We've run out of real problems; we're allowed to like toys.

Nerf, the company that filled my childhood with fantasies of intense gun slinging battles full of slow-motion doves, car-hood slides, and bullet proof bravado, has created a line of toy guns marketed specifically to me (I'm assuming), Nerf: Rival. Nerf figured out that the Nerf guns I had as a kid got no where near slaking my lust for being John McClane. In fact, if anything was true of my experience with Nerf as a child it's this; I did not give two skittles about their sports line (hey look! a miniature soft football with super spiral capabi....oh wait, I don't like footbasketball) and their guns - what I REALLY wanted, all the time - were supremely misrepresented in their marketing campaigns. Take a look at the epic amounts of misrepresentation below;

Despite the fact that most of my "legendary" Nerf battles as a child ended with someone yelling, "you're too far away, I can't hit you...this sucks, let's play Nintendo," we still had fun. Not the fun you see in the commercial, with arrows flying straight, flying further than 5 feet, and not requiring 15 minutes a piece to load (and apparently these kids have full size target cut-outs of their closest friends, which is definitely something I'm on board with). I am getting away from the whole reason for this post, however. I recently read an article about the "Peter Pan" market, and this came maybe 3 hours after my boys and I watched the live-action Peter Pan (2003), which is the kind of coincidence that is so lame it seems like something an 11th grader would write into their play about "all the emotions." I was blasted from multiple cultural mediums in less than 24 hours with the very modern problem of wrestling my inner desire to be a full grown 12-on-the-inside-year-old with enough money and ingenuity to create my own at home version of Neverland, full of Star Trek posters, fifteen different types of video games, a fridge full of soda, and racks upon racks of Warheads with my responsibility as a Father/Husband/American-Cheese-Burger to be not a 12 year old. 

I guess what I'm attempting to say is that I saw some great friends from a long-time back this past weekend and it made me realize that we've written the rules for adulthood in very black and white terms, even in this day and age; you're either a 'Peter Pan" who has refused to accept the adult world of budgets, storage units, and bowel regulation or you're "mature" and thus incapable of recalling the joy that accompanies doing anything that doesn't involve the words "success," "dress slacks," or "aggressive banking." And yes, I realize that there are tons of scientists and the-rapists therapists who preach balance and moderation, but it always seems to be in an either/or frame of mind. There is a time and place to be an adult with responsibilities and a totally different time and space to be "young at heart." It's also entirely possible I'm talking out of my butthole and have missed all the influential work of some super-genius who has already asserted this very thesis, but they suck and my article is better. Seeing these friends made me realize that if you're a real live boy, you can be both a mature person and fun at the same time (STOP THE PRESS!!). 

I hadn't seen many of these friends in over 8 years, but like true old friends we fell right back into old jokes and our own *unique* brand of immature banter. But...it wasn't the "revertigo" I've heard referenced before by...some TV show (probably). It was more nuanced and our conversations flowed seamlessly between hilariously simple jokes about a T-Rex being unable to swear in on the Bible in a court of law and intelligent mature conversations about gender-constructs and what it means to be a good manager (which sounds pretentious because it is and sometimes "adult" and "pretentious" are synonyms). I'm probably walking you, my dear reader, down a perhaps too familiar path, but I do feel a slight obligation to remind myself (and anyone brave enough to read this pinball article) that we all have a little Peter Pan in us the ability to be young at heart and "grown-up" at the same time. This has probably been said before, especially in our quasi new-agey stay-in-touch-with-everything culture, but it was refreshing to be around people who have grown, yet not lost their inner Nerf warrior. To them, and to those out there who understand that real adults like Lego's, I just wanted to say...thanks for existing.

My sincerest apologies for being cringe worthy sappy for yet another unfortunate post in a  blog that is still trying to pretend it's not about me. 

Stardust

Warning: I may start waxing poetic at any moment within the confines of this post, and this is bad, because I can be extremely cheesy. Second Warning: I am comfortable in disclosing that I hold-maybe-a fifth graders level of understanding concerning astrophysics, "maths," physics-physics, and intergalactic diplomacy. Suffice it to say, everything I learned about outer-space comes from watching episodes of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" after school in grades 3 through yesterday. A recent news piece got the my wheel spinning though (yes, I only have one wheel, and it does me just fine thank you very much). If you worry yourself to tears every night over the probably-maybe-impending-nigh-times, then you should jam your fingers in your eyes RIGHT NOW because the next few lines may send you into a non-cheeseburger induced cardiac episode.


Is everyone who is still here finger-in-eye free? Ok, here it goes. Scientists have recently discovered that the Universe, the whole cotton-pickin' thing, is going to end (in approximately 100 billion to 1 trillion years)! This isn't exactly a revelation (see what I did there) to some folks, but what caught my attention is how scientists now think it will happen. Is the Universe set to stop expanding and reverse course, ending in a a giant Universe crunching calzone? Nope. Is "The Final Count-Down" going to start blaring from everywhere in the ether at once while humanity makes it's final rock thrusts amidst flaming asteroids (meters? meteorites? "dwarf" planets?), supernovae and aliens with lazers, blazers, and Tazers? Sadly no, it will be much less dramatic. In fact, the new end that scientists have predicted will be the most undramatic thing in...ever (literally). A lot like if there were some kind of grand cosmic opposite to MTV's Real World. Yes, that is the most recent reality TV reference I can think of because I refuse to admit that I have watched any reality TV since the first season of Real World. Essentially, the Universe is just going to just go *fizzzzzzzzzz........* Imagine you spilled an entire gallon of milk into nothingness and that gallon of milk ran in all directions over your 4 dimensional counter-top (or 8 dimensions or however many dimensions you want!) and just kept going forever. Eventually, the milk would be everywhere, but in such small bits that it would in no way resemble your favorite cow excretion. Every little bit of milk would be so far away from the other bits of milk that they'd get super cold (and sad) and just kinda hang there...forever. 


As I recall, the guys and gals who have PhD's in "unintentionally ruining all hope" call this universe ending pile of sadness "heat death." Also, they did not use the metaphor of spilled milk, because they don't have half of a bachelor's degree in English Lit from a state university. Everything is just going to expand, indefinitely, until the entire universe is reduced to elementary particles that are total loners. The Universe is going to slowly get quiet and dark, like after that 5th shot of tequila and your last lukewarm toquito. Only the Universe won't wake-up with a hang-over because the Universe isn't capable of being dehydrated, because it has all the water possible, and also, it will for all intents and purposes be no more.


Is your wine glass full of tears yet (WHY DOES EVERYONE ELSE GET TO DRINK WINE ALONE!?!)? Well, toss off that heavy weight dear reader, cause it's going to be ok (at least, as far as I can tell). First, lets acknowledge one crucial fact before we move on; those PhD's could be totally wrong. It's happened at least once before, when Galileo told Copernicus to tell the Vatican that the sun was made out of cheese (or something to that effect). But that's not my driving point here, because the level of sadness that this news could put on anyone's day is mitigated by some brilliant, albeit distant, bright lights. 


*Sap Alert*


We're all stardust. You, me, Hitler, Kanye and Kim and North. I found myself laying on the floor the other day, simply gazing at my youngest son. This occurred approximately 6 hours after I had read not one, but TWO articles about the Universe's demise that was right around the corner, if you really think about it (not true; the sun is going to expand in 5 billion years and swallow all the inner planets like Hamburglar run amok, and if we survive that, in yet another measly 5 billion years our galaxy is going to collide with the Andromeda galaxy and I think that means it could be really difficult to drive around in your intergalactic-government issued space pinto. THEN, 90 Billion years after that, heat death). Sorry, got side-tracked. I spent a full ten minutes watching him play, looking at his big brown eyes as they pierced the Universe around him with humanity's greatest gift; observation. The Universe exists because we're here to see it, and we're here to see it because a long time ago some stardust blew life into us (and now that sh@t is in everything and we can't get it out and that's what really makes your butt itch when you go to the beach). What finally calmed my heart (and my mind, which spends way too much time thinking about things that will happen in a bajillion years) was that a long time from now, my two sons and I, my wife, you, Hitler, Kanye, etc. are all going to be spread out across the Universe. My mind comforts me by convincing me that there is something poetic and justifiable about such an end. An end where we all are reduced to our most basic components and we share oblivion together; an unimaginable number of cold little milk particles shivering together in the deepest night.


Please note: in this post, I am referring ONLY to our physical presence in this world, with maybe a splash of what would best be called "spirituality." Folks who want to assail me with Facebook posts about the eternal here-after, please just...don't. I get it. I really do, but this is my little piece of stardust and I'd like to keep it that way. Now, let's end with something FUN!


Adventures in mis-quotes that I wish existed, pt 1:


"Nothing vast enters the life of mortals without a purse."-Softoakles

"If you be not of the house of Montegue's, I pray you come and crush some wine cups with the house of Catapult."-Shakesmear

I will begin this post by saying that my intent for this blog was not to re-create the "I've-got-kids-and-it's-such-a-funny-slash-rewarding-experience" bloggernaut that has become omnipresent on all of the "webs." In fact, for my second entry, I planned on committing myself to writing about some of the fascinating articles I have recently (attempted) to read concerning the anthropology of counter-insurgency. That's some heavy stuff, dude. No dice. I intentionally set out to avoid the parenting bloggosphere for two reasons; 1) as stated, it's well-worn territory (here we go down the *paved* rabbit hole!) and, 2) I can guarantee that there is a multitude of people in existence, especially on the internet, who are much more capable in providing quality content in this particular niche than I could ever hope to. That being said, I would like to bang on the keyboard for a a few moments in an effort to relay the immense frustration that builds after hours on end of what can only be called "The Perpetual Noise Machine." Can *dad* you *dad* imagine *daddy* the *DAD* immense difficulty *DADDY* one *DAAADDYY* has *HEY DAD* in trying *DADADADADAD* to *(whispering) HEY DADDY* focus *DaAAaAAD* amidst *HEY! DAD!* constant noise? *DAD, I WANT FRUIT SNACKS*

You probably can, because you probably have kids, or nephews/nieces, or little brothers/sisters, or you've been to a restaurant, or you once accidentally stumbled into a "Yoga for Babies" class while earnestly attempting to arrive on time for that "Body Pump" class you always wanted to check out. By the by, doesn't "Body Pump" sound like an Orwellian euphemism for sex ("People having s-e-x? Gross, you disgusting degenerate!Decent people "Body Pump")? Regardless of how much body pumping you do, and whether or not it led to your own babies, you've most likely been privy to the "Perpetual Noise Machine," at some point in your existence. My humble theory is that this, more than anything, has to be the greatest challenge in parenting. Non. Stop. Noise. The "neediness" of my two boys, while sometimes tiresome, does not come anywhere close to the immense fatigue I experience after only an hour of non-stop noises from their tiny little mouths. I expect their neediness, and as a father-while I want them to learn to be independent-I have enough presence of mind to appreciate that those two little monsters still need me for most things, and I LOVE it. I have finally fulfilled my lifelong dream to be a freakin' super-hero, albeit on a much smaller scale (you want milk and cookies? WATCH THIS! BOOM, milk and cookies). And yes, much of the noise is them expressing a "need" (read:want), but if that was it-and I could be wrong, but it feels right-I think I would not feel so drained. It's the noises that happen in between and after the noise made for "needs." The noises that now fill all the cracks where glorious silence used to swell unencumbered, in my wife and I's beautiful pre-kids universe. It may be blasphemous as a parent to suggest it, but among the din of needs and wants, sometimes even their happy noises do nothing more than add to the pile. That's right, I said it, sometimes hearing my two boys enjoying life can actually make it worse (gasp! TYRANT!).

Before you get the gang together to lynch me, understand that most of the time I'm just like the rest of the drooling masses; baby/toddler laughter produces a broad smile and increased, doe eyed drooling. However, on the days when I'm attempting to make my way through an essay about anthropological perspectives in global counterinsurgency-because I'm sooo smart-the constant noise can wear me out. Why, you ask, am I even attempting to read such important scholastic works while my kids are awake? Easy; when else would I do it Mr. I-have-six-hours-to-myself-every-night? It's an unwritten rule (it might be written) that kids take up all of your time. All of it. If I owned a store full of nothing but hour glasses, my two boys would be the worlds best hour-glass cat burglars in the history of thievery. And they would rob that store everyday. As I type this, I am feeding my oldest some oatmeal while he hisses in my ear and "tickles" my scalp. If I waited until both boys were asleep to do this, I would be too exhausted to write the word "anthropological." And let's not forget that I'm happily married, so I have to make at least some time for "Body Pumping." So, before you lose your marbles over the fact that I just said that baby laughter kills fairies, try to stick with it for the apex of my strange little arc.

I'm pretty sure sexperts call it "noise fatigue." At least, that's what Wikipedia calls it. Yeah, I said sexperts. I usually just refer to it as "please for the love of Gandhi be SHUSH!" Why do I feel like this, more than anything, is the most difficult part of parenting? Because you cannot control it. Not even a little bit, unless you are willing to tape some mouths shut (no, that is NOT an option, jerk-face). If my kids don't share toys, I can work with them on it. If they won't eat, I can fulfill my other life long dream of being a super-villain by sending them to bed early. I can handle living on very little sleep, even though it does not put me in a happy place (thank you Basic Training!). But the noise? Good luck hombre. I'm sure that there is some mother-hen (or rooster) out there who knows "the secret," but they can bite me cause I haven't found their blog yet (I haven't looked real hard) and they sure as hell are not hawking their wares door-to-door like the saint they could be. I want to reiterate that the fatigue usually occurs after a peculiarly long stretch of neediness, say an hour or so, but once you hit that point...Once the "please-be-quiet-for-ten-seconds-o-meter" is full, ALL NOISE becomes unbearable. So, where am I going with this, other than exposing myself to anyone willing to read this that I'm some kind of noise-Nazi? I guess, to come full circle and really eat my words concerning the whole "this isn't a parenting blog" line...It comes down to asking the world, ever so gently to just back off for ten seconds. When you see kids out and about with their parents and you strap on your judging boots cause they are handing lollipops to their noise factory of a kid/s like some deranged Willy Wonka, keep in mind that that parent is a human person just like you (how heart warming)! Seriously, you know that cup of coffee you enjoy in the wee hours while the sun comes up, with nothing but your thoughts filling space around you? Or maybe you're of the wine in the evening set. Perhaps both, you lucky butt-hole. Either way, the parent you just called "lazy" or made you feel the need to ask "why do some people even try?" wants nothing more than to hand you their hysterically laughing toddler (who has suddenly decided after two hours of whining that since they are being handed to a non-parent they are in the best mood of their lives), lock themselves in your closet and fill that puppy up with some calm. I have to eat my words about not re-creating the "my parenting blog is better and different than your parenting blog," but I'm ok with that because I have experienced, like so many other parents, "the stare." Trust me, we want that kid to be quiet just as much as you do, and probably more so, and if you must know, I do not believe in the old-adage that kids should be seen not heard. Except that yes, sometimes, after an hour of "Daddy, I need insert anything here that is NOT a need," I wish my kids would just be silent little angels with wings and suspenders and bow-ties and who only expend the effort to run air over their vocal cords to say "thank you," with adorable British accents. So even if you are kind enough to not commit to "the stare," you should still shut that internal trap of yours cause I can hear you judging me (I told you I was an INPF).

Final thought; I promise to get to that really intellectual piece about stuffy social scientists throwing around their mental might to "fix" the modern conundrum known as "global insurgency," but for now I'm going to end here, and go lock myself in the bathroom for the best part of any parents day.




It's a silent poop,by the way. Parents love pooping in silence, and sometimes, because of their responsibilities, they don't get to. Do NOT, however, let a parent of small children tell you that it is not their favorite thing because clearly they need to poop because obviously they are full of $@&#.

It goes without saying that anyone who has a computer and the ability to peel their eyes away from the soul-crushing amount of kittens, babies, porn, memes and face-spaces made available by said computer, most likely has a blog. This one's mine! It's new (to me)! It's different (generated from one of 12 unique templates!)! It has an over-abundance of excited punctuation!(!)! Side note: I will likely refrain from using exclamation points for the remainder of my breathing time! Some initial questions that anyone who stumbles onto this page may be asking themselves at this very moment; Who is this guy? Why does he have a blog? Do I care? Is there truly nothing else I could be doing with my time right now? I will attempt to answer these questions, in order, in the following passages.

Who is this guy?

This is a BIG question. I have yet to find a person (including myself) that does not define who they are by a set of cascading categories, beginning at the top of an overflowing waterfall and trickling down to a stream that is much like the other streams, yet beautifully "unique" (my stream likes Star Wars and Star Trek). So, we'll start at the "headwaters": I'm a homo-sapiens-sapiens (sometimes understandably confused with australopithecus-afarensis (not really)), I fall into the gender category generally known as "dudeman" and I reside in the Northwest of the greatest-god-d@$%@d-nation-in-the-history-of-shut-up-and-give-me-that-cheeseburger. If you are one of those nitpickers out there who feels you need more salient information to decide whether or not I'm one of the "good guys" or just another insert politically relevant/divisive term here, well then please refer to the following short answer quiz:

What's with all the parentheses?: It's how I think (seriously).
Anything else?: Mos Def no.

Why Does he have a blog?

Yet another whopper of a question, you are good! I have no intentions for this to be read by a wide audience. Or any audience at all. In fact, I'll probably have trouble choking down some of these ramblings myself. The answer is simple I suppose; as an INFP-A (more on that later, I'm sure), I need a creative outlet, and that thing I do to pay the bills does not meet that need. This is a place I can come to to spill my jumbled thoughts and swirl them around on paper. Thoughts about the things I read, the (mostly lame) observations I make about the world around me, and ultimately, a place to flesh out/tryout words-on-paper ideas because I have always wanted to be a writer, but have only the faintest idea what that actually entails. I need a place to dump some of my esoteric and chaotic thoughts so that at least a tiny bit of focus can occur. I liken this experience to something a female companion once told me while I was studying abroad. She had-from my perspective-an incredibly odd habit of telling total strangers, sometimes literally passing on the street, some of the most intimate details of her life. She would liberally pour out her most inner-thoughts, sloshing them onto the street like some drunk tumbling out of a bar, without even the faintest hint of apprehension. She would not, however, generally share this information with her friends and family, the people she claimed to cherish so deeply. After she told me of this strange habit I immediately inquired as to why someone, ostensibly sane, would divulge such personal information to the unwashed masses. What she said was simple and eloquent, and captures much of my intention here; "It's like throwing out your trash. These things in my head, they get heavy and stinky if I hang on to them for too long. If I throw them into someone I know, they will surely stay around longer than I want. If I give them to a stranger, especially in a big city, the chances I'll see them again are almost zero." She swept her arms in an arc before her-The Sound of Music style-and ended by saying, "These strangers, they are all my trash-men." Side note: everything she said held a substantial weight because she definitely had a Latin accent, and everyone knows accents make you smarter. And yes, I just backhandedly called you my trash can.

Of final note: I will attempt to have this blog not focus on me. The things around me, maybe even including family and friends, you bet. Beyond that, however, I hope to write about things that make me think and write about those things with at least some semblance of perspective that is not wholly narcissistic, despite my secret admiration of Kanye West (yes, seriously).

Do I care?

Probably not.

Is there truly nothing else I could be doing with my time right now?

Probably yes.