Wow. Has it really been two months since my last post?

Yikes.

Earlier this summer, I was proclaiming my blogging mojo to be lost.

I’m pretty sure this is now beyond that. Has my blogging mojo been castrated?

I was thinking the other day, how on earth did I muster up the focus and energy to be in graduate school for the last two years? I can’t even finish a comic book without having to take a break these days.

Is it Twitter’s fault?

I wonder. I find that I don’t have the patience for Facebook anymore. Soon 140 characters will even be too long. Once my patience for Twitter is gone, then what?

Maybe we’ll have to find a shorter, simpler way of communicating that doesn’t require the attention span that Twitter does.

I think I’ll start working on creating that next big thing. Later. Right now I’m off to do something else for a few minutes. And then I’ll go to bed. If I don’t get distracted before that.

I will leave you with a great song and a video by the Minnesota band Low. It’s a bit melancholy, which seems appropriate right now. And, anybody who can rock a single-note guitar solo and make it work is a fucking badass in my book.

To those of you who still come around here: thanks. I’ll keep looking for my mojo.

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Sonny and Michael chasing each other in the hay maze.

Connie watching the craziness of her brothers.

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Is anyone else fascinated with teaching your kids to say funny stuff, for your own amusement? Come on. You know you do it. A buddy of mine had it all set, so that when he would say to his daughter, “Stop!” she’d reply, “Hammer time.”

Brilliant.

When I got home from work yesterday, Raging Mom had taught Sonny to say this:

Which is, of course, based on Deniro’s amazing improvised bit from “Taxi Driver”:

I can’t even tell you how hard I laughed. At least I’m not the only one in this house who gets a kick out of this. Right after “There Will Be Blood” came out, she had Sonny calling out, “I abandoned my boy!” which was really funny, unless you hadn’t seen the movie. Then it was just weird.

Sonny is always more easily used for this kind of twisted humor than either Michael or Connie. Once I almost had Michael rapping “I’m ma-lell-o like ja-lell-o!” in his best Adrock voice, but he just wouldn’t go for it. I guess he’s no high plains drifter.

As soon as my boys were old enough to fit their fingers together, as in the heavy metal devil horns, I’ve been trying to get them do it regularly whenever they hear rock and roll music. This has caught on with Michael, but Sonny thinks it looks more like Spidey shooting out webs than throwing up metal. Ah well.

How’s this for the best statement ever: “You know what I love the most about Daddy? He loves the rock and roll.”

That’s what Michael said to Raging Mom last night. I guess I haven’t totally freaked them out with my strangeness.

For my next trick, thinking we’ll teach them the “Did you fuck my wife?” exchange from “Raging Bull.”

Great idea, right?!

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I have this sore spot inside my left nostril that just kills. Every year, when the summer’s warmth begins to fade and the cooler weather approaches, it opens up with a yawn as if eagerly greeting the day with a toothy smile. Just when I am ready to bid farewell to the smells of summer—charcoal and cut grass—and welcome the scents of rain and moss and the fireplace, that sore spot destroys the smooth intake of breath like a nose full of salt water.

Photo by David Shankbone, courtesy Wikipedia.

Each morning when I wake, the siren song of that sore spot calls to me and I am powerless to stop myself from digging into that thing. It hurts to the point that I’ll often have tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. My finger will quickly remove the excess dust and dried mucus that accumulates in the night. That fucking little sore spot. Is that a scab covering it this morning? Is that a pesky booger? It doesn’t really matter, ’cause that thing has got to go no matter how bad it hurts. Once I get that thing out, I can’t really even tell if it is skin or snot; all I know is that my finger is dirty, my nose is bloody and I am pissed at myself for not leaving it alone.

Then again, it’s kind of comforting to have that spot to focus on. It’s a simple little project, really. Sure it hurts, but it’s a simple pain; it’s cause is clear. I understand it and I figure I can just stop picking at it if I want. But mostly, I’m like whatever, I’m going after that thing today.

I mean, doesn’t every guy have that little spot in his nostril? That tiny little wound that will wake you up if you turn your face into your pillow just right and totally ruin that awesome dream you were having about that killer sandwich and the stacks of Beatles remastered CDs that you totally can afford to buy because you have a fucking million dollars and no one will make you feel bad for spending the money on Beatles CDs that really ought to be spent on swimming lessons for the twins except that you forgot to wake your wife up to call in on the morning that the community recreation district starts taking reservations for the aforementioned swimming lessons because you thought you were being a nice guy but really because of your actions the spaces filled up and now they will either be killed by the undertow or shamed by classmates in the swimming pool because they have to cling to the side of the pool like monkeys but really that’s a moot point because they’ll already get their asses kicked and be recluses because they’ll be targets for bullies for the way they pick their noses in public after learning that it is “appropriate behavior” because their dad is stubborn and selfish and is always picking at the goddamn sore spot in his nose.

You’ve got that sore spot too, don’t you fella? I knew it. It’s nice to know I’m not alone. Maybe I’ll learn how to leave it alone someday so I can enjoy the smell of that lovely breeze.

Song of the day: “Ocean Breathes Salty,” by Sun Kil Moon (Modest Mouse cover).

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Catching a quiet moment while playing with old friends.

Song of the day: “Rainbow Connection,” by Paul Williams and Kenneth Ascher (performed by Willie Nelson).

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One of my criticisms of Portlanders is that they have no fucking idea what a real storm is like. Sure, they get a lot of rain. But so does Minneapolis. Almost the same amount, in fact; Minnesota gets it in huge summer storms instead of the constant dribble that we get in the Pacific Northwest.

On the drive out to Minnesota, we encountered a fantastic rain storm in North Dakota that came out of the blue and plunged our van into an all-but-impenetrable blackness. The pounding rain nearly forced us to pull over, but I was so transfixed by the wild flashes of lightning that I had to press on. To stop seemed to be inappropriate; the lightning wanted a dancing partner, and I wasn’t about to leave her on the floor alone.

After about an hour we began to emerge on the other side of the storm. The rain slowly faded and stopped, and the light returned to the sky. Raging Mom worried about the cars traveling in the other direction, headed into the storm. I’d have driven through it again in a heart beat.

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Raging Mom took this video the other night, following a bona fide Minnesota rain storm. After the rain the lightning danced on for more than 30 minutes. I wish I would have been with her to watch it, the sky wild with electricity  dangerous and beautiful as it noiselessly lit up the sky. Lightning is always better when you have someone to share it with.

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For three weeks my family has been in Minnesota visiting family, while I held down the fort here in Portland. I’m not gonna lie: I was looking forward to this time alone. Sure, the drive to and from our homeland consumed the bulk of my precious Vacation Days. But we all knew that the days and nights away from the responsibilities of herding children was to be my real vacation.

We had initially planned to not travel Home this summer, as it is just too damn expensive to fly with three kids. Then, the idea of an extended trip by van, sans Raging Dad, might be just the ticket. For the cost of one plane ticket we found that Holly and the kids could go back for pretty much as long as they wanted.

And why not stay for a few weeks? Moving out to Portland three years ago, we did three months apart. Why stop at two weeks? Let’s do a month! So we made the drive and I moseyed my fleet-footed self back to enjoy a quiet house.

I have properly spent the time doing my own thing: I ignored the dishes and laundry, I saw a few concerts, I worked on some long-ignored projects, I sat on my ass, I watched nearly every film that Stanley Kubrick ever made.

I’ve enjoyed the time, but I miss my kids. I miss my wife. The house is quiet, but it is too quiet. At first, I noticed that the cats were on edge; they didn’t understand where everyone went. We have these wonderful cats who thrive on the madness that follows my children around wherever they tread. I have come to realize, that like my cats, I too thrive in the madness. It has been too sane.

As Flavor Flav said to Chuck D., “Bring that beat back.”

Today I talked with Raging Mom. She and the kids are ready to come Home too. Yep, I typed that right. Come back here, to Home.

Song of the day: “Dry Lightning,” by Bruce Springsteen.

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Michael loves to get his groove on, and is always asking things like, “Dad, is this rock and roll?”

Lately, he’s been grooving to Michael Jackson, which is evident in these dance moves. He knows the “Beat It” and “Billie Jean” videos by heart. That is Connie bouncing on a trampoline in the background.

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I saw these guys on the Colbert Report last night. Have no frickin’ idea what the track is about, but this Swedish trio brings a whole new element to the white boy rapper genre. Great track! Can’t wait for the Movits! album to be available.

Mommy bloggers usually blog in their panties. I am pretty sure this is true.

At this moment, mommy bloggers from across the country have descended on Chicago for BlogHer, a two-day conference for women who blog to pursue exposure, education, community and economic empowerment, and also to engage in Massive Menstrual Cycle Synchronization (hereafter, MMCS).

Tragically, in a pattern we men know all too well, it is an opportunity that is afforded to women that we men do not benefit from. The few daddy bloggers who show up to BlogHer are generally there because they think there will be chances to oogle horny drunk women (there are surely no such opportunities), or to load up on free swag for giveaways to pad their sitemeter numbers. Tools.

There’s no BlogHim. But hey, that’s okay. I am comfortable with this. For a while I considered trying to go to Chicago for this years’ festivities. I even read some great advice about how to attend BlogHer as a dude. Then my wife put the whammy on that, by prohibiting me from going to BlogHer.*

Instead, I decided to make a couple of badges for my fellow brothers to proudly (or shamefully, hey, I don’t care) show on their blogs. The second one is a little more randy than the other, and I considered not putting it up here, ’cause my wife would totally not approve.*** But she’s out of town and can’t proof this before I post so I’m basically swinging from the rafters in my underwear.

Enjoy!

Classic edition.

Randy edition.

*Note: my wife neither put the whammy on me, nor did she prohibit me from going to BlogHer. But it’s funny to say she did, so I did. Then she made me add this note or she’ll kick my ass.**

**Note: My wife didn’t threaten to kick my ass. But I didn’t want to test her.

***Note: That’s totally true. I love you honey.

Song of the day: “Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night,” by The Hold Steady.

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Connie has begun to carve our her own space in the Raging House. This sign is intended for the boys; not us parents, of course.

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I forgot to post a picture last week, so this is a two-for.

Sonny and Michael, posing outside.

Delilah and Thorn, posing at the window.

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Raging Mom found a giant slug crawling on her pants after pulling weeds in the backyard. The kids put him in a bucket and named him Slugworth.

Yes, I know it is Thursday. Dang these summer days, they all run together.

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I’m starting with the man in the mirror
I’m asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change

Michael Jackson
1958-2009

How very tragic.

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