Bottlecaps

Business brief

AUSTIN — Company X will next month release Item Z, which is smaller / slicker / more expensive than the last item we embraced with reckless abandon only a few months ago.

Item Z has yet more capabilities we would have thought to be batshit-crazy-impossible only 15 years ago, however the public seems to no longer have capacity for marvel, just a lust for status and acquisition. 

Company X CEO Old White Guy said "Item Z makes entirely obsolete all investments our customers have made in our brand before now. Your purchases will enlarge our executive estates while we become more efficient at oppressing the third world employees who piece together Item Z."

Industry analyst Smug Young White Guy noted that "Growth is growth. The wisdom of growth is beyond question. A nickel more today is a nickel more today."

Stocks fluctuated in semi-random fashion after Company X's announcement.

Two weeks?

I'm afraid all my blogging is probably going to be child-related for awhile. There's little else on my mind. 

I mean, I gave the man room a thorough cleaning Tuesday morning. And I decided on the best way to organize my Willie Nelson Fourth of July Picnic memorabilia, but you probably care even less about that. 

 There's a real chance that Shannon will be induced midway through Week 39 (if nature doesn't take its course before then). That would be two weeks from today.

There's more cleaning that needs to be done. More baby laundry. A few more trips to Babies R Us. Infant car seats to clean and car seat bases to be put in cars. 

But the nursery is ready. The boy is moved. The bottles are cleaned. We are, more or less, prepared.

Now, as long as we don't have the baby on MoPac, I'm ready.

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The boy has done pretty well in his return to AISD (though the process of checking to make sure he was properly enrolled led me to decide that his school doesn't have a soul who knows what the hell they are doing).

We went on Monday and he wanted me to carry him (what the hell, I thought, it's the first day), but then collapsed in a heap on the classroom floor.

On Tuesday, he wasn't so dramatic, but did manage to look pretty pathetic. 

Both days, he was happy when I picked him up at school. Our Mornings with the Messiah preschool begins with an open house today.

I really hope this school year will make a difference. I really hope he learns to be social, makes a friend or two, picks up on the talking.

Me? Obviously I should give up on the talking. This blog is a poorly written mess. Probably because I am completely worn out from back-to-school. 

Screw it. I'm not rewriting. I'm out.

Thursday and Friday: Swimming photos, and a report on the trip to the circus.

Cribs, nightlights, Brett Favre

I'm sure somebody is expecting me to comment on Brett Favre's return to the Vikings. So here it is:

Eh.

Seriously, I was pretty sure he wouldn't return because he was scared of losing to Green Bay this year. I hope to hell he does. I will watch those two games and wear whatever green and yellow I can find in my closet (maybe I'll have to buy some) while I'm rooting for the Packers.

But I no longer am annoyed at Favre for this circus. I'm annoyed at ESPN. Already this summer we've had a whole day of retirement coverage, a whole day of "Favre is on a plane" coverage and a whole day (so far) of "he's back" coverage.

Let's face it, ESPN has lost its soul. I'm pretty sure they sold it to get the latest Favre news and, possibly, Rachel Nichols.

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I finished re-assembling and cleaning the nursery yesterday, all that remains is laundry. I'd post a few photos, but that wouldn't be very manly. And the new nightlight? By God, it works. It works so well that it could be a beacon for passing ships. You could flag down a 747 with that thing.

But still, it's weird to look at the fully-assembled crib and think that in a few weeks (or sooner), there will be a new baby in there. When the boy was on the way, all we thought about for months was "child, child, child, child, child" and the preparations were a result of that.

This time, it seems all I can think about (in addition to continuing to raise the 3-year-old) is "preparation, preparation, preparation" and it seems that child will come as a result of being, finally, ready.

Does that make sense? I guess, this time, the actual child seems a bit more theoretical than before (despite two doctor's visits a week).

That's from my perspective, mind you. There is nothing theoretical about Shannon's misery. If you want to suggest otherwise, please warn me so I can stand far away when you do.

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A sidebar to the Favre story …

When I was reading a biography on George S. Patton, there was a story in there, likely apocryphal (I finally have a firm grasp on that word, so I'm gonna use it), that when Patton was a young boy in Virginia, there were portraits of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson in the kitchen. These portraits were treated with such reverence that Patton grew up thinking they were God and Jesus.

(It makes more sense when you remember Lee was a composed, white-haired man and Jackson had a long beard. Also, this was late 19th-century Virginia.)

Anyway, there's little doubt with all the photos of Willie Nelson around here, that the boy is bound to mistake him for a major religious figure. I'm just hoping the nonstop ESPN coverage doesn't convince the boy that Brett Favre is Jesus.

Miscellany Part VIII

So, I'm taking the boy to the circus on Sunday. I don't know how he'll react, so I just bought a pair of the cheapest ($15) tickets they had.

I bought the tickets online, where they charged me a $3.75 fee for each ticket. Of course. But that isn't the best part. To bring everything up to an even $40, they charged me a $2.50 fee to print my own tickets at home.

Yes, I had to pay $2.50 to print my own tickets, the one ticket delivery option that costs them absolutely nothing. Shit.

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While I was getting serious yesterday, I failed to mention it was Billy Joe Shaver's birthday. Happy late birthday, Billy Joe. Let's hope somebody, somewhere baked a cake and put "where do you want it?" in frosting on the top.

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Sneakily returning this blog back to the topic of my progeny (and, let's face it, that's all I can think about with less than a month to go before I have two of them), I'd like to point out that my efforts to locate a Safety 1st nightlight with outlet cover have been successful.

I don't know why they've been out of stock everywhere else, but I finally tracked one down in Arizona. Now I have a $10 nightlight that cost an extra $9 shipping. But … I … got … the … night … light … I … wanted.

Only the best for my boys.

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Football season is nearly upon us. Don't ask me how the Aggies are going to do. I've given up on prognosticating college football. It's just beyond my patience level. With A&M, I watch the games when I can, I read the newspaper when I can't, I try to enjoy the wins and not get too worked up over the losses.

NFL is a different beast. There's only 32 teams and there is (imagine this) a playoff. So, ultimately, everything works itself out over the course of the season. People (losers, mostly) can talk about how the best team didn't win, but I don't buy that crap. All you have to do is win. The rest works itself out.

Each conference has 16 teams. Of those 16 teams, you can pretty much divide them in half: 8 teams that will compete for the 6 playoff spots, 8 teams that do not have a chance at the playoffs. You can pick those teams before the first game is played, generally.

But here's the interesting part: Of those top 8 teams, one is bound to crater. Of those bottom 8, one is going to rise to compete. Which teams will they be?

Anyway, I'm gonna try to keep track of this in my blog this year. With a newborn in the house, it might be as close as I come to enjoying the season.

Hopefully I won't be chronicling the cratering of the Cowboys.

… into a world where TIME HAS NO MEANING!

Yes, this is Mr. Bottlecops, reporting to you from the 21st dimension, where time has gone haywire.

Shannon is a gazillion weeks pregnant, with D-day (I mean, "due date") alternately looming ever closer and remaining far, far away.

If she's thinking about her hips, time stands still. If I'm thinking of how much work remains to be done, time flies whether we're having any fun or not.

Could 5 weeks be any more complicated?

Football begins in 5 weeks (I tried explaining to Shannon that her due date was actually the same day the Cowboys begin the season, so maybe we could work around that … no, she didn't think that was very funny.)

School for the boy begins in 3 weeks (and I have no idea what I need to do to get him back in the loving arms of AISD). Mornings with the Messiah begins in 4 weeks and I either have to complete his (potty) training or let him face Vader unprepared, I mean, convince them that he's mostly there.

There are rooms to clean, infant stuff to reassemble, paperwork to be done, clothes to wash, procedures to remember.

And that's the stuff that doesn't cost money. There's still stuff to be purchased with money we don't have (anybody looking for clues as to why I can't spend $100 on fantasy football this year can stop here.) There's better bottles to buy, an exterminator to call in, supplies we don't yet know we need, a damn nightlight to find.

(Can you believe that I cannot find a second Safety 1st nighlight with outlet cover? Everywhere, they are sold out, out of stock, out of luck. I actually found one and tried to order it online, but then discovered it was in CANADA, and the shipping was twice the cost of the nightlight. I thought about it.)

Anyway, like always, I've got a long way to go and a short time to get there.

Snobbery: A study in contrasts

The wrong way …

It was in The New York Times that I learned about this fellow who, inexplicably, got a hard-on for axes. He promptly started a business in making quality axes, painting the handles ridiculous colors …

 … and selling them on the Internets for a whole lot of money.

Now, there is something to be said for a fine ax. I abhor the plastic-handled crap they sell at Home Depot. A man who needs an ax can buy a good, old one and polish it up. I guess if you really love axes, you could spend this much on a fancifully painted one, but that's just silly.

And, of course, the real point is that there is no need for you to have an ax if you do not chop wood. 

And yet they point out how fine this would look on the wall of your high-rise condo.

Personally, I believe every yuppie who buys an ax should be required to chop firewood for an hour. If they ever recovered from their blisters, they could keep their $220 ax.

The right way …

A Scottish brewer called BrewDog recently created a beer called The End of History. 

They priced it at $765. A bottle, presumably. It's hard to be sure since they only released 11 bottles.

Now that is ridiculous.

The blonde Belgian ale (with "touches of nettles and juniper berries") is 55% alcohol. Which would make it meaner than Jack Daniels, stronger than Wild Turkey 101.

Now that is preposterous.

The packaged each bottle inside road kill …

Now that is fucking awesome.

Really. Each bottle came inside its own taxidermied varmint.

That's what I'm talking about. If you're going to provide some stupidly expensive item for the sole benefit of rich people with more money than sense, then why not go all-out? 

Someday, someday, I will drink from a bottle with a varmint coozie. 

The worst country songs …

Sorry, I lied to you. I can't blog today. I have run out of time. And there will be no Foto Friday tomorrow, because I am leaving on a jet plane for El Paso.

But I will blog about the worst country songs next week. And El Paso.

I promise.

Blog pending

I promise, I'll blog on Thursday morning.

Thanks for birthday wishes.

Today, I'll leave you with …

 

JIHAD MONKEY!

(How many bands do you think will be named that by the end of the day?)

Summer pursuits

At about 11:45 a.m., I was pretty upset over the boy's refusal to participate in his $55 swim lessons.

Not angry, though I was that, too. 

On Monday and Tuesday, the boy couldn't be held back from the pool. He had no interest in his classmates, his instructor or his class. He just wanted to get in the pool and play. I had to sit on the pool steps with him and physically hold him in place.

"I don't usually let parents in the water," the instructor said. "But I'm going to make an exception for you."

Great. That's us. The exceptions.

We signed up for soccer, we signed up for swim lessons, just to get the boy some contact with other kids while school is out. It's good for him, we decided. And we had these visions of him playing alongside other 3-year-olds.

But, he has no interest in that. And on Wednesday, he wouldn't even get in the pool. I coaxed. I cajoled. I would have bribed if he had understood. No go. And when I would pick him up to carry him back toward the pool, he would yell and claw at me.

After 15 minutes, class halfway over, I scooped him up in my arms again and pointed at his four classmates: three little boys, one little girl, all of them sitting like they were supposed to, all of them watching the instructor.

"Do you want to swim like those kids?" I asked. 

"Let's go bye-bye," the boy said firmly.

I thought about fighting onward. The instructor had oh-so-subtly positioned the kids between handrail and pool side where only four kids would fit. She made no move to help us out. After two days, it was obvious she was hoping we would go.

As I looked at the other kids, I couldn't blame her. I was mad enough that the boy wasn't cooperating. But that wasn't it.

I know there are parents who have faced mightier challenges. I know there are parents who would be thankful for our worst days.

But for that moment, watching those other kids play together, cooperate, listen, it was so clear that it was my kid who was the different one. And I didn't … and I don't understand why. 

I know, I'm the guy who says "I learned everything I know about parenting RIGHT NOW." And I guess I'll figure out soon enough that things are OK. That this isn't even serious.

But — just every now and then — it's heartbreaking.

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On a lighter note, my Willie Nelson Fourth of July Picnic story is a go for next week's edition of the newspaper's entertainment magazine. They like it, they really like it.

I also got a peek at this Sunday's Parade magazine insert. Their "cover story" is Willie Nelson. And Parade mentions the Picnic.

And everything they mention, very nearly everything, is wrong. Not confused. Wrong like they just made shit up. 

Expect a very special weekend blog this Sunday when I have it in my hands again, and I'm free to refute it line-by-line.

And, yes, I will link to my newspaper story when it comes out.

Summer!

OK, we haven't blogged much ... any ... in awhile.

We've been diving into summer (Not literally. Swim classes start next Monday) and sleeping in until the rapturous hours of 8 a.m., sometimes even 8:30. The boy is out of school and it's been hard to find time to blog.

So, this ought to catch us up until I write a more substantial blog tomorrow, or Thursday, or, at the very least, post a new Foto Friday (because I do have some new kick-ass pictures. If I do say so myself.)

The diet is going OK. Lost 5 pounds in 4 weeks. I was hoping for 2 pounds a week, but I'll settle for not gaining weight.

I do have an assignment for the Willie Picnic — I'm writing a preview that will run in the days before the Picnic. This means I'm on my own for the Picnic itself, which is still cool.

The boy is doing well. He had one more illness, but was quickly cured. He still desperately needs a haircut and has an appointment for Friday morning. We will see if it will be the worst thing that ever happened to him (or if it will fall short of his last haircut).

The damn World Cup horns: OK, if it is real South African tradition, you cannot ban the vuvuzelas. The World Cup is in South Africa, and that's that. But it is annoying as shit if you're trying to watch soccer on TV (which is hard enough for most Americans) and anyone who says they like them is just being contrary. The only answer is to make sure the next World Cup is in a country where they can be banned. Because, really. Annoying as shit.

The boy is talking some. Really communicating thoughts, desires, demands, etc. He's not on pace with a typical 3-year-old, but encouraging nonetheless. (He just asked me for watermelon. Good kid. If his brother likes watermelon as much as he and I do, by summer 2014, we'll be going three 3-4 watermelons a week around here.)

In the process of refinancing the house. This was sparked by Chase (which currently holds our mortgage) doing their damnedest to prevent me from dropping the private mortgage insurance on my home. I can't wait for this process to be finished so I can send Chase a "you can shit and fall in it" letter.

Texas A&M and the Big 12: What I hate most about college football is the endless debate and speculation. I like to WATCH football. When I talk about it, I like to talk about games, not conferences or polls or TV contracts. That said, I think A&M would have struggled mightily in the SEC. I think A&M being part of the Pac-10 would have dumb. I'm pretty happy to stay right where we're at.

OK, that's what I got for today. Look, at least, for a Foto Friday blog at the end of the week …