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Hey! Hi! How are you? Wait! I forgot to use an exclamation point there! Dammit!

So. This has been one gangbuster of a week for about a zillion different reasons, and insofar as that I tend to post posts (that's right… I said it and I meant it) on this site with blue moon frequency, I'm going to lump a bunch of stuff together here and let fly, thereby emptying the remnants of what's rattling 'round my skull onto your desktop like a child spilling a 6000 piece Lego set onto the floor after you JUST. FINISHED. PICKING. THEM. ALL. UP.

• WORK
Work is natural. Work is fun. Work is best when it's one-on-one. By which I mean: this is the week that I got confirmation that the person I had been suspecting for a couple of weeks might be trying to throw me under a bus… was, in fact, quite actively trying to throw me under a bus. The fact that virtually an entire department of professionals immediately aligned with me to shut this individual down and make it clear that if anyone deserved to be looking up at the underside of a full-sized magic bus… well, it wasn't me… that was kind of nice, but also did little to diminish the suck factor of discovering that somebody in a position of power was actively trying to deflect blame for their fuckup onto me. It's really, truly and honestly not a good feeling.

Anyhow. That was on… Wednesday? I can't remember. Oh, how the days blur together when you're having fun! Wednesday ended with a face-to-face between me, my immediate supervisor (as a contractor, I'm okay with the fact that I'm basically faceless hired help and everyone is my boss) and the bus-thrower-underer (trademark pending)… which began with the bus-thrower-underer basically launching into a half-crazed accusation that my supervisor was the devil, and ended with the bus-thrower-underer smiling and happy and yelling down the hall at me, "You're doing a great job!"

Bipolarity is fun.

Thursday brought more drama not worth going into, but I will point out that during the early afternoon hours my supervisor stopped by my gray, soulless little cube, looked at me, put an open, lukewarm bottle of pinot grigio and a paper cup on my desk, raised an eyebrow, and then walked away without saying a word. Which was actually pretty cool.

And yes, I drank about half of the bottle. (and shared the rest with my neighbors)

Then, on Friday, my supervisor stopped by my gray, soulless little cube, asked if I was okay, and when I replied with my standard "I'M AWESOME!!!" she said in a surprisingly pleading tone, "You're not leaving, are you? Please don't leave." Which was nice. And then she told me that they're thinking about offering me a full-time position, which is nice to hear, but at the same time… uh…  I think I 100% definitely without a question prefer to be a contractor there instead. So… we'll see what happens.

• HOME
Friday was also, as it happened, my 10th wedding anniversary. True story. I won't launch into any kind of long, flowery descriptions of my love for TheWife – hell, if you're in the mood for sentimentality you can check out my 7th anniversary thing here – but I will share my AWESOME! 1800flowers.com! STORY!

Earlier last week, I ordered this giant bouquet of red roses (and threw in a little box'o'chocolates, which I heard life can be like, for good measure) to be delivered to TheWife's office on Friday, as part one of my three-pronged strategic plan of attack. My expectation was that I'd get this phone call from her on Friday morning, all "Oh my God, I thought we weren't doing anything, these are beautiful, everyone is jealous, you are the Cadillac of husbands, blah blah blah," and I'd get a minute or two of feeling good about myself out of it as a result.

By 11am, I hadn't heard anything, so I checked online for the delivery status. Nothing. I started getting antsy. By noon – after I'd just talked to TheWife and she hadn't mentioned my awesomeness as a husband, and the 1800website showed no updates, I called their customer service line. I got someone live, who checked in, didn't see anything, then tried calling the florist. No answer. I told him that this was an anniversary bouquet and my wife would be there until 4pm, so as long as it was there beforehand we'd be fine. He sent the florist a message to that effect, noted it in the account log, and said he'd shoot me an email with updates. About 10 minutes later I got an email: the order is on the truck and being delivered.

2:30pm. I talk to TheWife again… nothing. The online account status doesn't even show that it's being delivered, despite the email. So I call the 1800# again, and get an automated message saying that the order is out for delivery. I'm starting to get agitated.

3:30pm. I call TheWife and finally ask: did you get anything delivered? She says: no. And there's no receptionist there today, so she does a complete lap of her floor (her company has an entire floor in a small building), asks everyone… and nope: nothing. So I call back the 1800 customer service line, and get through to a live rep. He's very understanding, tries calling the florist – twice – and still gets no answer. I tell him that this order is for our 10th wedding anniversary, which is THAT DAY. If the order comes after she leaves… it's a waste. He says: if the order doesn't arrive by 4pm, I can call back the next day and get a refund. I thank him for his help, and presume that the florist is just going to blow it.

She calls me from the train station at 4:25pm. She says she stayed in her office until 4:15, then did another complete loop… and there was no bouquet. Fine. I'm frustrated, but fine: I'll call the next day and get my refund.

At 4:30pm I get an email from 1800flowers.com saying the florist delivered the order to the receptionist at 3:59pm.

At 4:39pm one of TheWife's colleagues emails her to say that the flowers just arrived.

Hmm. The florist told 1800flowers that they delivered the package to the receptionist at 3:59pm. After being told earlier in the day they had a 4pm deadline. But. There was NO receptionist. And there were no flowers as of 4:15pm. And, according to my wife's colleague, they weren't delivered until about 4:35pm. THE FLORIST LIED TO COVER THEIR ASS.

At 5pm, as I'm cooking and dealing with the Comcast guy who's fixing the cable connection in my house that's been fucked up for… uh… about six months, I call 1800flowers to complain that the florist lied to them and to me. They tell me: our policy is that delivery hours are until 7pm. You're out of luck.

I blow a fucking gasket.

Eventually, they tell me to call back the next day and get the refund processed. Fine.

(FYI: I called back on Saturday, and they told me I was out of luck. I blew a gasket again, and they told me to call back on Monday because they're just a satellite office and don't have the authority to issue a refund in this case. If I get the runaround on Monday – after they FAILED TO DELIVER MY 10TH ANNIVERSARY BOUQUET AFTER I GAVE THEM ALMOST 4 F#$@ING HOURS TO GET IT INTO MY WIFE'S HANDS WITH MY FIRST CALL ON FRIDAY and they tell me that 7pm is a reasonable delivery hour to a business office on a Friday after THEIR OWN SYSTEM SAID IT WAS BEING SENT OUT FOR DELIVERY AS OF 12:30PM, WHICH WOULD HAVE GIVEN THEM ENOUGH TIME TO DRIVE IT FROM NEW YORK TO BOSTON AND STILL GET IT THERE BY 4PM… WHICH IT WAS NOT then I'm pretty sure I'm going to find out where the corporate offices of 1800flowers.com is located and get all kinds of unpleasant.)

Anyhow. Then TheWife picked up our kids and came home, and I served her pan-seared, pepper-crusted filet mignon in a maple syrup/balsamic reduction with ove
n-roasted root vegetables and a very, very nice bottle of Ferrari-Carano Trésor, followed by homemade Snickers/peppermint schnapps brownies. And gave her something shiny and glittery. And she said, "I thought we weren't doing anything" and I said, "You always say that, and I always do something" and thus, our 10th wedding anniversary was celebrated.

• POLITE FICTIONS
I hinted about this a while back, and have been tweeting about it like crazy, but in case you only check me out here… cIII from The Goat and Tater and I brought together a ton of other badass interweb people and started up this site called Polite Fictions, which is basically a running story in which each writer contributes 4 paragraphs or so, and then hands it off to the next writer, who contributes another 4 paragraphs or so, and then passes it along and… well, you get the idea.

It's probably the coolest fucking thing I've ever been a part of, and features a slew of the most absurdly talented writers online — including Jonniker, Ms. Picket from Post Picket Fence, fadkog from For A Different Kind of Girl, Palinode, Kate from Sweet/Salty, Kevin from Always Home and Uncool, her royal badassness Jett Superior, and Whit from Honea Express. 

And honestly? You should be reading it. Not because I'm a part of it, but because it's consistently really, really good. Seriously. PLEASE check it out. If you like it… tell your friends. 

• ELSEWHERE
I've also put up a slew of things at Mamapop and Dadcentric, should you feel so inclined as to check them out.

• Kevin James kills a giraffe at MamaPop
• I reviewed the new Nick Cave novel, also at MamaPop
• A celebration of the rebirth of Entourage, also also at MamaPop
• I wrote about throwing away old kid stuff at DadCentric
• I also shared the wisdom of the ages at DadCentric
• I wrote about how I'm letting the Justice League teach my kids (also at DadCentric)
• And I'm too lazy to see if I linked to this before, but I also posted something at DadCentric that's actually about a lot of things is probably among the better things I've done. Then again, my judgment is questionable at best, so make of that what you will.

• AND ONE OTHER THING
One other thing I've been meaning to mention for a while is that I finally got around to reading To: — which is the book that Ms. Picket and Carolyn Online wrote and published via Blurb back in July… it's basically an epistolary romance, except instead of romance it's about the budding of a strong, deep and lasting friendship between two people who've never met, and instead of wax-sealed scrolls or stamped, postmarked and airmailed letters it's an exchange that happens via web posts and emails. The first part of the book is largely a series of web posts in which we learn who these two women are and we see the brief, easy commenting and quick email exchanges that characterize so many interweb acquaintanceships. It's an often breezy and fun read. About a third of the way in, however, the book suddenly takes on new dimension as a legitimate friendship begins to form and their emails start to provide real and fascinating illumination, not just in the sense of what's behind the stories we read in their posts but who these people really are: their lives, their hopes and fears, and – most importantly – their relationships with their husbands and children.

And I've got to be clear: they are brutally honest and forthright in these emails – especially about the frustrations of parenthood and marriage – and I'm both astonished and amazed at their bravery in choosing to publish them. And to be even more clear: it's this bracing honesty that balances their always-strong sense(s) of humor to add real depth and resonance to the book as a whole.

Their relationship – like To: itself – starts out as one thing… and evolves into something far more meaningful and important by the end. It's a really interesting piece of work, and while I had to wonder at how it might be streamlined and reworked in parts for mainstream publishing, I also – by the time I was done – had no doubt that I was reading something worthwhile.

I am enormously impressed anytime someone I know – even in the vague and tenuous way that people "know" each other on the interweb – puts in the time, effort and focus to produce a book. That Darcy and Carolyn actually produced something that left me wanting more… well, this may be an understatement, but honestly? That's pretty damned cool.

It was a little less than a year ago that I received a call from TheWife about our friend ElF.

She was the mother of a friend and classmate of TheHurricane's. She was the wife of our friend JiF. She was the kind and brilliant soul who'd turned her powers of clinical focus onto her son when he was diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum Disorder, working night and day to develop a program that transformed him from an almost non-verbal child with severe behavioral issues into an impossibly bright and sensitive boy — and and the good friend who'd helped us find our way after our own son was diagnosed and we found ourselves trying to navigate some of the intricacies of public special education programs.

She was a stranger on the interwebs who became a face, and then a voice, and then a good and true friend.

And then we discovered: she was a closet alcoholic of severe and profound proportions.

She was hospitalized. Repeatedly. Went in and out of programs. Came home, tried to piece her life back together… and failed. Repeatedly.

By springtime, her life – her former life – was a memory. She was estranged from her husband. Her job… I don't even know. It's our assumption that her job (and let's be clear: this is the kind of job that people spend decades studying and working and preparing for — and she was the one in a million who was actually qualified for it) had vanished sometime over the winter. And finally, she lost any claim of legal custody to her own son.

It was a heartbreaking spiral. We witnessed it only in fits and starts, but it was never less than painful, never less than entirely awful. We were never less than incredulous at the idea that someone we knew and liked and wouldn't have hesitated to trust with our own kids could fall apart so completely, so spectacularly, so terribly and irrevocably.

A couple of weekends ago, we met with JiF for the first time since the spring. It was a playdate, of course — a chance for his son and TheHurricane to refamiliarize themselves with each other. A chance for JiF to kick back and relax, if only for a few hours.

I'll admit: we were apprehensive. Not that we weren't curious – of course, we were curious – but at the same time, we were afraid of what we'd hear of ElF, of what had become of her, and of overstepping boundaries and respecting his privacy. We would not bring it up, we decided. If he wants to talk about it… he can talk.

He wants to talk. JiF is an interesting guy, and one of his greatest strengths is the fact that he is completely forthright and matter-of-fact about things. He doesn't dance around the fact of the matter: he simply accepts it as fact, asks others to do the same, and plows forward to the best of his abilities. It doesn't make him a perfect guy, but it makes him a good guy doing his best under surreal circumstances.

"It's been an eventful few months," he says.

We give him the half-smile; supportive, appreciative of the understatement, welcoming him to say more if he wanted to say more.

"She's been in and out of so many programs at this point that, literally, I've lost count. She was in Atlanta for one, Texas for another, she's been in and out of McLean several times… it's a true vicious circle. She gets well enough that she has the legal right to check herself out, then she comes back here and starts circling the drain again."

"I think I told you this, but I had to go to court to get sole custody of (my son). Which was granted, with surprisingly little difficulty — I mean, to be clear enough to a court that you, as a mother, need to be legally barred not only from custody but from visitation with your child without supervision? To anyone with a rational mind, that's a pretty clear indication that things need to change."

"But what's becoming more and more clear, the farther into this things go, is that it's tough to figure out where the alcoholism ends and the mental illness begins. I mean, there have been times – multiple times – over the past year where I've found myself talking to my wife and it's like talking to a complete stranger. And I find myself just so confused. Wondering: did the person I knew ever really exist?"

"When we were first going out, she talked about a time in college when she'd had a breakdown and taken some time off from school, and her Dad came out and stayed with her and helped her for a while. But it was something that even at that point seemed like it'd happened a long time ago, and it was never something we got too much into or that I tried to understand too closely. And now? Now it's like: that was a huge red flag, and I missed it completely. Because her troubles then, and everything now… it's all connected. All of it. And it's like (my son and me) just wandered into the middle of it."

"She's got an apartment now. I actually set it up for her, when she was off in (a treatment program in another state), just so she'd have a place to live. Because we just couldn't have her at the house any more. It was, literally, like every other week the police were at our house because of one thing or another and… you know, we became those people. And it finally got to a point where I couldn't live like that, and I couldn't let (my son) live like that. Which is why I went to court, and got custody and a restraining order. But I couldn't just put her out on the street, you know? She's got an apartment over in (a nearby town), but it's like every time I have to go there…"

He shakes his head. Takes a long draw from his beer. It's the last weekend in August; a hot afternoon, and we are sitting in our back yard. An umbrella partially shades us from the sun. Nearby, four children sprint back and forth across our too-long grass, splashing in and out of a plastic kiddie pool, screaming with joy and wild energy.

"The place in Texas… she somehow signed herself out and just walked out the front door. With nobody there to pick her up, no plan of where she was going to go." He looks at us. "That's not the way it's supposed to happen. I called to check in on her, and they said, 'She left two days ago.' They found her a couple of days later — she had literally been wandering the streets. Her blood alcohol was seven times the legal limit."

"Jesus Christ," I say.

"Exactly," he kind of laughs. Because what else can you do? "That's one of the strange things about being that deep into alcoholism: that much alcohol would kill you or me. Literally: we would die. But her body has adapted." He pauses; takes a breath. "Seven. Times."

"I don't even know what to say," my wife offers.

He shrugs. "There's not much you can really do," he says. "That's what I'm learning. Every once in a while, when she's a week or two into one of these programs, I'll have a conversation with her, and she'll be lucid and her eyes will be clear and it's suddenly like: 'Hey! I remember you!'"

(he's half-smiling as he says this. they're the saddest words we hear.)

"So… she got a puppy."

"What?" I ask. I say it as kind of a laugh.

"I know. Seems like a great idea, right? She called me up and said, "I got a puppy!" Like this was a good thing, something to be excited about. Anyhow, maybe a week later I get a call from this friend of hers – this woman, this very nice woman, who she actually met in a program – and she says, "I haven't heard from ElF in a few days, but I don't want you to be worried. Because I have the puppy."

"The puppy," my wife says.

"Exactly. I tell her, well, that's great. I'm glad you have the puppy. But what about her? And she asks me to go and check on her, because she's… well, she's not that close by. So I say, fine. I drive over there, and after I park I see that her garage is open. And the door inside from the garage is open. And as I walk in, I'm completely paranoid for… actually, for several different reasons. There's all kinds of things I can find inside, and none of them are good. I'm concerned, but at the same time I'm thinking, 'Did somebody break in?'"

"Anyhow. I walk in and… she's there, and she's a mess. Incoherent. I mean, seriously incoherent. Just complete 'raving lunatic' time, you know? And it's clear she hasn't showered in days, and it's just…"

He shakes his head again.

"So I called for an ambulance. And they took her to McLean, and committed her – for all intents and purposes – and that's where she is now. Once again, it turned out her blood alcohol content was .4-something, and it literally took days before she was anything remotely close to coherent."

"Anyhow. That's where she is now."

He looks at us, we look at him. His expression is resigned. Calm, logical. Resigned. I'm sure we look entirely stricken.

Our children run circles around us. They are covered in torn blades of grass and warm sunshine and youth and laughter. Water beads off their skin like tears.

We sit on our chairs, listening to them. We look at each other, then we glance away. The bottle in my hand is growing warm. The fourth chair at the table sits empty.

As some of you may be aware, last week – in the midst of our summer vacation – we made a special trip up to the great green wilderness of way wicked northern Vermont to visit The Jonniker. Some of you may even have read her deeply skewed take on the same. But, as everyone knows… bloggers lie. They are fundamentally incapable of telling the truth about an encounter with one another, for fear of backlash and recriminations that may ultimate reverberate across the entirety of the interweb.

I find this unacceptable. And as such, I'm going to take the bold stance of standing up against this tyranny of half-truths and blatant lies and doing something unprecedented: telling you the truth. Why? Because you, gentle reader, deserve nothing less… and because the world deserves to know the real story of Jonniker: Behind The Music Blog.

The setting: 
One of the more sleek and stylish restaurants in cosmopolitan northern Vermont. It is a swelteringly hot and humid Wednesday afternoon in early August, and a large unruly unkempt revolting charming family of travellers has made their way north through treacherous mountain passes, over the rivers and across hill and dale to this Shangri-La of the Green Mountains for a single reason: to meet and dine with the Dalai Lama of blogging. The Jonniker. Their cheeks are rosy and their eyes wide and eager in anticipation.

The players:

• TheWife - a lovely, tall brunette who has spent hours preparing for this pilgrimage, this meeting, this opportunity of a lifetime
• TheHurricane – a six-year old boy. Staggeringly handsome (he clearly takes after his father).
• The Twins – two four-year old girls, adorable little pixies overflowing with mischief and love
• TwoBusy – Man. Myth. Legend. Has awesome hair.
• The Jonniker – Beloved online idol of millions
• The Babyker – Beautiful infant daughter of Jonniker

(scene opens in the restaurant, as the TwoBusy family seats themselves at a riverside table)

TwoBusy: Are we all comfortable? Children – sweet, beloved children; treasured jewels of my life – are you pleased with the setting? The river is beautiful in its fury, is it not?

The Twins: Oh, father. We care not for the beauty of nature, nor for the gentle flavors of food in the air. We are instead atremble with anticipation for the arrival of The Jonniker.

TheWife: Ah ha ha ha! (her laughter sounds like peals of little bells) What delights you are, my daughters. How you will charm her with the purity of your ardor.

TheHurricane: Mommy? Can I have a lemonade?

TheWife: Of course. Nothing satisfies like the collision of the bitter and the sweet. Let us order, and watch as thick warmth of the air condenses on the glass' edge and rolls slowly down the side, like the tears of some forgotten god.

Children (together): Hooray! Lemonade!

TheWife: I hope she will be pleased with us, husband. Your hair looks awesome, by the way.

TwoBusy: It does indeed. And I hope for the same, with all the strength and will and passion and belief that my weak heart is capable of generating.

(the TwoBusy family sits in silence for a moment, contemplating the enormity of what is about to take place, listening to the rush of the river at their side, waiting for the lemonade to arrive.)

TwoBusy: Look! What light through yonder doorway breaks! 'Tis The Jonniker, the morning sun!

(Jonniker enters, carrying The Babyker in her car seat)

Jonniker: You must be TwoBusy. I knew it the moment I walked in, because you are by far the most handsome person in the state of Vermont. Also, because of the awesomeness of your hair. And you must be TheWife! And TheOffspring!

(The TwoBusy family is aglow with this sudden and unexpected recognition, like fireflies luminous with pride and love. They are rendered speechless as a result, and are helpless to do much other than smile with endless warmth and gratitude in response. Each one feels a temptation to leap from his or her chair and to embrace The Jonniker – so great is the magnetic pull she exerts – but holds back, for fear of coming too close to the sun and seeing their wings of hope wither and melt beneath all that radiant heat and energy… leaving only the long, lonely plunge back to a cold and unforgiving earth.)

Jonniker: I hope you will forgive me for being a little late. I was temporarily delayed when I ran down a young mother and the stroller-bound infant she was pushing through a crosswalk. Twice.

TheWife (suddenly sparking to conversational life): Of course, of course. We understand completely.

TwoBusy: Sometimes you have to back up, to make sure you got the job done.

Jonniker: Don't get snarky, jackass. (She snaps her fingers for a waitress.) Hey! Here! Hungry woman with baby! Serve me!

(enter Waitress)

Waitress: Can I help you?

Jonniker: You can start by shutting the fuck up. Then you can bring me a beer and a plate of ribs. And fast!

(exit Waitress)

Jonniker (shaking head): I don't know what the fuck is wrong with these bumpkins.

TheTwins: Mommy, what did she just say?

TheWife: She was talking about pumpkins, my sweets.

TheTwins: Punkins! Like Hallowe'en!

TheHurricane: Mommy, can I be Mr. Incredible for Hallowe'en?

Jonniker: Your children talk too much. (picks up spoon) Be quiet, boy. (pokes him in the eye with spoon)

TheHurricane: Oooooowwwwwwww!!!

TheWife: Hush, little one. The Jonniker knows what's best. Learn from this lesson, and learn well.

(Waitress enters, delivers beer to Jonniker and lemonades to children, then leaves wordlessly)

Jonniker: Hey, lemonade. That's a great idea. It's fucking hot today. (grabs TheHurricane's lemonade) D'you mind? Just kidding. I don't care. (lifts glass to her lips, then throws it all back in a single, gargantuan gulp) Man, that hits the spot. (reaches over, and grabs both of TheTwins' glasses) Don't mind if I do. (lifts each glass to her lips and downs the contents in a single gulp, then throws empty glasses into the river)

TwoBusy: Would you care for more?

Jonniker: (erupts with massive, earth-shaking burp. Across the river, trees sway in the resulting warm, lemon-scented breeze)

Babyker: (giggles)

TheTwins: Mommy, was that you?

Jonniker: (picks up beer, and downs the entire pint in a single gulp) Now where the fuck are my ribs?

Jonniker: (reaches under Babyker's well-padded thighs and pulls out a large cigar) This is something we can all enjoy.

TheWife: Um… if you wouldn't mind…

Jonniker: (pulls a match out of her pocket, then scratches it across TheWife's forehead to spark it to flame) There we go. (applies match to end of the cigar, and begins to puff vigorously)

TheWife: (grasping forehead in pain) Oh my god. I can't believe how much that hurt. (despite her best efforts, she begins to weep quietly)

TwoBusy: (trying to regain some sense of normalcy) So… uh… how do you like living here?

Jonniker: (staring disdainfully at TheWife) Your woman is getting on my nerves, dude. (she snaps her fingers angrily) Ribs! Now!

TwoBusy: I'm so glad we finally got to meet.

Jonniker: (turns disdainful stare at TwoBusy and looks at him without speaking, then reaches over and ashes into Babyker's car seat)

Babyker: (giggles and coos)

TwoBusy: We certainly are enjoying our vacation here.

Jonniker: (rolling eyes) Jesus fuck. I told my husband this was going to be a waste of my time.

TheWife: We're sorry… is there anythi-

Jonniker: (interrupting) Shut up. (using cigar as a pointer, indicating each member of the TwoBusy family in turn)  You know what? Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you.

(enter Waitress, carrying large plate of ribs)

Jonniker: (abruptly stands and knocks the plate of ribs out of Waitress' hands. Roasted meat flies across the room like barbequed butterflies) I'm out of here. Enjoy your lunch!

Jonniker: (grabs Babyker's car seat and leaves, howling with laughter)

(scene closes)

The breeze is warm and weak. Indian summer.

All is calm. All is quiet.

But buried far beneath
the rounded stones and acres
of scar and sinew
you imagine something new:
a moment in your life when you did not fear
the unknown
or that which in time
you came to know with such
intimacy, passion and disgrace.

You thought yourself an innocent.
You learned
it did not matter.

This may not be a time for celebration but
it is a day you will not forget.

The air is warm. The sky is not filled with explosions
of sound and light. The breeze is quiet.

It’s not quite time to move on.

Oh, right. I have a stupid blog-type thing. I forgot.

Sorry. As you might have surmised, the new job has basically taken over my life. The good news about this is that I'm now actually bringing home (or will be, if/when they actually start to pay my invoices) enough money that we can afford such niceties as water and electricity. The bad news is that they expect me to actually be focused and productive while I'm there, which is entirely unreasonable and cuts deeply into my fucking-around time. Hence: lack of updates here.

Having said that, it's still been a remarkably action-packed… um… (jesus, how long has it been since I really posted here? clicking "view weblog"… uh oh.) year and a half since we've talked, I probably should update you on a couple of things.

1. I'm on vacation! Boo-fuckin'-ya, dudes! To be more precise, we're now lost in the wilds of deepest, darkest Vermont, where the cows run free through the Green Mountains like wild horses through the fields… where cheddar falls like rain from the sky… where the screams of Howard Dean still reverberate through the valleys… and where I awaken each morning to the sight of The Biggest Spider in Vermont, who lives in an enormous web just outside the front door of our rental place, apparently eats crows and squirrels, and who raises his coffee cup in tribute to greet me each day. (He prefers Green Mountain coffee, naturally.)

We're currently in day 4 of said vacation, and thus far things are going swimmingly. We've driven halfway across the state on a pilgrimage to the Ben & Jerry's global HQ, where my kids proceeded to eat about 14 gallons of ice cream apiece; stopped in for samplers at three different brewpubs (Harpoon in Windsor, Long Trail in Bridgewater Corners and Madison in Bennington); taken the kids swimming in the complex pool every freakin' day (hence my chlorine-reddened eyes… no, I haven't gone all Redman on ya); and discovered that once you buy a Simmons Beautyrest mattress for your home, it's kinda hard to go back to a crappy mattress anywhere else.

On tap for the remaining few days: a gondola ride up to the peak of one of the many local ski mountains, where we'll abandon the kids and let nature take its course; another long drive north to explore the wonders of cosmopolitan Burlington (which also, as it happens, is home to Magic Hat); and – take a deep breath, folks – lunch with The Jonniker. Tomorrow. That's right: I'm dining with the Jesus of blogging. And – AND – her beautiful daughter Samhain! Obviously, she'll be horrified by my wife and children, but I think that'll give her a better appreciation of just how much I've had to overcome to become the smashing success I am today.

2. Meanwhile, I've been quite busy elsewhere. In case you've missed it, I've also typed here:

• DadCentric, where I covered some of the highs and lows of DadCinema
• DadCentric, as my girls abruptly discovered the difference between boys and girls
• DadCentric, where I pondered… well, where I got ponderous
• DadCentric, where I talked about how I'm slowly poisoning my children
• I also did a whole bunch of stuff at MamaPop, including deeply thoughtful and poignant discussions of movies with sharks, movies made from comic books, the finale of The Bachelorette, and Shark Week. Apparently, I have something of a fascination with sharks. Who knew. I also overwrote for several MamaPop Roundtables, which you can search out if you're feeling like being that comprehensive.

On the off-chance you're keeping track, I post on Thursdays at DadCentric and Wednesday afternoons (it used to be Tuesdays) at MamaPop.

3. I've also found myself at ground zero of another interwebs project – currently under construction – in which I am the extra-chipper member of an unholy trinity that will… well, at the very least, hopefully provide you with a new and diverting way to waste time. Further updates as events warrant.

4. I've read boatloads of cool stuff recently, but as it's 8:15pm during a vacation week and I've just downed half a bottle of something delicious, you'll forgive me if I've temporarily forgotten something remarkable:

• Sweetney captures an immutable truth about the reality of being a parent in radiant and terrible form — I said it before and I'll say it again: the last three sentences of this should be inscribed in stone.
• Whit gets drunk and lyrical. Includes terrifying raccoon footage — prepare yourself.
• Jessica has a phone adventure. Possibly the funniest thing I've read this year.
• Mr. Big Dubya brings us the second installment – at long last – of his memories of being a military newbie.
• TheBHJ talks (in brief) about his BlogHer experience, including a close encounter with Jen Lancaster that makes me twitch with awkwardness and yet laugh at the same time, given that I just (last night) finished one of her books.

5. This had somehow slipped my mind earlier, but in case you're not aware PICKET WROTE A BOOK AND WANTS YOU TO BUY AND LOVE IT. Click for details and to stop her from harassing me.

6. Your video for the week: in honor of TheHurricane and Jonniker, who have both grown to love this band through the same relentless pressure I'm now exerting on you, I bring you The Brother Kite's "I'm Not The Only One" from their jaw-droppingly incredible CD Waiting For The Time To Be Right — which you should go out and buy as soon as you finish enjoying this song.

It was an early morning meeting in a small building, hidden in a quiet corner of a quiet suburb. He was a friend of a onetime friend; we had never worked together, but he had called me the previous afternoon asking to meet and discuss a possible project. I'd agreed, and so met him in the small parking lot as he walked in — leading me through a strange and colorful labyrinth, a Virgil guiding me to some hidden circle.

We came to a wooden door, featureless but for a small sign he'd hung from the front. The nail holding it aloft was thin, and rusty.

Virgil unlocked the door, and  led me inside.

Someone was waiting. Sitting on a familiar grey-black swivel chair, in front of a familiar grey desk and a state-of-the-art computer set-up I at once recognized and knew intimately.

"Hey," he said. It was the first words he'd spoken to me, in the first time he'd seen me, in eight months.

Eight months, since I sat opposite him and his partner. Two men I'd joined in a new business, going unpaid for months, working for nothing other than the promise – the potential – of building something that might work for all of us. Two men I'd known for years before then, whom I always considered friends as much as anything else. Two men with whom I spent 18 months in a 15×15 room, sweating and swearing and cranking away, trying to make a go of it. Two men with whom I spent five years of my life trusting as much as I'd ever trusted anyone.

Eight months, since I discovered the reward of that trust.

He did not stand up. He did not offer his hand. In friendship; in anything.

I took a deep breath. This was… unexpected. He and Virgil were old friends, from decades back, but I never expected to walk in and find him waiting here.

"Hey," I said back. I kept my tone neutral.

He began to talk to me, about what had happened to the business. I had heard, of course, from other sources. Other perspectives. How what had happened to me ultimately turned out to be a matter of deck chairs on the Titanic; how within months they were looking desperately for a buyer. How the two men had argued, and fought, and nearly come to blows. Threats of lawsuits. Angry words. Bitterness. Recrimination. And finally, when a sale was on the verge of completion, one that would not leave them rich, but that would swallow their debt and allow them to walk away free… this man – the man sitting before me – launched a torpedo.

And the ship sank. Some were rescued, after a fashion, by the onetime buyer… brought on under unfavorable terms and the omnipresent threat of a global economy in the throes of a painful death. Others simply vanished beneath the waves, pulled down by the spiraling, plunging carcass of our once-mighty enterprise to the cold embrace of salt and memory.

He was a victim, he explained to me. His words flowed awkwardly, as they always have (this is what we call: irony), but in broad and irregular strokes he painted an image of his onetime partner – my onetime CEO – as the villain of the piece: a Mephistopheles in Carhartt, stroking his beard and plundering the common gold, robbing from rich and poor alike as the sails went up in flames and two kings fell to war, the house divided and all hope (the hope of us all) was lost.

I nodded and mumbled, unsure as to what he expected from me. He had once invited me to his wedding; he now could not be bothered to stand and shake my hand, or look me in the eye. I quickly forgot any illusions of regret on his part, any expression of sorrow for what had transpired and understanding of what it had cost me. After ten or fifteen minutes of listening to his rambling, I began to wonder if there would even be an acknowledgment of what had taken place, beyond how it had affected him.

Virgil looked on; an impartial witness.

It had been eight months since I'd been cast from a heaven largely of my own making. Eight months since I'd been asked to leave the last job I ever wanted, the best people I'd ever worked with, the centerpoint of my life beyond home and family. Eight months since I'd had to say to another friend, before I walked out the door for the last time, my voice unsteady and surprised, "I never thought I'd leave like this. Never."

He continued to define his victimhood. How there were so many things I wouldn't even believe. Stories that would curl my hair, drive me mad, defy my imagination. The depth of his anguish was unknowable, unfathomable, unprecedented.

Every minute or so I'd make a noise – a "Really?" or a "Wow" – and that would be enough to keep him rambling, rambling on, until eventually the steam dissipated and he was left silenced, mid-incoherent thought, unsure of where to go.

I stood there, ten feet and eight months and a thousand miles away, looking down on him. Sitting in the chair he'd taken from the office we'd once shared. Next to a desk I'd helped him assemble, and a computer I'd hopped onto and worked on during the many long days he'd been "out of the office" navigating his horrific divorce, his kids, his new wife.

The moment lingered. Then I turned to Virgil, and said, "So. This project?"

And he guided me to a small couch, and we sat and talked for twenty minutes. Discovered that my schedule would not work with his requirements. Stood, shook hands, agreed to stay in touch.

As I started to leave the room – not much larger than the room I'd once shared with two men for eighteen long months, banking on nothing but our own talent and will – my onetime president half-turned toward me. "I'll be in touch, too," he said. "Big things ahead."

I gave him a half-nod, a flat "Sounds good." Then, to the room: "See you all later."

And I walked away.

she held his hand in her own small hands
as though trying to steady away the little tremors
and quakes, the voices and strange musics
that had stolen her grace and brought her to
this room
as through she were lost on a wine-dark sea
and grasping for a life-ring, or floating timber,
or anything
to keep her from the darker waters.
he thought to reach forward, to clear the twisted knots
of hair from her face
but his arm –
the muscles so bunched and tight
almost clenched in suspension –
his effort failed before he could waste it
her name dead in his throat
    {        }
then slowly        gently
she lifted his hand
and he felt something wet and quick dance
across his fingers
her name in his throat
“it tastes like love,” she said
“like salmon eggs and hot mercury”
her tongue ran over sharp teeth
                soft lips
and then she let go

High points from my first week at the new (contract) job:

• On my first day, I realized mid-afternoon that I'd been walking around the office for more than an hour with my fly open. Which is my preferred way of making friends.
• On my second day, nobody actually spoke to me until I'd been there for 2 1/2 hours. Over the course of the day, I enjoyed a grand total of perhaps 20 minutes of human interaction. Otherwise: I was just a wee cubicle beastie, hiding away in the shadows, cranking up the iTunes through my ear buds, dutifully earning my hourly seal clubbing wage. It was something akin to working in an isolation tank, only without the hallucinogens and genetic manipulation.
• On my third day, I managed to trip and fall on the stairs. Twice. The second time, I whacked my arm against the stair rail hard enough to raise a massive bruise on my forearm.
• This was actually an improvement over the first fall, when I was walking up the stairs back to my cube while carrying a salad. Somehow, I caught my foot on a stair and tripped. I whacked my shin against the next stair up, but even more spectacularly I managed to spill approximately 1/3 of my salad – including blue cheese crumbles and reduced fat ranch dressing – on the top two stairs and the carpet on the second floor beyond.
• So I spent the next ten minutes pushing spilled romaine, carrot strips, croutons, blue cheese crumbles and reduced fat ranch dressing into my hastily-grabbed cubicle trash can.
• I also tried to scrub the dressing and blue cheese off of the carpeting with paper napkins. That worked really, really well.
• I should probably mention that the top of these stairs? Is right next to a glass-walled conference room. Which was holding a rather large meeting at the time. This is another way I like to make friends.
• On the fourth day, I was actually invited to a meeting! A team meeting! Which everyone blew off except for my manager, leaving me alone with her to try to brainstorm high-level strategies for a seal-clubbing product line that I'd had all of… um… (doing quick math) three and a half days of experience working with. Miraculously, I think I managed to come off as something other than completely stupid. (Which is, generally, how I define success.)
• And on the fifth day, I rested. Because I didn't actually begin my work week until Tuesday, which was probably just as well for everyone.

And how was your week?

1. I’m feeling much better now. Thanks for your profound concern, you heartless monsters.

2. Speaking of terrible mistakes that I’d like to leave in the past, I also posted at DadCentric. Twice.

3. But wait! More terrible mistakes! I also badmouthed a large man from Oklahoma at Draft Day Suit.

4. And! And! And! I blew another assignment at The Whinery.

5. Jesus fuck. I also – god help me, because I clearly have issues with saying no – joined MamaPop, and made my debut in this week’s MamaPop Roundtable. This week’s question: what songs would play on the soundtrack to your life? (Predictably, my response went on at horrifying length and basically shocked everyone into embarrassed silence. Good job, me.)

6. In the midst of all of this posting everywhere but here, I also completed (as in, just now – while typing this – finished) the long, dull, awful freelance seal clubbing job I’ve been hammering clubbing away at since late March. Next week, I begin a brand new freelance seal clubbing job — which will hopefully be substantially less dull and awful.

The glass is half full, I says to myself. Half. Full.

7. But hey: enough about me! There’s been some serious badass writing in the past week or so that you should check out — much of it on DadCentric. Honest to god: them guys are good.
    • Always Home and Uncool watches his daughter ride a bike. Loved this.
    • Jason watches his son confront a bully.
    • Whit weighs the pros and cons of working at home.
    • Ryan has a kid.
    • Trout Towers puts together the coolest kids’ book of all time.
    • cIII‘s daughter turns two. Possibly the best birthday testimonial I’ve ever read.

8. I’ve been meaning to post an update about my erstwhile friend ElF. I’ll try to get to that sooner rather than later.

9. Countdown to vacation: T-minus 1 month! Tick… tick… tick…

(considering that we’re traveling with our unholy brood – and how well that usually goes – you can presume that ticking indicates the presence of a time bomb, waiting to explode my life into a million tiny, disgusting, vomit-covered little pieces.)

10. Countdown to TwoBusy’s annual “fleeing the family to spend a weekend with friends:” T-minus 2 months. (I won’t specify where I’m going, but it involves cheesesteaks and the distinct possibility that I’ll be shanked by a Phillies fan.)

11. And finally, your song for the weekend. Given that my son now forces me to listen to virtually nothing but this CD in my car, I feel compelled to share the experience with you — and thus, I give you Ra Ra Riot’s charming Can You Tell. Enjoy…