Inspired by the beautiful weather of late, and the latest Keeble Mix CD in the car, this summer is now right where it should be.
I love making mix-tapes/CDs/playlists and while I have been criticized for sacrificing the "flow" for the quality of track, I have managed to create a mix currently playing in the car that appeals to myself, my 6-year-old and my 4-year-old in equal measure. Some highlights include (and this list demonstrates the eclectic qualities of a Keeble Mix):
Kids: MGMT - appropriately enough, my kids love it. But what's not to love about it?
Blitzkrieg Bop: The Ramones - one of my son's favorites, but again, the sun is shining, the windows and down, who wouldn't want to sing "Hey, ho, let's go!"?
Tom Hark: The Piranhas - this song has been with me for many a year, partly as a song that makes you move your feet, partly as a football chant from the Motherland. But my son loves it. He even says: "'olideee" like you're supposed to.
Hot 'N' Cold: Katy Perry - my ringtone. And the kids haven't asked what PMS means, so I'm getting away with it.
Sixteen Tons: Tennessee Ernie Ford - the fingerclicking is the cherry on top.
That's Not My Name/Shut Up And Let Me Go: The Ting Tings - such singalong fun, but also because we are so damn cool.
Human: The Killers - are we human or we dancer? You tell us.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
This Summer Sucks - Part 107,081,407
Today, amid beautiful sunshine, I made the effort (cutting appointments short, making a portable lunch for a child that only eats three foods and I only had one of them on hand, as an alternative to clearing up the wreckage of the car-making/cardboard box butchering that currently litters the living room) to take my 4-year-old to the town lake to swim. No sooner were we settled and lapping up the rays when the skies darkened and thunder rolled in, followed by a huge downpour.
I was reliably informed that it rained in our area on 23 of June's 30 days this year. What a waste of a good month. The weather forecast on every day for at least five weeks has been "chance of thunderstorms."
Come on, man.
I was reliably informed that it rained in our area on 23 of June's 30 days this year. What a waste of a good month. The weather forecast on every day for at least five weeks has been "chance of thunderstorms."
Come on, man.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Thoughts On A Tuesday
* So, the book is out there. Very exciting. If you want to buy it, you can do so by clicking here. I hope to get my own copy today, as others have told me theirs have shown up. I am excited, sure, but to have a copy in my hand will be pretty great.
* Does anyone not see that the guy that announces what the NY Lottery jackpot is in the TV ads always covers his mouth when he says the amount so they can re-use the ad all the time? Probably not, but if they did... well, I guess I just spoiled it for them.
* My daughter has two loose teeth. Better pick up some change on my errands today. Set the bar low - a shiny quarter should do it, right Teetherbell the Fairy?
* How come I didn't see Transformers 2 yet?
* Soccer twice a week is going to hurt, but it's going to be great.
* Did I mention the book?
* July 4th being on a Saturday is a jip. That said, it will be fun, even if it rains.
*
* Don't think I'm wishing the summer away - heaven forbid - but I can't wait for football to start. Or, come to that, "football."
* Does anyone not see that the guy that announces what the NY Lottery jackpot is in the TV ads always covers his mouth when he says the amount so they can re-use the ad all the time? Probably not, but if they did... well, I guess I just spoiled it for them.
* My daughter has two loose teeth. Better pick up some change on my errands today. Set the bar low - a shiny quarter should do it, right Teetherbell the Fairy?
* How come I didn't see Transformers 2 yet?
* Soccer twice a week is going to hurt, but it's going to be great.
* Did I mention the book?
* July 4th being on a Saturday is a jip. That said, it will be fun, even if it rains.
*
* Don't think I'm wishing the summer away - heaven forbid - but I can't wait for football to start. Or, come to that, "football."
Friday, June 19, 2009
Brian
In honor of Father's Day, I wanted to write something about my dad, Brian. But where to start?
We didn't start out on the best of terms. I was born during an England v Scotland soccer international. Even worse, Scotland won. But I was soon forgiven. In fact, my dad has never mentioned it.
My dad has always been a giant. He left high school and became a builder. His calloused hands and huge muscles, with shaved blond head saw him mistaken for a German - especially when on vacation in the Med with his blond-haired, blue eyed children. But he is a gentle giant, with a rare wit, and a creature of habit and simple pleasures.
My mother was a night nurse, so every morning my dad would wake me with a cup of milky tea and take me to the neighbors (until I was about 7 - then I would stay home and head off to school myself) before heading off to work himself at about 6:30am. I asked him when I was about 19 why the tea he made always tasted better than my mom's. His reply: "I always put three sugars in it." That will do it. When he got home, 12 hours later, he would always ALWAYS greet me with a playful smack over the head with his rolled-up copy of The Sun.
(In a side note here, my son told me he doesn't want to grow up because then I wouldn't be able to give him playful smacks on the head. I wasn't even aware that I had been doing so.)
Being a builder meant his body was old before its time. I regret not being interested in football (soccer) until he was too beat up to go have a kick-around with me. When I was at my physical prime, his back was shot and both his knees were a mess. He was still 15 years from retirement.
His pleasure - still now - comes from sitting back and watching TV, particularly football/soccer. He will watch any game at any time. He also likes action movies ("silly films" he calls them.) One of my favorite stories is the time I came back from the pub to find him watching Robocop... in German (our satellite picked up European stations.) The following conversation went something like this:
Me: What's this?
Dad: Robocop.
Me: It's in German.
Dad: Yeah... bloody good film though.
Me: But it's in German.
Dad: ... it's Robocop.
When my passion for football/soccer (I'm going to stop that now and call it football) reached his and exceeded it, at a time in my life when the majority of my salary and vacation time was spent on following my team up and down the country, I would call him on the way home from a game. It went something like this:
Me: Great game today, Dad.
Dad: Yeah... I watched it on the telly. I'm home now with a cup of tea.
Me: It was great being there seeing it live...
Dad: But it's over now, and I'm home. See you in two hours.
Me: Hmmm...
Again, as a creature of habit he would make hamburgers for lunch every Saturday and we would eat them watching the wrestling on telly. Then, every Saturday night (and I'm sure this still happens now) he would make chips. Proper chips. Peeling the potatoes and cutting them up. I would stumble home from a game on a Saturday night to find him asleep in front of the TV, and he would wake up, throw my pan of chips on and then we would sit and watch Match Of The Day (or Robocop in German.)
He has very few vices. He likes full-strength Coke ("I don't like that diet shit. It's bloody awful.") and sometimes puts a scotch in it. In a pint glass with lots of ice. He likes a beer, usually mixed with 7Up (a shandy for those who didn't know.) He goes to the betting shop, but only ever bets pennies. He taught me how to read form and work out how many bets was in a Super Heinz as a 10-year-old.
And he couldn't do enough for us. He would come home from working on the site all day, six-and-a-half days a week and spend Sunday building a vegetable garden or a flower bed or a brick BBQ. He would spend his rare, rare days off taking me into central London, to Hamleys or some other crazy toy shop, to find elusive Star Wars figures or, later, Transformers. He enjoyed doing it, just like I enjoy doing stuff like that for my kids. Like him, there's not much I would rather do. The day he walked in with a pirated version of Return Of The Jedi, I was so scared for his obvious imminent arrest (that would never come, of course)... but I watched it months before it would appear in the cinemas.
When I see my dad now, I see the same man I have always seen. Yes, he's older, and I'm taller than him now, but he's strong as an ox and sharp as a tack. I wish I could see him more often, but there's an ocean between us. We talk on the phone once a week or so, still talking about football and silly films. Like with the best of friends, we pick up right where we left off, even if we see each other less than once a year.
Part of the reason for that is because I hear him in me. When I talk to the kids, singing stupid songs or giving them little nicknames (I was "Pinky" for the longest time, because when I was born I was the size of his little finger) I hear him doing to the same things to me. I get frustrated by little things, as he did, but enjoy the good times just as he did. I don't need Disneyland to have fun with my kids. And I'm certainly as proud of my kids as he was of me.
When I was 19 I was earning more money than him in my job as a video game reviewer. He wasn't mad, or sad, or melancholy. He was proud. Genuinely proud. The fact I didn't have to wash my hands after work, like he and his four brothers and most of my cousins all had to do, was a sign that I was doing well. That said, he still didn't understand what I was being paid for. "What is it you do?" he would ask. "I sit in an office, play games, and write about them." "OK... but what do you do?" Even when I announced I was moving to the United States from London, he wasn't sad and mad - at least, not overtly. He was proud: "You're doing the right thing," he said, even if it meant going from seeing me every day to seeing me once every 14 months or so.
Here I am, 35 years old and a few days before my sixth father's day and I will accept I am, in many ways, becoming my dad. And I'm very proud of that. Just as proud as he was and is of me.
Thanks, Brian.
We didn't start out on the best of terms. I was born during an England v Scotland soccer international. Even worse, Scotland won. But I was soon forgiven. In fact, my dad has never mentioned it.
My dad has always been a giant. He left high school and became a builder. His calloused hands and huge muscles, with shaved blond head saw him mistaken for a German - especially when on vacation in the Med with his blond-haired, blue eyed children. But he is a gentle giant, with a rare wit, and a creature of habit and simple pleasures.
My mother was a night nurse, so every morning my dad would wake me with a cup of milky tea and take me to the neighbors (until I was about 7 - then I would stay home and head off to school myself) before heading off to work himself at about 6:30am. I asked him when I was about 19 why the tea he made always tasted better than my mom's. His reply: "I always put three sugars in it." That will do it. When he got home, 12 hours later, he would always ALWAYS greet me with a playful smack over the head with his rolled-up copy of The Sun.
(In a side note here, my son told me he doesn't want to grow up because then I wouldn't be able to give him playful smacks on the head. I wasn't even aware that I had been doing so.)
Being a builder meant his body was old before its time. I regret not being interested in football (soccer) until he was too beat up to go have a kick-around with me. When I was at my physical prime, his back was shot and both his knees were a mess. He was still 15 years from retirement.
His pleasure - still now - comes from sitting back and watching TV, particularly football/soccer. He will watch any game at any time. He also likes action movies ("silly films" he calls them.) One of my favorite stories is the time I came back from the pub to find him watching Robocop... in German (our satellite picked up European stations.) The following conversation went something like this:
Me: What's this?
Dad: Robocop.
Me: It's in German.
Dad: Yeah... bloody good film though.
Me: But it's in German.
Dad: ... it's Robocop.
When my passion for football/soccer (I'm going to stop that now and call it football) reached his and exceeded it, at a time in my life when the majority of my salary and vacation time was spent on following my team up and down the country, I would call him on the way home from a game. It went something like this:
Me: Great game today, Dad.
Dad: Yeah... I watched it on the telly. I'm home now with a cup of tea.
Me: It was great being there seeing it live...
Dad: But it's over now, and I'm home. See you in two hours.
Me: Hmmm...
Again, as a creature of habit he would make hamburgers for lunch every Saturday and we would eat them watching the wrestling on telly. Then, every Saturday night (and I'm sure this still happens now) he would make chips. Proper chips. Peeling the potatoes and cutting them up. I would stumble home from a game on a Saturday night to find him asleep in front of the TV, and he would wake up, throw my pan of chips on and then we would sit and watch Match Of The Day (or Robocop in German.)
He has very few vices. He likes full-strength Coke ("I don't like that diet shit. It's bloody awful.") and sometimes puts a scotch in it. In a pint glass with lots of ice. He likes a beer, usually mixed with 7Up (a shandy for those who didn't know.) He goes to the betting shop, but only ever bets pennies. He taught me how to read form and work out how many bets was in a Super Heinz as a 10-year-old.
And he couldn't do enough for us. He would come home from working on the site all day, six-and-a-half days a week and spend Sunday building a vegetable garden or a flower bed or a brick BBQ. He would spend his rare, rare days off taking me into central London, to Hamleys or some other crazy toy shop, to find elusive Star Wars figures or, later, Transformers. He enjoyed doing it, just like I enjoy doing stuff like that for my kids. Like him, there's not much I would rather do. The day he walked in with a pirated version of Return Of The Jedi, I was so scared for his obvious imminent arrest (that would never come, of course)... but I watched it months before it would appear in the cinemas.
When I see my dad now, I see the same man I have always seen. Yes, he's older, and I'm taller than him now, but he's strong as an ox and sharp as a tack. I wish I could see him more often, but there's an ocean between us. We talk on the phone once a week or so, still talking about football and silly films. Like with the best of friends, we pick up right where we left off, even if we see each other less than once a year.
Part of the reason for that is because I hear him in me. When I talk to the kids, singing stupid songs or giving them little nicknames (I was "Pinky" for the longest time, because when I was born I was the size of his little finger) I hear him doing to the same things to me. I get frustrated by little things, as he did, but enjoy the good times just as he did. I don't need Disneyland to have fun with my kids. And I'm certainly as proud of my kids as he was of me.
When I was 19 I was earning more money than him in my job as a video game reviewer. He wasn't mad, or sad, or melancholy. He was proud. Genuinely proud. The fact I didn't have to wash my hands after work, like he and his four brothers and most of my cousins all had to do, was a sign that I was doing well. That said, he still didn't understand what I was being paid for. "What is it you do?" he would ask. "I sit in an office, play games, and write about them." "OK... but what do you do?" Even when I announced I was moving to the United States from London, he wasn't sad and mad - at least, not overtly. He was proud: "You're doing the right thing," he said, even if it meant going from seeing me every day to seeing me once every 14 months or so.
Here I am, 35 years old and a few days before my sixth father's day and I will accept I am, in many ways, becoming my dad. And I'm very proud of that. Just as proud as he was and is of me.
Thanks, Brian.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
2009: The Year The Weather Was Shite
This time last year it was, apparently, sweltering. This time this year I am being left horrifically underwhelmed by the year so far, regarding the climate.
This time yesterday, I was sitting in the park chatting it up with the moms in glorious sunshine. Last night there was a wicked thunderstorm that spawn a shorter-but-just-as-violent sibling at 8am this morning. The rest of the day has been soggy and cloudy. And it's MID-JUNE. First winter didn't want to stop, now summer doesn't want to get going.
I've been spending a lot of time indoors, either at home or at the gym. Next week I get a vacation of sorts when I get a kid-free four days, making up for the last three weeks when I've had at least one child asking me for food/help/when mommy will be home all day, every day.
Other things:
* The book should be done any day. I am supposed to be receiving a copy in the mail, which is fun. Then it goes on sale on Amazon after that.
* Going to the gym and getting in shape is paying off. I feel so much faster when I run and I know my soccer game has improved from "bloody awful" to "bloody awful, but scoring goals regularly." All my clothes are loose, which makes a nice change from Christmas when even my big pants struggled to keep it together. Literally.
* The movie "Up" punches you in the emotion gland for nearly two hours. The last shot of the movie punctures it.
* Karma is real. When something really shitty happens, that makes you lose all faith in your fellow man, something beyond coincidence happens to redress the balance and make you think "there is no way that should have happened, but I'm mighty glad it did."
This time yesterday, I was sitting in the park chatting it up with the moms in glorious sunshine. Last night there was a wicked thunderstorm that spawn a shorter-but-just-as-violent sibling at 8am this morning. The rest of the day has been soggy and cloudy. And it's MID-JUNE. First winter didn't want to stop, now summer doesn't want to get going.
I've been spending a lot of time indoors, either at home or at the gym. Next week I get a vacation of sorts when I get a kid-free four days, making up for the last three weeks when I've had at least one child asking me for food/help/when mommy will be home all day, every day.
Other things:
* The book should be done any day. I am supposed to be receiving a copy in the mail, which is fun. Then it goes on sale on Amazon after that.
* Going to the gym and getting in shape is paying off. I feel so much faster when I run and I know my soccer game has improved from "bloody awful" to "bloody awful, but scoring goals regularly." All my clothes are loose, which makes a nice change from Christmas when even my big pants struggled to keep it together. Literally.
* The movie "Up" punches you in the emotion gland for nearly two hours. The last shot of the movie punctures it.
* Karma is real. When something really shitty happens, that makes you lose all faith in your fellow man, something beyond coincidence happens to redress the balance and make you think "there is no way that should have happened, but I'm mighty glad it did."
Friday, May 15, 2009
My Son's Inappropriate Ode To Popcorn
(to be sung while wiggling ones backside)
Poppy Poppy Poppy Corn!
Porny, Porny, Porny Porn!
Poppy Poppy Poppy Corn!
Porny, Porny, Porny Porn!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Car
I could have written a very different title to this post, but it would have been so expletive-ridden and filled with such venom it would have tainted what I have to write now.
Truth is, I am actually kind of over it now. Over what? Let me explain.
10 days ago, we took the car to a mechanic to fix the problem with it stalling mid-drive. They couldn't fix it. Scratch that, they made it worse (incredibly, I diagnosed they had knocked a hose off so it wouldn't idle at all - I was right.) So, we had little choice but to take it to a dealer.
Sure, they could fix it, but they mistook us for people who could afford to pay to replace everything that was broken with genuine manufacturer parts. Their first quote? Three grand.
That went up to three-and-a-half after a water pump and a timing belt and some other shit.
Then, the coup de grace. Some bolts had sheered off inside the engine... so... a new short block. Or, as I call it, another nearly two grand.
Given this news, on the back of using our tax rebate to get our finances way the hell in order, I went through the five stages of grief with clinical precision:
Denial – I can’t believe this is happening
Anger – Those crooks are ripping us off
Bargaining – It would have been OK if this new charge hadn’t totally screwed us
Depression – we are never going to have money for anything fun ever
Acceptance – but it’s only money, so... Let’s move on.
And really, if we had known the car was in such a mess, and been putting off getting in repaired until we could afford it, we would probably be happy at this point. There's no cosmic force picking on me. It's a car and it needs fixing. That happens to cars sometimes. That's how I'm looking at it. Please don't try and convince me otherwise. I might believe you and go postal on those crook mechanics.
... deep breath....
In other news (as the Yankees continue to battle hard to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in the 12th inning and a thunderstorm on the way) my latest manuscript is ready for the self-publishing factory.
Yes, you read that right. In a few months, I will have a book available on Amazon because I will be putting it there with the help of lulu.com. I am looking forward to it just as much as I was 18 months ago when someone else was going to pay to have my book published. We know how that ended up, but I think this move toward self-publishing will actually help me let go of the disaster that was the first book deal falling through.
I will publish updates and will soon have a brand new www.adamkeeble.com in place. I deleted the old one today with all its references to the old book.
I am so happy to be playing tennis tonight, given the therapy hitting things provides. I will also get home late enough that the rest of the house will be asleep, freeing me up to play Star Wars: Battlefront II or watch The Wire for a couple of hours.
Truth is, I am actually kind of over it now. Over what? Let me explain.
10 days ago, we took the car to a mechanic to fix the problem with it stalling mid-drive. They couldn't fix it. Scratch that, they made it worse (incredibly, I diagnosed they had knocked a hose off so it wouldn't idle at all - I was right.) So, we had little choice but to take it to a dealer.
Sure, they could fix it, but they mistook us for people who could afford to pay to replace everything that was broken with genuine manufacturer parts. Their first quote? Three grand.
That went up to three-and-a-half after a water pump and a timing belt and some other shit.
Then, the coup de grace. Some bolts had sheered off inside the engine... so... a new short block. Or, as I call it, another nearly two grand.
Given this news, on the back of using our tax rebate to get our finances way the hell in order, I went through the five stages of grief with clinical precision:
Denial – I can’t believe this is happening
Anger – Those crooks are ripping us off
Bargaining – It would have been OK if this new charge hadn’t totally screwed us
Depression – we are never going to have money for anything fun ever
Acceptance – but it’s only money, so... Let’s move on.
And really, if we had known the car was in such a mess, and been putting off getting in repaired until we could afford it, we would probably be happy at this point. There's no cosmic force picking on me. It's a car and it needs fixing. That happens to cars sometimes. That's how I'm looking at it. Please don't try and convince me otherwise. I might believe you and go postal on those crook mechanics.
... deep breath....
In other news (as the Yankees continue to battle hard to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in the 12th inning and a thunderstorm on the way) my latest manuscript is ready for the self-publishing factory.
Yes, you read that right. In a few months, I will have a book available on Amazon because I will be putting it there with the help of lulu.com. I am looking forward to it just as much as I was 18 months ago when someone else was going to pay to have my book published. We know how that ended up, but I think this move toward self-publishing will actually help me let go of the disaster that was the first book deal falling through.
I will publish updates and will soon have a brand new www.adamkeeble.com in place. I deleted the old one today with all its references to the old book.
I am so happy to be playing tennis tonight, given the therapy hitting things provides. I will also get home late enough that the rest of the house will be asleep, freeing me up to play Star Wars: Battlefront II or watch The Wire for a couple of hours.
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