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."

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.

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."

My Son's Inappropriate Ode To Popcorn

(to be sung while wiggling ones backside)

Poppy Poppy Poppy Corn!
Porny, Porny, Porny Porn!

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.

Love all

I have rediscovered one of the fine sports I grew up playing, and it might just save my sanity.

A few weeks ago, I was unexpectedly called upon to play tennis on a Sunday night to help fill out a doubles game. Having not played in more than 10 years, it was the most fun I had enjoyed in many a month. On the back of this, we hastily assemble a four to play regularly starting next week, and the cherry on top was being called upon again to help out last night.

My love affair with tennis was unavoidable. If I ever get back to the house I grew up in, I will take the time to measure in paces the number of steps it takes from me to get from my old front door to the tennis courts across the street in the park opposite. My estimate would be about 25.

From the first dry day of the year (sometime in April) and all summer long, I would play tennis. It's the rare sport that allows you to work up a sweat but never really be exhausted, even in the many set marathons we would partake in as teenagers. Sunday mornings when I was maybe 10 or 11, I would play mixed doubles with my mum or dad too, although unlike in the games when they weren't around, when the park-keeper came along to collect the payment, my parents would pay him. When it was just us kids, we would run away and hide when we saw him coming, and then when he came back, we would run off again.

There are two misconceptions you are probably assuming at this point:

1) That I am good at tennis. The truth is, I suck. Like every other thing I do, I never bother with the fundamentals and just jump in. So, my backhand is awesome... maybe once in every four swings. I can really put back spin and top spin on the ball... apart from the majority of the time, when I will catch the ball on the metal frame of my racket, or skid the ball harmlessly into the net AGAIN. I have this one move when I will return a volley at the net with my back to the ball and it's pretty much unreturnable... on a ratio of 1:16, the 16 being the times it either hits the net, or drops to the opposing player for a lay-up smash winner.

2) That tennis is a game for rich types who are physically fit and like the straight-laced nature and tradition of the game. Not the way I play it. There wasn't any white on display when we took the court yesterday. I was wearing the same shorts I had played soccer in that morning and a grey football t-shirt, for example. Also, as with every other game I play in, the trash-talking is what made it so enjoyable, and that is a constant that goes back to my games as a teen. Some examples:

"Don't feel bad - nobody could have returned that..."

"Careful! That ball is probably still hot from the ace I just put past you."

"It's OK, I'll only need one ball [as opposed to two to serve with, implying an ace is coming]."

And so on. I'm glad I've been reunited with tennis. With some many memories from my younger years so far away, playing now with a new bunch of friends after a 10-year break genuinely feels like picking up right where I left off with nothing changed.

Son: (playing on DS) "How many points does Mario have?"
Daughter: (stretched over three syllables) Ze-eer-oh.
Son: "Yeah, THAT's what I'm talkin' about!"

I'm OK with the talk being better than the talent. That's being a Keeble right there.

I Need A Haircut

I also need to clear my head. The evidence:

* I am back to waking up at 4am now my insomnia has adjusted to the time change. I am going out late this Friday and maybe that will help put things back in order for a while. Some warm weather wouldn't hurt either, which brings me to...

* What is with this spring? Last year once the cold snap snapped, it was glorious. This year I have counted at least three "ah! Spring!" moments which have actually ended up being "Holy heck! Where did I put my big coat?" moments. 65 degree weekends followed by 28 degree Mondays. What is that?

* While some things on my mind seem to have eased up over time and now are almost funny where they were once concerns that had me unable to sleep, I now have fresh anxieties to bother me. The one most pressing right now is the fact I have the old country song "Blanket On The Ground" ringing in my head and I have no idea where it came from. It wasn't part of, or even relevent to, one of my two epic, easy to remember and interpret dreams (no details, sorry... other than to say neither featured Billy Jo Spears.) I feel like, if you will excuse my Battlestar tendencies for a minute, when the Cylons found themselves hearing "All Along The Watchtower" in their heads. Why this song?

* Since scoring a bunch of goals in January, and now having been working out at the gym for a month and appreciating the difference it has made to the bag of wet sand I call a torso, I have been playing like crap. Goals? Not even close. Confidence on the field? I'm confident I remember where the field is, but once arriving I'm somewhat lacking. I even staried seeing things when I thought I saw someone in the bleachers laughing at me on Sunday. I mean, someone was in the bleachers laughing at something - maybe me - but I thought it was someone I knew. Right before I chased a ball, turned, cut back and fired so inaccurately I'm not sure the ball was ever recovered.

* My writing has not been good of late. I've just pitched a bunch of stories and have things to do that will pay (always good) but creatively, this blog entry is probably the best thing I've written in weeks (not including a funny exchange with a friend on Facebook about Liverpool FC - extremely R-rated harking back to the days when he and I insulted everything and everyone, even things we liked, like one very attractive girl we nicknamed "button mushrooms" and you aren't seeing that.)

OK, it's now 5am and I've been awake for half-an-hour. The familiar pattern will continue tomorrow unless, by some miracle, I can come back to the living room after putting whichever kid I am responsible for putting to sleep to sleep and put on one of the movies sitting by the TV to take me beyond 10pm.

It's been a while...

You might be surprised, considering everything that has happened in the last month, that I haven't posted anything here. Well, it's because a lot of things have been going on and I haven't had the inclination. Sorry. I would promise I will improve, but I don't want to break a promise.

* There is no book news to report. I have been sending pitches that have been vanishing into the abyss. In fact, of all the pitches I have sent, only one bothered to reply with a "sorry, but..." and that was too bad, because I looked the look of them.

* We replaced Heinz Ketchup with Hunt's Ketchup and can now be considered converts. I have taken the concept one step further and now consider Thousand Island Dressing my condiment of choice.

* After a blistering start to the soccer season with a shedload of goals, in the last two weeks I would have struggled to hit the broadside of a barn with a bulldozer. Last week was particularly rubbish.

* The fact I almost never get time to myself is frustrating. Less frustrating is spending quality time with friends, including newer friends I am still getting to know. One particular memory that will stay for a long while was when four of us got together to play tennis, taking the court time from some of our wives. We laughed loud and hearty.

* "There Will Be Blood" - can someone explain how a movie so long and so critically acclaimed can be such crap, and with such a confusing ending. The end of TWBB made the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey seem like the end of Ocean's 11 (that is, where everything was explained clearly and left the viewer feeling satisfied.)

* "Watchmen" on the other hand is amazing. As good a film as I have ever seen.

* I abuse my library often in the quest to find a book that is accessible and suits my frame of mind. The ratio of hits to misses is about 1:4. I am really, really enjoying Eat It by Kenny Shopsin and I liked the new Charlie Huston, although that was a pretty safe bet. Some of the other stuff, even friend's recommendations, just haven't done it for me.

OK, that's all I have. I'm leaving stuff out because it's half-finished and I'd rather write a story that had an end. See you in a month (but hopefully less.)

Gym'll Fix It

After doing zero exercise for six weeks straight (seriously, the most exertion I managed was walking around the Pathmark and forgetting I needed bananas when I was all the way over by the milk) I am back on track again thanks to a change in the weather and a gym membership.

The weather had conspired to freeze my "church" - the outdoor turf field where I spend my Sunday mornings playing soccer. I managed one game on the first Sunday in January when a good part of the field was still covered in ice and one poor player slipped and tore his MCL (which needed surgery, crutches, a cast, the whole nine yards.) From then until just this last week the field was either totally covered in snow and ice or I was out of town. I played this Sunday and the creaks and steam-hisses coming from all the players' joints was palpable. Still, it felt great to be out there.

A few weeks too late, we took up an offer of a free month at a local gym. I have known I've been out of shape for some time, but always believed it was fixable - just... you know, I'll fix it later. The gym has opened my eyes and got my excited about dropping some baggage and getting ready for summer.

The first trip back after several years of skipping the treadmill was a little painful and intimidating, but this gym is pretty great. Most people are normal there, give or take one or two women who are perma-tanned, boob-jobbed and hold court with four of their friends as they lift six ounce weights and sip their fat-free lattes. There's also a lot of people I know that go there, but none I hang out with other than when we find ourselves in the same place. This is a good thing.

Those of you that follow my facebook antics will know this, but an exchange took place yesterday which left my very confused. As I walked between two women working out on weight machines, one said to the other: "Do you watch Desperate Housewives?" and nodded at me. What was she trying to say? Here are some of my initial thoughts?

Q. "Do you watch Desperate Housewives? "

... because he clearly does.
... because he looks like he would get a lot out of it.
... but before you answer, let's wait until that guy walks away because it's a secret.
... because I think I look like Teri Hatcher, but I don't want that guy to hear me say that (she didn't. Not even close.)
... hey! I'm talking to you! DO YOU WATCH DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES? Ah, he's walked off.

The best situation I can come up with is that I look a very, very, very little bit like one of the male (I hasten to add) characters. But if I hadn't gone to the gym, I wouldn't have found that out. The gym just keeps on giving! I'm going back right now to learn some more and work on the guns!

Glory, Glory Aston Villa

I had wanted to write a blog entry about Aston Villa for a few days now. A few minutes ago, I heard about the death of Paul Birch, a member of the Villa squad that I first fell in love with in 1989, so it seemed more relevant now than ever.



Growing up, my dad's family got together at my grandparents house every other Sunday afternoon. My dad is one of five brothers, and they would bring their families for an afternoon of poker (the dads) or knitting (the mums.) From the early days to when I was about 10 or 11, I would play with cars or Star Wars figures or whatever. From 12-14, I would do my homework or goof around with my younger cousins (much younger - they were just 3 or 4.) But when I was 15, I would either play poker with money from my paper round, or watch TV (or not come at all and stay home.) One such fateful afternoon in 1989, I was sat watching the football on the telly. Until that point, I was pretty indifferent to football. I liked to play it, and liked Liverpool to the extent that everyone liked one team or another and they were still seen as a mighty force. I even had a HITACHI sponsored shirt for a while, but my fanship was more to do with the fact my next door neighbor and best friend Chris was a BIG Liverpool fan, and I looked up to him like a big brother for many years.

Anyway, back to my nan's house. Aston Villa were playing Everton in the big Sunday afternoon game, and I'm watching, thinking how cool the Villa players looked. Beyond the claret and blue shirts, white shorts, they had some really fun players to watch. David Platt was on the verge of the England team. Tony Daley was lightning fast on the wings. Paul McGrath was so solid in defense and made it look so easy. Paul Birch probably played that day, running around like a crazy person on the opposite wing to Daley.

I got drawn in deeper when Brian Moore, the commentator on the day said: "Cowans is through, he's got Platt alongside him... IT'S A GOAL! A brilliant goal by Gordon Cowans!" The final score was Aston Villa 6 Everton 2. I was hooked. On the drive home, I asked my dad where Aston Villa played their home games. Unlike the majority of teams in the country, they are not just known by their home town name - Liverpool, Manchester United, Newcastle. They are more like a London-based team - Tottenham, Leyton Orient, Millwall - named after a smaller region within a greater city's suburbs. Turns out they were from Birmingham in the West Midlands, about 100 miles or so from where I lived.

It didn't matter. On Monday morning at school, I announced I was a Villa fan. It was cool with everyone, even though the closest league team to me was Watford, the closest top-division team was Queens Park Rangers, and the fact my dad was a Spurs supporter.

That season, Villa finished second in the title race to Liverpool. In the summer of 1990, England went to Italy for the World Cup Finals. David Platt ended up in the midfield and scored a particularly memorable goal against Belgium to take England through to the quarter finals (they would eventually lose to Germany on penalties.)

That fall I started college, and thus began a period I call my "lost years." I wore a lot of black, topped with a black leather jacket over a Villa shirt. I had stopped taking my education seriously.

By 1993, I was working as a journalist and using all the cash I had to follow Aston Villa up and down the country (despite a "home" game for me being two hours on a train. "away" games in London just meant a short trip on the underground.)

For the next few years, until 1996, I hardly missed a game. I belonged to a hardcore band of fans in London and we travelled to games together. I made some great friends, experienced some amazing times and some truly spectacular matches (including two Cup Final wins at Wembley.) I was even the head usher at a wedding between two friends of mine, Phil and Julie, (who met because of their mutual love of Villa) at Villa Park.

Then, in 1999, I moved over here. Following Villa was obviously a little harder, what with there now being 2,000 miles and a huge expanse of water between Villa Park and myself. Nobody else I worked with was going out of their way to watch games on TV at Irish pubs at 10am like I was. I can't say my passion faded, but it was harder to keep it up without constant reminders.

Paul Birch's sad death, coupled with the fresh memory of the Villa game that was live on TV this Saturday was a refreshing reminder of how much the team means to me. When the crowd chants went up, I remembered being in the middle of it, arms aloft, cheering on the team. When I was at my peak of following the team, the best chant was to one of the best Villa players I ever saw (sung to the tune of New York, New York funnily enough.)

"Start spreading the news,
He's playing today,
I want to see him score again:
Dwight Yorke, Dwight Yorke.
If he can score from there
He'll score from
Anywhere,
It's up to you, Dwight Yorke, Dwight Yorke!
De-der-der-der-der, de-der-der-der-der."

On Saturday, I got a shiver when I heard the fans singing on the return of my current favorite player, John Carew (to the tune of Que Sera, Sera:)

"John Carew, Carew,
He's bigger than me or you,
He's going to score one or two,
John Carew, Carew."

He didn't, but it didn't matter. It was a beautiful sound and took me back to the days when I would have been there, part of something that's taken place for more than 100 years and will be there when my son is my age. Yes, football is just a game, but I love it and I love Aston Villa because for all I have given to it, it has given so much back. Thank you too, Birchy.

Adventures At The Dollar Store

Dollar stores serve a purpose in life. If you can get over the smell that prevails in all of them, a musty stink of bargain and old people, there are pure gems to be discovered. Photo frames for a buck? Me likey. Food and toothpaste? Not so much.

And then there's stuff like this:



I took the photo with my phone, so I apologize for the quality. However, I make no apology for the quality of the product it depicts. It appears to have once been an army commando, that would be wound up and then crawl across the carpet brandishing its rifle.

But now it has become Bat Superman, a cross between two of the world's greatest super heroes... that is wound up and then crawls across the carpet brandishing its rifle.

The Batman it depicts on the packaging is from long before actor Christian Bale took up the cowl. This Batman is the 1995 version played by Val Kilmer in Batman Forever. And consider this product is being billed as a hybrid, where is the reference to Superman (other than in the product name?) Is there a big "S" anywhere on the toy? Or a red cape? Nope, just gold flames up the thighs, a gold variation of the Batman symbol, and an M-16 machine gun (something that neither Batman or Superman would never, ever consider wielding.)

Also, consider the slogan: "COME ON! ENJOY THE PLEASURE TOGETHER!" Does said wind-up toy double as a marital aid? Perhaps just the slogan doubles as a slogan on a dollar store marital aid (that frankly would be right up there with food and toothpaste as something I would rather pay full price for, thanks) ? I'm just glad it comes with a spare machine gun, because it wouldn't be the same if the first one got lost.

Of all the things I actually did buy at the Dollar Store (gift wrap - it just gets torn up anyway, but I had to be careful to avoid the 2007 Graduation gift wrap) and two coloring books (that just get torn up eventually after they've been scribbled in), I feel the real pleasure was finding this hanging on the rack.

So, you know, I thought I would share it so we could ENJOY THE PLEASURE TOGETHER!

Quick Christmas Story

This is how my Christmas morning started:

4:30am Son comes into our bedroom and asks to go downstairs to see if Santa came. Wife agrees he can.

4:31am Son comes back up to say the cookies left out for Santa are just crumbs. Wife asks if he left any gifts downstairs. Son runs off to check.

4:32am Son returns to say the stockings by the fireplace are full. Wife asks if there were any gifts under the tree. Son runs off to check.

4:33am Son heard to gasp, followed by the sound of paper being rustled and gifts being opened. Wife jumps out of bed and is met by daughter in the hallway. They head downstairs to stop son opening everything. Sister-in-law, who is visiting for the holiday, heads downstairs too. The thumping sound on the stairs means Christmas 2008 is a "go."

4:34am My eyes open.

4:35am More thumping on the stairs, this time the unmistakable sound of two adults and two children running back up them.

4:36am I am informed that, along with the gifts Santa delivered for us, our cat Luigi had left a gift of a dead mouse in the living room. A dead mouse I am now being called upon to clean up.

4:37am Christmas morning is less than six minutes old, and I am cleaning up a corpse.

It doesn't stop there. Naturally, not being dressed, I took Squeaky RIP to the backdoor and tossed him out into the yard as far as I could without going out into the snow with no shoes or pants on. Two days later, Squeaky was still laying on top of the snow, perfectly preserved as if placed in the fridge. Which he was, of a fashion. This unfortunately meant I had to clean up more, although that really just meant tossing his tiny body a little further down the yard on to a patch where the snow had melted.

Let's hope it's a good one, without any more dead rodents to deal with.

Blog Entry From The Future

Holiday Greetings, and best wishes for a Happy 2029!

I hope this Christmas Holographic Message finds you in good spirits. I realize there probably isn't too much in here you don't already know - I mean, our reality show is broadcast 24 hours a day, as are most of yours! - but here's a series re-cap of sorts just to keep you all informed.

Patrick has excelled in the NFL since graduating from Rutgers and setting all those rushing records. He turned down offers from the Cyborg Football League and the Steroid Football League to stay "au naturale" and signed with the New York Giants. It wasn't that the CFL's New Jersey Microprocessors Sponsored By AOL didn't offer more money. In fact, their $38 gazillion offer was one of the lowest we got (including the SFL's Receding Scrotal Sacs Sponsored By Viagra's offer which included a plot of land of Mars for a vacation home) but we decided to go with tradition over cash in the end.

Penny has found work harder to come by since curing cancer last year. There just that many diseases around any more since Dr. Keeble-Broderick came along. Even Matthew and Sarah Jessica are frustrated when they are forever fielding calls for Penny from their Hollywood friends - even after Penny won that Oscar in the 2019 remake of Pretty In Pink.

And as for Jason... he graduates Archer next year and remains a glowing endorsement for modern day parenting science and a bitter reminder that even vasectomies performed by the very best robot surgeons aren't 100% perfect. Now pre-school has been condensed to just one year and a series of Intelligence Injections, we don't mind paying the matter transporter fees to take him back and forth from the city twice a week.

Gwen's Nobel Prize for her work transforming NYC into a city powered entirely by potatoes was certainly a highlight. The constant smell of french fries wafting over the river doesn't bother us - but we're told it drifts as far as the old hood in Allendale some days. We often wonder about the old house, but someone told us it was knocked down 10 years ago when the projects expanded. Who would have thought Allendale would replace Newark as the car theft capital of the world?

As for me, the book business has remained strong and has really boomed since my last novel "Love In The Time of Avian Bird Flu" broke all records. Who would have thought every man, woman and child alive would have bought three copies each? And those rumors about people traveling through time just to buy a copy from the past? All true!

Anyway, seasons greeting, I hope RoboSanta Sponsored By Coca-Cola brings you all you can legally request under President Clinton's tough new laws. Ah, sweet Chelsea! You used to be so cool! ... wait, no, I was just kidding around. Yes, I know it's against thought laws and I could be... yes... 10 years? For just saying... well... let me sign off at least... take your hands off me! Don't you know who I am??

AK

Shirt outta luck

The latest drama at the New York Giants is my fault. Sorry.

Here's the thing. Every time I buy a new Giants shirt with a name on the back, something terrible happens. So terrible I can't really wear the shirt again. In fact, now I think of it, it's not just Giants jerseys either.

A few years ago, a friend of mine was having a birthday just ahead of his Eagles playing in the Superbowl. We decided ("we" being a group of guys that would get together and play video games once a month) to get him a Terrell Owens jersey as a birthday gift. You know, because we're good friends. As you might remember, Owens got hurt and played in the big game pretty much on one leg, the Eagles lost, Owens got mad and started pissing everyone off wanting more money and he was eventually traded to the Cowboys, making him an instant hate figure among the Eagles faithful.

Anyway, back to my shopping habits/career-ending Giants incidents. Back in 2000 I bought a Jason Sehorn jersey - my first Giants jersey. A few weeks later he was involved in an infamous play where he stopped chasing a certain opposition player because his pants started falling down. He was traded not long after that.

Tiki Barber - surely a lock, and a Giants favorite forever? Not after I bought my special edition Barber jersey. I got it just ahead of the Giants Superbowl against the Ravens. Not only did the Giants lose, but Tiki suddenly forgot how to hang on to the ball and he fumbled his way through the next few months. He soon got a reputation as a bad influence in the locker room, badmouthing new QB Eli Manning, and decided to retire young (which I don't blame him for - he got beat up for years and wanted to enjoy his immense wealth while he wasn't in a wheelchair.) That said, he managed to undo all the good will he had earned from Giants fans with his acrimonious exit and my shirt is worth half what it used to be (at its peak, people would stop me in the parking lot and offer me cash for it.)

Again, I managed to end the career of another fan favorite when I bought a Jeremy Shockey jersey. Again, everyone loved Shockey. Oppostion fans hated him, and yes, he was an ass, but he was OUR ass. Unfortunately, on the 2008 Superbowl run he got injured and the Giants kept winning without him. He didn't like that, and soon he was traded to New Orleans and became a Giants pariah.

Plaxico Burress caught the winning pass in the Superbowl. How could I fail with a Burress jersey? He played the whole of last season's SB run injured and kept scoring touchdowns. And yet, after I bought his shirt, his lax habits got worse, and following a suspension this season there now follows all this unpleasantness with a gun.

I pledge my next jersey will be a throwback. History can't come back and bite me on the Jeremy Shockey. Meanwhile, what to wear to the game this Sunday?

Getting A Grip

So I'm finally in a position where I don't feel like I'm drowning. "Half-ashore" would be close. "But coughing and spluttering sea water."

I was so overwhelmed by the kids going back to school, I don't even know where to start talking about it. Every day, my daughter's school bag has been coming home with another form asking for another check for something we know nothing about. And the dash from picking up my son and driving across town to get my daughter from a different school became akin to something out of the Wacky Races.

Now, on a day when the weather has turned from 60 and sunny to wet, windy and freezing do I feel capable enough to actually comment on just how insane the last months has been.

I am so glad, despite the ridicule and envy it has created, that I am as good as done with my Christmas shopping. During the summer I made a little money with some magazine articles, so I spent it all on stuff for the family. I might even get packages sent back to England before Valentines Day when it has traditionally shown up.

No other big news to talk of (ie. no book coming out imminently) but hopes remain high for the thing I am about to finish, and the thing I will pick up again after that.

So...

... this is going to be a difficult post, because I don't want to actually say anything.

But! I am close to finishing my second (sigh!) manuscript, and some exciting stuff is starting to get underway. I have about 3,000 words to write which will bring me to a smaller-than-I-would-have-thought total, but I want to allow for illustrations and photos (shhhh!) and I should be done inside two weeks.

We have family visiting starting tomorrow, which can only hinder my already verging-on-pathetic update rate, but let's all remember that school starts on September 4 and with it comes the promise of mornings with no kids on a regular basis for the first time in months.

Unfortunately, September is a double-edged-sword as Labor Day draws in signifying the unofficial end of summer. And that prospect sucks, as I note my tan is already fading somewhat. Cold weather just doesn't work for me.

And so we came to the end

So, after some craziness of a family vaction, and on the cusp of more of the same, I have a week to breathe.

We just spent a week in Maine with a lot of in-laws and kids. The beauty of the kids staying out of our hair and playing together with little supervision was unsurpassed. So was the amount of beer consumed.

This time next week, my own parents arrive for a week or so. And on the day they leave, I have to do another one of those pre-school meeting things (my first as President) and also take my daughter to her first day at "big school."

All this means my wit-well is bone dry and I feel like I am hungover, even when I am not.

Parent Paper Again

Here's the article in this month's PP. It coincides nicely with everything else that's coming together about this particular project. That's all I'm saying.

What?? And yet, YAY!

This is some of the dumbest, and yet potentially greatest, news I have heard in ages.

I don't mean "greatest" because either movie will be any good if they get made, but I mean greatest from a pure marketing point of view for my latest writing project, which is two weeks from completion of the second draft. This coincides with Monday's release of an essay, published in a parenting magazine, to further heat up the potential casserole.

Now, where did I put Punky Brewster's address? (I'm serious... she and two other cult stars will be getting a letter from me in the next few weeks.)