Point of order

'when I get my phone, can I have text messaging?' hk asked me this after basketball practice tonight. blimey.

phone? he is 11, headed to 21, much too swiftly.

'sure. as soon as popkin brothers telephone sanitizing and management consulting has enough billings to support phones. heck, you guys can even buy twin jaguars and eat steak every night.'

'what about pizza? can we eat pizza every night- poppa john's drive by?'

 'sure, bill it. seems like a legit expense.'

 funny thing is, I knew a guy who actually did buy twin jags.

they had an inordinately profitable year and had to burn some cash. I wish the same problem for my boys, but hope they do something more creative with their excess.

btw- one of the jags ran well ( as well as jags of that era ran, I mean). the other one spent more time in the shop than in the road.

karma fairy, awake and smite the profligate among us.

Friends, I apologize for a bit of advice I have been giving out for over fifteen odd years now.

I am, and was, wrong, and I stand corrected.

Every time I had heard a young man (or lady) discussing their love lives, I have expounded on the philosophy of a good Mr. Lee of Nashville Tenn, who said, roughly, 'Don't get too worked up over your current girlfriend, they are just like birds and buses- there is another one coming around the corner in fifteen minutes anyway.'

Mr. Lee was giving that sage advice to his 17 year old son, who was amid a long-distance heartbreak.

I know his intentions were good, trying to steel up his boy's heart against a capricious young lady's affections.

Young girls do sometimes seem flighty.

Same with young boys.

Better advice than the 'birds and busses' claptrap would have been, 'Well, that sometimes works out.'

I just heard that for the first time last night and wish to use it now.

Cause it does.

A confession.

This past month I have been in an illicit congress with not one, but two fast and sultry vixens. Temptresses.

Fast and furious.

Trouble in a skintight suit.

One, young, and with alabaster skin and sparkly eyes, held me snugly.

She wrapped around me in such a lurid manner during our....encounters, I found it almost off putting. I almost blushed whenever she got close.

Almost.

She was an unknown to me.

A chance encounter.

Nothing I could afford.

The other, even younger, was dark, sleek, and naughty.

A bit throaty with a distinct report. She was firmer, quicker, almost cat-like.

Black pather-esque.

Ready for action.

Wildly expensive tastes.

Both were comically unprepared for my world.

A world of three dogs, three sports loving kids, Costco runs, and driving at least one hundred miles a day, in stop and go traffic usually.

The funny thing is, mid affair, I ran into my other, regular, 'nearly ex'. The nearly ex sat patiently, lovingly. Ready. Sturdy. Roomy. Dependable.

A known quantity.

Affordable.

Lightly used.

4 doors, 6 cylinder. 26.9 miles per gallon.

With two to three more cup holders than either of the vixens.

Funny how the addition of a cup holder, or lack of same, can bring things into perspective. The dark beauty, the 2009 M6, has one and only one cup holder.

Mind you, it is the penultimate cup holder, of a style and composition as one would expect from a bit of MOMA gift store sculpture. But, there is only one.

One cup holder?

That's it?

The pale one, an arctic white M5, had two cup holders. Surely that is enough for Duchess and I to imbibe our java safely.

Yet, ke-4, jct-8, and hk-11 all are consummate hydrators.

They all know the saying 'Clear pee is happy pee.'

And they cheerfully repeat it, usually at the wrong time and place.

Yet, when shoehorned into the back seats of either M5 or M6, they are without their requisite cup holders. We gotta have a place for all the sippys.

And we need a huge mileage range, to avoid daily fill ups. And trunkspace. And it has to be cost effective. Both of the mgirls cost as much as a starter house.

That is the tip of the ice burg. My affair has been an empty one, and I look forward to turning in the comically impractical yet elegant super model type cars, and getting back to something more....practical.

I am through affairing.

No mas.

I am glad I started with my trophy wife, as opposed to waiting 20-30 years and then getting remarried to one.

An unknown quantity.

And I think of the past several thousand miles as a wake up call. 'Love the one you're with.'

That few thousand miles, and the break up of a couple of old friends.

Not ready to discuss that yet, if ever. But you know who you are.

The teachable moment is in this chestnut- 'Love the one you're with.'

And, you can grow old together, or grow old apart.

Together is better.

In the day to day issues of the practical, growing together is.

Be it car, wife, house, job, boat, mower, or that spiffy goth chick from the Decemberists,whatever you fancy, although the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, the mundane issues still raise their subtle heads.

Cup holders, seat belts, access in and out. Love, organizational skills, sense of humor, empathy, sharp wit.

Pluck and cheek.

Those things will always trump in the long run.

Sheer beauty- at a distance, elegance of line, seconds to 100, and complex electric doodads are surface things that altogether improve one's driving experience, are hollow victories.

And will only result in heartbreak.

Friends, I was the flighty one, in my old, and now stopped, vapid advice. Do not look at the glass as half empty, look at it half full. It does sometimes work out, and it can, if you are willing and able to try.

Only the 'birds and busses' claptrap is destined to fail.

 I take it back, folks. You can work it out.

HK-11 has been a increasing joy as his taste buds refine.

He started life pretty much all milk, all the time.

Hold please---I am not knocking mother's milk, so don't be alarmed.

It is fresh, delivered warm, got those great containers, and basically free. But there is no bonding there for the father- son thing. Sure, the mother gets a great amount of bonding in, be she has had the franchise on bonding for the previous nine months.

Time to let Daddy in for a bit of the bonding work.

When he got his first 'free personal pan pizza' coupon for something at school, he showed his first true colors when he asked for an anchovy pizza.

I said   'Piassano! Dat's my boy! '  and high fived Luigi.

I had a kindred spirit!

Since then, there have been long and complex conversations around roux theory.

Dark, light, and the hated slurry.

Sausages are always on the front burner. Chorizo, Andouille, bratwurst, apple chicken, and Italian fennel are almost always freshly grilled and in the arms reach of a growing boy.

Grilling has become a special topic of interest of late. I have recently made the switch to real charcoal, away from gas, and have been roundly supported by the lad. He has become my grill helper, rounding up loose bits of the newspaper to load the coal starter can. That is no easy task, as we have been digital for some time and there is rarely a dead tree edition of a newspaper around.

HK even came to my defense on a very soggy day when I just could not get a good bed of coals until 2130. Duchess fumed and ate late,while HK explained all the fire issues we had. Then he said it was worth the wait. Bless him!

The latest event takes the cake. As the release of High School Musical part 3 neared, Duchess insisted upon preordering opening night tickets, front and center. As I was working up the Fandango order HK-11 says, 'Not interested.'

I trolled for other shows at the same time, but nothing clicked for him. 'Let Mommy take the littles, let's do something else.'

Sounds like boys night to me- I'm game!

'Tell me more about that dilapidated little burrito with the paint peeling off the sign up in Boiling Springs. The one that makes the tortillas fresh to order and has the crispy edge roast beef burritos as big as a sugar sack..... Can we go there Friday night?'

'Piassano! Dat's my boy! '

 Yep, we have much much much to be thankful for!

I feel like the poster child for a proud pappa campaign.

I could just flippin pop with pride.

Why?

Several of my nearest and dearest friendsandrelations have recently gone online with their bad selves. Some have Linkedin, others Facebooked, a couple of Twitterers (which I have been unable to get working on my phone, I am ashamed to say).

But the biggest and best is the handful of folks I know who have recently taken the plunge into the world of blogging. I wish I could claim fatherhood, or even some slight spark of inspiration.

Just a spark!

Like the Boss said, 'You can't start a fire without a spark.'

 The truth is, they probably saw my fishwrap and said, 'If that nitwit could do it, so can I!'. And I say 'Huzzah to that!' Get writing guys!

Glad to have you here, kindred spirits!

Welcome in friends, I hope to be your biggest reader and supporter.

We have had some interesting discussions this week about the concept of'mashingup' the multiple sites, but I see a value in a unique (but brand consistent) theme to each site-a grown up linked in, a casual face book, a more personal side on the blog, a fastpaced realtime twiter, etc.

But whatever you do, and how ever you do it,you can now connect in ways unthinkable in the past.

Good luck, and happy writing.

And happy connecting, and inspiring.

Authentically!

Things had gotten kinda tense between me and Rhonda Sue. Too much loud time.

I like quiet time.

I had stumbled into the middle of the South Georgia version of the feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys. A girl (Hatfield) had taken a shine to me, and it seemed like a good idea to spend some quiet time with her.

She was plenty quiet.

Rhonda Sue was a McCoy. A loud one, too.
A McCoy who I had recently taught how to load, aim, and shoot a single shot .22, which seemed like a good idea at the time. We lived  far out in the country, and it seemed like something she needed to know.

For self protection.

After a lovely afternoon of quiet time with the Hatfield girl, I pulled into our driveway. There in front of our place I saw a medium size pile of stuff, flames licking up as if it were set on fire.

Funny what goes through your mind when you see your stuff on fire.

'Nice stuff! That looks like stuff I would like. Wonder who would burn up such neat stuff? Is that a Nagle print? She's dreamy! Great frame, too. Such a great fire, wonder if they used a starter fluid or built it with kindling.'

All these thoughts were overrun by the sight of Rhonda Sue, kicking out the dilapidated screen door, getting her dainty little feet positioned perfectly, and lowering the sights of that .22 on me.

She had a great eye.

She got off 3 rounds. 2 hit my car.
I could have handled the break up better, I admit that.

But with her cracking off rounds like Annie Oakley, it was my time to move out.

I prefer the silence, not the ping ping ping of an angry exgirlfriend.