim. It was very, um, orange-y. Not the most healthful meal, but at least it didn't taste bad. I'll take unhealthy over awful any day.

After dinner we all watched our wedding video. The boys were enraptured:

The eight-year-old: "Can I get on the computer?"

The four-year-old: "I don't know what to playyyyyyy."

For like the first five years of our marriage we would watch this video every May 8th. Then we didn't, mainly because we got sick of the hour-long homily in the middle of the thing. But now, after not watching it for so long - seeing the friends who had dropped out of touch (no lie - the last time I saw one of my ushers, a one-time "best friend" of mine, was at our reception), and the other couples who are no longer together (I spotted at least one pre-divorce couple), and the horrible fashions that thankfully have changed (like my cringe-worthy humongo glasses - why don't people tell you when you look bad?), and all the people who aren't even alive anymore - made me realize that thirteen years is a pretty long time. A lot has changed since 1993 and we're still together. We have changed a lot since 1993, and we're still together.

So, happy anniversary, Dee. Maybe we should start watching that wedding video again (except - you know - the homily part, of course).

[Post title decoded here].

Lazy Sunday

Okay, if you're looking for that "Photo of the Week" thing - just give me a little more time. Kinda busy today. Busy doing what, you ask?

Well...

... I made my first ever banana bread...

... I acted even less mature than a four-year-old (mighty dump.. huh-huh)...

...I made some of Karen's Peanut Butter Chocolate Chunk cookies (and some of my Oatmeal Raisin, of course)...

...I contemplated putting our cd's away....

... I made (and packed up) some M&M cookies for the new 4-year-old to take to school with him tomorrow...

... I took time to kinda enjoy the be-a-u-ti-ful weather (actually, I did get in a pretty sweet seven-miler this afternoon)...

...and I researched some fuel alternatives with the boy.

Not a bad day. Sure beats falling on your face.

Somebody Messes With Me, I'm Gonna Mess With Him

The eight-year-old asked me if he could borrow a hammer and some nails tonight. Seems he was working on some signs he wanted to put up all over town. (The name of the accused has been blurred.)

Man, you do NOT mess with my son.

(I put a stop to this, but still. Dang.)

[post title source]

UPDATE: Long Cut commenter and old older-sister Donna reminds us that this wasn't the eight-year-old's first foray into placarding.

Life On Ecclesiastes Ave.

This weekend our close-knit block is welcoming back former neighbors who moved to Syracuse a while ago. This will be the last time most of us will get to see them before the birth of their second child.

This weekend our close-knit block found out that one of our neighbors has been given a week to live. After battling breast cancer for a few years, this mother of four has been sent home from the hospital to make the most out of her last days.

This weekend the ladies on our close-knit block are hosting a wedding shower for a young neighborhood girl who, along with her twin sister, was for years the primary babysitter to every parent on our block.

This weekend our close-knit block found out that the on-again off-again marriage of one of the neighborhood couples is officially done, and that their house will be going on the market.

This weekend has been crazy for our close-knit block.

Turn, turn, turn...

When Its Time For Change You've Got To Rearrange

During college it seemed like every time I got sick I ended up with bronchitis. It sucked for me, but at least the missus (who back then was just the girlfriend) found my illness-induced George Thorogood growl sexy.

Now the missus is suffering from an acute throat infection that's got her teetering on the brink of laryngitis. But instead of sounding like Kathleen Turner or Lauren Bacall or even Kim Carnes, the person she sounds most like is... Peter Brady.

Sorry, babe, but it's true.

But hey, it could be worse, you could sound like Rita Crosby <shudder>.

sha na na na, na na na na, sha na na na na...

Big Air, Little Choice

It has been decided that for the next fourteen days - from now until the Science Fair - what little free time I have shall be spent helping the eight-year-old build this thing.

The plan is to justify the "science" angle of this toy by explaining the types of propulsion used to move the balls through the tower. After two weeks of pinched fingertips and diagrams that look more like optical illusions than engineering plans, I think that the real lesson will be that no matter how much you love K'nex, you can have too much of a good thing.

We Don't Get French Benefits?

The world according to the three-year-old:

The movie coming out about the monkey and the Man with the Yellow Hat? "Serious George."

The nursery rhyme about the ebony wool producer? "Blah Blah Black Sheep."

Never a dull moment.

Brief-ly

Yet another thing I never imagined I'd have to explain [three-year-old son division]:

The fact that your [eight-year-old] brother won't let you wear his underwear does not make him a "bad sharer."

This boys of mine are making coming up with a Saturday night post so easy.

Well, Sometimes - If I'm Real Quiet - I Can Sneak Up On Your Mom

[Earlier today]

Eight-Year-Old: When my wife and I make a baby, I'm going to have it be a surprise.

Me: Have what be a surprise?

8yo: You know, the sex.

Me: [sweating and trying to figure out what exactly the missus told my son about how babies are made]

8yo: Like whether it's a boy or girl.

Me: [resume breathing] Riiiiiight.

The Fairytale of New Jersey

The boy and his dad, downashore, 1974.

This is the story of a boy. A boy who loved going downashore.

This love has been there since as long as the boy can remember, when his family used to rent a house in the Brant Beach section of Long Beach Island for a week every summer. The boy remembers that the house seemed to be surrounded by reeds. The boy celebrated many birthdays and showed off his kung-fu moves at that house. And the boy, thirty years later, still remembers how one summer there was a tire-flattened frog on the street his family walked on from the house to the beach. He can still picture that frog, surely preserved for way beyond that week by the heat coming from the steaming hot tar of the road. [Many, many years later, the frog was gone - and so was the house, knocked down and replaced with condos - not even a reed remained near the site.]

But soon the family switched rental houses and switched shore towns, too, now choosing to go to Ocean City, where the boy's aunt owned a house that was smack-dab in the middle of a church parking lot. Ocean City offered a boardwalk and the back wall of the church was perfect for throwing a rubber ball against. And holy cow, was it ever easy to get to mass on Sunday. In that church parking lot, the boy finally learned to ride a bike - at the belated age of eleven. The boy remembers that his family always seemed to have the house the week of baseball's All-Star game. Being a Rod Carew fan, the boy always rooted for the American League. Back then, the National League always seemed to win. [A few years later the church decided that their parking lot could use a few more spots, and the house was knocked down and paved over. An addition was erected on the back of the church, no longer making it an ideal surface for playing wall-ball.]

The boy and his mom, downashore, 1974.

During the boy's high school years the family returned to Long Beach Island - this time to the Surf City section, about ten miles north of their old LBI location. By this time the south end of the island had become the cool end, and the newly licensed boy drove down there almost every night. The boy spent very little time in the Surf City beach house, especially in his first-floor bedroom (next to the garage and more accurately called a basement, since most of the living area was on the second floor), which reeked of mold and mildew. [This nasty little house, of course, somehow still survives twenty years later.]

Then the boy went off and got married to a wonderful girl who loved going downashore even more than the boy. When they started taking their little family to the beach, they, trusting the boy's memories, chose Ocean City. They rented the first floor of an old three-story house, hemmed in by an apartment building and a too-close neighbor. Indoor sunlight was sparse, the washer and dryer were four blocks away, and central air was just a dream.

The owner of the tiny house they rented, a nice old man who lived on the third floor, told them stories of developers offering him large sums of money just so they could knock down his house to build high-priced fancy townhouses. He always turned them down. After a few years at this house, the owner decided to rent the house out to one renter for the whole season and the boy and girl had to find another house. [Last summer the boy and girl walked past that old house, only to find that it had finally been knocked down and replaced with those high-price townhouses. The boy and girl wondered if the old owner finally gave in to the developers or maybe he just passed away. They almost hoped it was the latter.]

But the boy and girl lucked out. They found a house that had just been redone (though not by knocking anything down) and was priced right. This house had a washer and dryer! And central air! And they loved the house. It was at this house that their one son took his first steps, and where he discovered something called "the Disney Channel." But soon these owners also rented out to one renter for the whole season, and the boy and girl went looking again.

Last year the boy and girl went on-line and found a summer house that seemed too good to be true - all the perks of the last house - plus a third bedroom! And a second bath! And a fireplace! For the same price! It seemed that a new owner was pricing the house low to lure people away from their existing rentals. But the boy and girl (and their two little boys) didn't need luring, and pounced on the house.

And now it's January and the boy and girl went to the magic website that would tell them how much the owners of that wonderful beach house would charge this summer and found out that the rent was going up $400 dollars this year. And the boy and girl said, "screw that."

Luckily, the house before this one, which really was pretty good and does have central air (though no fireplace), had not been knocked down and was even available once again. And for the week they wanted, too. And the price was $400 less than what those mean old ogres at the other house were demanding.

And so the boy said, "This is good. Tomorrow I shall place a call to the realtor and snag that bad boy."

And they all, hopefully, vacationed happily ever after.

The end.

Gee, That's... Uh.... Um... Er... Cute?

When the elder son was three, my contact lenses were "tie-tacks," as in:

"Can I watch you put in your tie-tacks?"

Awwwwww???

To the younger son (who is three), my contact lenses are "eyeballs," as in:

"I need EYEBALLS too!"

Ehhhhhhhh????

An Alarming Win

See, that's what I would of had as the Daily News headline today. Alarming because the Eagles displayed almost no offensive ability as they (just barely) backed into a win yesterday and alarming because Lincoln Financial Field's alarm system went off during the fourth quarter. Alarming also because the tens of thousands of fans at the game treated the whooping alarm as if it belonged to some souped-up Camaro down the street and got all confused, then annoyed, then just ignored it. But, hey, it's okay that it was ignored (even by the players and officials for a play or two) because it was a false alarm, see. Never mind that nobody knew it was a false alarm at the time. This was pretty much as close as they would come to having a fire drill at a game, and they failed. What we found out yesterday was that the Eagles fans' first response to an emergency warning alarm would be indifference. That's kind of scary.

Speaking of Eagles failures, Saturday afternoon was the Eagles Kids Club Halloween Party at the Linc and it was L-A-M-E. They charge you ten bucks per kid to join the club, then they make you pay for parking (another ten bucks) at the party. And what did the party consist of? Lines. Lots and lots of lines. Lines to collect candy from the cheerleaders, lines to go on the bouncy rides, lines to paint pumpkins, lines to... well, that's it, because, other than a haunted house that looked like it was set up by sixth-graders, all the party was was bouncy rides, pumpkin painting, and candy handed out by cheerleaders (overdressed cheerleaders). All this line-waiting took place on a freezing and wet concourse that somehow turned even the slightest breeze into a category 5 wind gust. Oh, they also let you walk on the sideline of the field, - woo hoo!

Making the event even more fun was the way you had to sign a liability release form before your kid went on a ride - a separate form for each and every ride. After waiting in line for a half-hour to go on the ride. Nothing says fun like legal documents! And even though the "party" took place at noon, the only lunches you could get were the from the concession stands that were selling hot dogs and pretzels at their usually gameday prices (and just like at the games they checked bags for contraband food at the gates). Luckily, "Twistee," the Auntie Anne mascot (who was much scarier than anything in the haunted house) was giving out coupons for free pretzels - "offer good at Auntie Anne's stores in Eagles Country! NOT VALID AT STADIUM" (emphasis theirs). Lame, people, L-A-M-E lame.

You can just imagine how excited I am about the upcoming Kids Club Movie Night.

A Chip Off The Old Braggard

After a long hiatus the eight-year-old has finally added another post (and a new layout) to his blog. It's short, but still long enough to prove that know-it-all-itis does not skip a generation.

Windows To The Soul

Just yesterday at dinner the missus and I noticed for the first time that the three-year-old's eyes are no longer blue. We don't know when this happened but we're pretty sure the switch to green - the color of the missus' eyes - is fairly recent. (This photo is from last weekend.)

And how about that sensitive and soulful look (it looks a little like he was crying, but I swear he wasn't)? Are these the eyes of a future lady-killer, or what?

The eight-year-old has some pretty nice eyes, too. Deep brown - just like his dad. I'd post a picture of them, but there's no way he would stay still long enough for a picture like this.

How Do You Like Them Apples?

Took the day off from work today to go pick apples with the family. We are now up to our elbows in apples (and some peaches, too) and I've been threatening take a whack at making my first apple pie. I'm a little apprehensive since pie is one dessert I have never attempted, but my latest copy of Cook's Illustrated did come with a recipe, so.... maybe. Stay tuned.

And yes, it probably wasn't wise for us to eat apples - unwashed apples - straight off the tree, but something about picking them yourself makes them seem more healthy/less pesticide-y.

[Photo by the missus - those are my sexy thighs in the background.]

Give Me Back My Bullets

Ah, bullet points - friend of the lazy blogger:

• Longtime reader Karen sent me an article about the Bruce Springsteen symposium being held at Monmouth University next month. From the news release:
  • "Glory Days: A Bruce Springsteen Symposium" will take place on Friday and Saturday, September 9 and 10, at Monmouth University in West Long Branch, N.J., where Springsteen began his career. [...] Some of the featured speakers include: critic and Springsteen biographer Dave Marsh; Barbara Hall, novelist, musician, and creator of the television show "Joan of Arcadia;" photographer Frank Stefanko, whose work graces the covers of Springsteen's albums "Darkness on the Edge of Town" and "The River;" and Pittsburgh musician Joe Grushecky. [emphasis mine]
    • Okay, first of all, Springsteen started his career in West Long Branch? Sorry, but he named his first album Greetings From Asbury Park for a reason.
    • At $245 the symposium is a little too expensive for the working schlubs - like me - that Bruce sings about, but I wouldn't mind going to the Joe Grushecky concert they're having at the Stone Pony that weekend. Springsteen has been know to pop up at his buddy's Pony shows, and with that many Boss fans in town that weekend Bruce might just be flattered enough to show up once again.
    • West Long Branch does hold the distinction of being the town where I started my marathoning career when I ran the New Jersey Shore Marathon back in 1999. (Actually the race finished in West Long Branch, but you get the idea.)
• My post about the top songs of my graduation year has gotten a big response. Thanks to everyone who posted the songs from their year. I think we've proved that popular music sucks no matter what the year.
• I'm having doubts about the validity of the "Nerd/Geek/Dork" test I took the other day, since two of my sisters took it and were deemed "normal." Mmm-hmm. Right.
• Thanks to everyone who responded to my post about my Fantasy Football draft (except for those "normal" siblings and their wise-ass comments). The missus would likely warn you that by paying attention to me when I ramble on about fantasy football, you are only encouraging me to write about it even more.
• Speaking of the missus, tonight I ran an unusually-scheduled Wednesday night 5K race. It's a pretty big race around here and I've only missed it once in the last eight years. The missus and kids were there this year to watch me finish in a pretty respectable (considering the Hazy Hot and Humid weather) 22:30. But as proud as the missus may be of my accomplishment, the thing she wants all of you to know most is that I walked out of the port-a-potty with a long piece of toilet paper sticking out of the back of my running shorts. She was all proud of herself for discretely alerting me to this, then insisted on my telling the whole world wide web about it.
• Coolest thing about the race? Free post-race beer. Okay, it's only Coors Light, but even that taste pretty good after running 3.1 miles.
• Trying to get into the US Open. Well, not actually get into the US Open, since it's up there in Flushing Meadows and I doubt I would have enough cash to get in once I got up there, but I've been watching it on TV off-and-on this week. I used to be a big tennis fan (and player) but ever since I started running I've kind of forgotten all about it. That might change now, since the eight-year-old has shown a recent interest in the game - and he's not that bad either. I took him and a friend out to the high school courts and he did pretty well. Much better than he did with baseball.
• The missus doesn't know it yet, but I made her an end-of-summer mix tape disc. It's waiting for her in the van. I'm such a good husband, no matter what she tells you.
• For fifty points: What 70's rock band sang "Give Me Back My Bullets"?

I'll try for a non-bulleted post tomorrow. I hope to have my top ten all-time greatest albums list done by then.