Wilder By Far

"You fool! Mothers do not get sick; they take care of the sickly!" - Dexter, Dexter's Laboratory

2009-05-17T21:10:00.000-08:00

They look so small, don’t they? Yet they make so much noise. Whodathunkit?

If you don’t believe we live in The Matrix, then last week was a week to celebrate Mother’s Day. If you believe we live in The Matrix, it’s considered good etiquette to take your laptop or toaster out for dinner.

Mother’s Day (or is that Mothers’ Day) is a holiday that appears to be a wasted one – why would we applaud the efforts of someone who toils week in and week out to keep the family fed, covered in clean clothes, and living in an environment where the sink isn’t classified as a biological warfare laboratory? I think that these so-called “Mothers” should suffer in silence, like the fathers of the world. I mean, is fair that that Mother’s’ day is during the school year where The Boy can make gifts (laminated books filled with poetry about how much they love Mom), lovingly crafted at taxpayer expense at school? Father’s’ Day is during Summer Break, however, and I normally get items otherwise destined for the trash, like a torn, used chewing-gum covered Houston Astros™ poster and a chewed-through binky for presents.

I guess that kills the whole “suffering in silence” theory. Dang.

Anyway, I really don’t begrudge The Mrs. for the cookbook and poetry that The Boy worked on in school. I don’t like to cook. Heck, I’m just surprised that school boards (or school board lawyers) haven’t yet considered “Mother’s’ Day” an “outmoded view of the socio-economic world wherein children growing up without mothers are marginalized and disenfranchised by the whole celebration of mothers in general, and shall henceforward be replaced by ‘Non-Sex Specific Adult Quasi-Familial Authority Figure’ day.” This would be in keeping with ~~Christmas~~ Winter Break, ~~Halloween~~ Fall Festival, and ~~Easter~~ American Idol© Finale.

I’m only half kidding. Heck, I’m afraid I just gave some sort of group headed by some bitter wizened little crank a whole new cause to yell about at the local school board. If so, I’m sorry for the school board, but not all that sorry. I’m still mad about the fish sticks every Friday for TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.

Ahem.

Back to Mother’s’ Day.

We had a good Mother’s’ Day at the Wilder Compound (it’s really only one building, but the guard tower, barbed wire, and electromagnetic detectors tent to make my small-minded neighbors brand it a compound). I got up and watched The Boy and Pugsley so The Mrs. could sleep in. When The Mrs. finally wandered into the front room, fresh and well rested, she was confronted with a snoring, drooling me splayed out on the couch like Bill Clinton on prom night. I’m thinking that The Mrs. found the cards and flowers (I was drifting in and out at that point) but I do recall The Boy meandering into his room to come back with . . . extra presents for Mom.

The Mrs. looked at me and said, “John, he totally weaseled you.”

The Boy did weasel me. Pugsley also weaseled me with “I luff you, Mommy,” pointing his big blue eyes up at her. Much like Jeanine Garafalo at a marathon, I was neither cute nor prepared.

I drifted back off to sleep.

Eventually I woke up to the sound of the mower – The Mrs. had decided to go out and take care of the near-~~jungle~~rainforest conditions that were developing outside. Texans can abide by many a thing, but a poorly kept lawn is enough to start a blood feud that can last generations. It is a little-known fact that the Texas War of Independence started over General Santa Ana having a lake house with a poorly kept lawn. Sam Houston could not let that stand, especially since he owned the lake house next door.

It turns out that I’m the guy whose wife was out mowing on Mother’s’ Day.

I wonder who Agent Smith takes out for Mother’s’ Day? I’m betting, since he’s software, that he takes an Apple™ laptop out for dinner – because if The Matrix ran on Windows© Neo would have so kicked their butt when they blue-screened.

"The Red Green Show is kind of like the flu; not everybody gets it." - Red, The Red Green Show

2009-05-10T18:52:00.000-08:00

Downtown Houston at sunset. The buildings are tall, but they won’t save you from a plague of frogs.

The Mrs. made the mistake of exposing The Boy to the term “flash flood” during when we were turned back by wet highway patrolmen recently as the highway we were driving on began to resemble a bayou (that’s a local term that replaces “fetid swamp filled with reptiles and pond scum” for the non-Southerners in teh Intarwebs). Driving in a bayou is not good if you use the standard-issue Texas Mercedes™ or Jaguar©. A little-known fact is that the State of Texas purchases a new Mercedes® for each driver as a standard issue car when you get your driver’s license down here. If you have a good driving record and sufficient plastic surgery to be a TWIT (Trophy Wife In Training), you get the Jaguar™.

So, after Houston flooded, it was announced that Texas officially had developed Swine Flu. I don’t know if you’ve heard of Swine Flu (different that Sine Flue, where you calculate trig problems all day) but Swine Flu is perhaps the SECOND HORSEMAN of the APORKALYPSE. I knew Texas had felt a bit warm recently, but I never would have guessed. Sadly, I guess that means I’m not supposed to eat bacon (mmmm, sweet, crunchy baaaaaacon) or ham (mmmmm, salty pink ham). An aside - Ma Wilder always wept when I ate ham, because I slathered it in ketchup, which was okay because I would slather anything classified as an “animal” – turkey, fish sticks, sausage – with ketchup when I ate it. This must mean that corn is an animal, because it got ketchup, too. (Full disclosure – that’s really still the case – meat is just an excuse to eat more ketchup, and on more than one occasion I ate two pieces of bread with ketchup as the only filling – but enough about college.)

Since we’re in Biblical punishment mode, I’m guessing that a plague of non-Muppet™ frogs will be hitting us soon. When I was ten or so, watching Charlton Heston tell God that he could have his Commandments back from his cold, dead fingers, I always wondered why a plague of frogs was bad. Frankly, I still do. What do frogs do that is worse than the whole “river of blood” and “curse of baldness on Yul Brenner”? I suppose it would be bad if the frogs were zombie frogs, or perhaps if they were just really big frogs that were hurled from the sky at 200 miles per hour and dented your ~~car~~ chariot, but I think it was just a plague of frogs.

I think if Hollywood were to redo the Ten Commandments, it would probably star Brad Pitt as Moses, since, hey, why the hell not? I think Ramses, Pharaoh of all Egypt would probably be played by Alan Greenspan, or maybe Vin Diesel if they wanted to go younger. I could see them updating it, and Pharaoh would be confronted with:

Instead of rivers of blood, perhaps we could replace that with, oh, Nancy Pelosi?
Instead of baldness, why not a mysterious flu?
Instead of falling frogs, failing megabanks that would cripple the economy?

Okay, maybe I got some of those a little wrong, but you get the idea. Then Brad Pitt would show up in Congress and say, “Let my Texas go!” They’d say “no” and then he’d turn a briefcase into a child he’d adopted from Canada, or some other place without the Internet. Then he’d give congress huge wads of campaign cash, and they’d say, “Whatever, dude.”

Then Utah (would we really miss it?) would flood and trap the people attempting to flee California, and Texas could finally be free.

I think this might work out, especially if I have enough ketchup, because I think it might taste good on frog. And, really, who has ever heard of frog flu? Heck, if you say it – it sounds like a martial art – frog flu. It’s certainly better than Hammageddon.

"I’ve told them a hundred times: put ‘Spinal Tap’ first and ‘Puppet Show’ last." - Jeanine, This is Spinal Tap

2009-05-03T18:11:00.000-08:00

Sunset from near the House of Blues®, Houston. Though a pretty picture, this is not a good thing, as we will soon see.

This story starts out on (about) March 1, 2009. I told The Mrs., in passing, that tickets for a concert by Messieurs Guest, McKean, and Shearer. You may not recognize the names, but these gentlemen are better known to most of the world as the fake (and funny) rock band, “Spinal Tap.” In this tour, however, they were performing songs as themselves, not acting, just three friends having a good time on stage.

The Mrs. managed to get tickets for us. Not just any tickets. FRONT ROW. CENTER.

Honestly, I hadn’t been front row center for a concert since I had elbowed my way forward for a Van Halen, Dio, and (inexplicably) Loverboy concert in the way back time of the 1980’s. Oh, sure, that crazy hit “Lady of the Eighties” was such a catchy tune, but Mike Reno and the rest of Loverboy were a bit out of place between “Last in Line” and “Running with the Devil.” Perhaps Loverboy needed more Satan music to be at home in that group. I hope that Mike Reno was wearing a cup, because that tennis ball really looked like it would have hurt. And, really, who has aim that good?

I digress.

Front row center. At a concert of some of my comedic idols. How could I be happier?

I set up babysitting immediately after we got the tickets.

Finally, it was concert night. The Mrs. and I happily dropped off our little toads, the round mound of sound, Pugsley and The (serious) Boy. We drove down to Jones Hall, where the tickets said the concert was. We’d been there before going to a concert of an artist The Mrs. loves, (Tori “Screech” Amos – okay, she was good in concert, but, dangit, sometimes that woman just screeches like a cat). It was a nice venue, very artsy, meaning that lines of men peeing in the sink during intermission weren’t likely.

We got to Jones Hall. We were beginning to turn in to park when The Mrs. said, “Oh, look at the sign – it says Spinal Tap® has been moved to the House of Blues©.”

It had an address underneath, which might as well have been hieroglyphics – neither The Mrs. or I know downtown Houston. We got on the cell phone and called Alia S. Wilder, and she gleefully found directions for us on the Interweb, all the while noting that she would have driven down to Houston for the concert. Well, who would give us directions then, hmm?

We made it to the House of Blues, and were directed to the concert site -third floor- and went in. After sticking my head in the door, I asked the bouncer, “Umm, what exactly are those people doing in my seat?” All the floor seats were full – packed. Not a single open seat.

“Floor is general admission, if you’ve got the wrist band.”

“I want my seats. Front row. 10 and 11.”

“Do you want me to go ask those people to move?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not fair, they got here first.”

“No, that is fair. I got in line BACK IN MARCH.” I didn’t raise my voice – rarely helps with bouncers, and often leads to physical altercations. He was only twenty years old or so, barely 210 pounds of solid muscle, so I didn’t want to hurt him and his thirty friends. I continued, “I want to talk to your supervisor.”

Supervisors, sometimes, can help.

This supervisor helpfully pointed out that the balcony, located somewhere just short of low Earth orbit, had seats that would have just a super view once the massive projection screen was pulled back. She also indicated that all the people who had gotten here first had dibs on the front seats. Oh, and that I could get my money back if I didn’t like it.

I (theoretically) will get my money back, in 7-10 days. Comedy isn’t funny when you want to rip the pancreas out of, well, anyone at this point, really. It also didn’t help my mood when I later figured out that at least some of the people sitting in my seats had paid HALF what I did for my ticket.

The Mrs. and I were irate on the way home, wherein The Mrs. indicated all of the things (one thing) that she would like to do to Dan Ackroyd’s (who we think owns House of Blues™) most tender anatomical unit, namely, pull her fist back and punch it. Hard. The Mrs. also mentioned something about “Ghostbusters 2©” when she was hitting her left open palm with her closed right fist. Horrible sound.

Me? I was mad at everybody, from Messieurs Guest, McKean, and Shearer to Dan Ackroyd to the idiot in the car in front of me.

“Don’t drive mad, honey.”

“I’m NOT driving mad. I’m just driving like a jerk. There’s a difference.” I figured I could spread my joy with the rest of the world.

We finally got home, and I had a good head of steam up. I picked up my laptop and began writing a letter to everybody involved. What did I want? An apology.

I sent out an “electronic mail” copy to Harry Shearer, one of the performers (Mr. Shearer has done more voices on “The Simpsons” than there are photographs of Paris Hilton on the Interwebs). I didn’t really expect a response.

I got this in response from him: “I'm really truly sorry that fans like you, and you actually, had such a crappy experience.”

There was a lot more, and we actually exchanged another e-mail. My opinion of him? Classy guy.

I was impressed that he took the time to write. The Mrs. was certain that it was one of his myriad personal assistants and dog washers, but I felt (and feel) like it was the genuine thing.

Does that make it better? Sure it does.

I just hope that The Mrs. doesn’t do a Mike Reno on Dan Ackroyd. I thought Ghostbusters 2™ was okay.

“They’re coming to get you rent from you, Barbara.” – Johnny, Night of the Living Dead

2009-04-26T19:56:00.000-08:00

Lookz into ourz eyez. Lookz deeply in2 themz! We’s own you!!!

The Mrs. and I have a standing argument. Actually we have about 457 standing arguments, but who’s counting? Anyhow, this particular argument can’t really be solved by Google®, though Google© does certainly put to rest most of the arguments that we have, such as who played first base for the Los Angeles Dodgers during the 1934 season. Strangely, we couldn’t find any records of that. (Hint: In 1934, the Los Angeles Dodgers started as a group of drunken athletic nuns in Cleveland who eschewed first base on religious reasons, deeming it “a base form of idolatry.”)

No, this is an argument that revolves around that great unknowable beast, human nature. I have long argued that the average accountant, after missing three square meals with no prospect of another in the foreseeable future will take off the wing tips, slip the surly bonds of civilization, shave his head into a Mohawk and slip into steel spike-studded-shoulder pads and begin chasing Mel Gibson because he wanted to gnaw on Mel’s spleen. The Mrs. disagrees, and thinks that the average accountant would just be a very hungry (but only slightly less polite) person, still civilized, still able to be polite and share.

After Hurricane Ike, The Mrs. claimed that the neighbors banding together and helping each other proved her point. “Nobody even glanced twice at your spleen,” The Mrs. said, “but then again, you’re no Mel Gibson.”

This week, I had a little experience that bolsters my point . . .

I travel on occasion for work, and when I get to my destination I rent a car. It’s much easier than walking. Mostly, picking up a rental car is like attracting a politician using dangling wads of cash as bait – easy. Delay in the airline schedule? Sure. Delay in airport security thanks to TSA? A given. Delay on a rental car? Nope.

This particular day, however, a car rental company whose name rhymes with “Mational” had my reservation. As I checked in for my rental, the clerk said there might be a delay. Oh, sure, I expected that delay might mean five minutes of me standing in the airport parking garage while I paced over chewing-gum encrusted concrete.

No.

I arrived at the lower rental area booth – the one where elite (definition: not me) travelers whisk through the airport, not even stopping (somehow these elites manage to go to the bathroom without stopping on their way – I have this working theory that if you make enough money you never ever have to poop again), nay, merely pausing while the clerk tosses them their keys on the way to their car.

I arrived at a desolate wasteland, a garage meant to be stocked with cars, meant to be filled with people being whisked on their way, even non-elites like me. Now, you might think that from the term “wasteland” that the garage was empty. No. There were throngs of zombie-travelers milling about the counter, bumping into each other, groaning, looking for all the world like they expected the cars to spring from the ground like paparazzi when Obama’s (note: my spell check does not recognize this name) thong slips a bit at the beach.

This, I guess, is what you get when you rent virtual cars rather than real cars.

Finally it got uglier than a Hollywood divorce. One customer shook himself awake. “Listen, Miss, I’ve been waiting here an hour.”

The (young) clerk made the first mistake that people under stress make – she clammed up. It did make since, since she was busy ripping apart the furniture in the rental booth to nail across the windows in case the ~~Living Dead~~ (theoretical) rental customers began to clamor for brains. Or drinking water. Or, heaven forbid, cars.

The previously mentioned and now quite belligerent customer began again, “Miss, I will summon the evil powers of the CEO – you have no idea who I am . . .”

The clerk and the (theoretical) customer began circling each other. Somehow the customer had fashioned his toothbrush into a crude shiv, and the clerk prepared to defend herself with a stapler.

“Listen, mister, I don’t know who you are outside,” she gestured at the streams of sunlight pouring in through the parking garage exit with her stapler, “but you’re in my world now.”

Then a car arrived. Belligerence dropped from the face of the customer as if unexpected doughnuts were available at a corporate meeting.

Funny, but he got that car.

More and more zombies arrived, there were probably about seventeen (theoretical) customers milling about when my car arrived.

So, I stand by my statement. If people get utterly out of sorts when they can’t get a car for an hour, well, we’re about three meals away from kindergarten teachers abandoning their classes and naming themselves “Grongar, Duke Of Elm Street (1400 block).”

I am fearful for my spleen.

"Historically cemeteries were thought to be a haven for vampires as are castles and swamps. Sadly you don't have any of those."- Mulder X-Files

2009-04-19T22:56:00.000-08:00

Yet another alligator. Doing whatever it is that alligators do, which I think includes swimming, sunning themselves while lazing in limpid pools of murky water, and mutating into gigantic creatures that eat European cars. Which is okay, because European cars are made entirely of sheep intestines. And kitten tears.

Yesterday was fun. We went off to the Houston Area Boy Scout Fair. This event is held annually at Reliant© Area, which is near where the NFL™’s designated victim team, the Houston ~~Oilers~~ Texans ®, play. So, instead of going to the Bridal Fair (who in their right mind would brave the hideous shrieking of a bridal fair – it would be like being forced to stay in a puppy-torture room) or Disney© on Ice™ (I think this would be interesting if it were Walt’s body, but instead I hear it consists of skating puppets).

The Scout Fair is an exemplar of everything that’s right about America. Admission fees? Nah, the Scouts have that covered. We went to a booth where you could (in The Boy’s case, poorly) throw darts at balloons. A Boy Scout was manning the booth, and offer The Boy a strawberry-ish drink. I think it was strawberry. The Boy didn’t have any. Pugsley did. Since Pugsley cannot talk, I can’t say if it did taste like strawberry. Pugsley had two glasses, so it was good, even if it was puréed marmot spleen or some such. Heck, Pugsley will drink nearly anything if there’s enough sugar in it, so it might have been marmot spleen.

We travelled up and down the aisles – none of the Scouting booths were looking for money – these were Scouts and Scout parents looking to help young Scouts learn something. There were also groups that deal with Scouts and Scouting values that were there – people from the Battleship Texas, a company that brought surveying equipment to teach Scouts about surveying. Everyone was there to teach Scouts. Or help Scouts have fun. Or give them puréed marmot spleen to drink.

The rain was pouring down, like, well, I can’t think of a marmot spleen analogy here, but you can imagine that I tried. We decided to go out to eat. The Boy exclaimed, “I don’t want to go out to eat, I already had m’lunch.”

The Mrs. and I concluded The Boy felt that he was about 80. When we got to the restaurant, I gallantly ran to hold the restaurant door (located conveniently under the awning) open while The Mrs. was drenched getting The Boy and Pugsley out of the car. Thankfully The Mrs. didn’t have to wait a second when they arrived at the door of Chili’s.

Thankfully, The Mrs. loves me even when she’s been drenched.

That night I introduced The Boy to vampire movies, watching a Vincent Price film called, The Last Man on Earth. At one point, I looked at The Boy and he was covering his ears with his eyes tightly shut. Which is entirely explainable because THE DOORKNOB WAS TURNING AND VINCENT PRICE’S WIFE WAS CLEARLY ON THE OTHER SIDE EVEN THOUGH HE JUST BURIED HER!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If only Vincent Price had been a Cub Scout. I think he could have tied her up better before he buried her.

"Desperate ducks commit desperate acts!" - Howard, Howard The Duck

2009-04-12T20:57:00.000-08:00

When I was out hiking with Pugsley and The Boy, we happened upon Paris Hilton! She didn’t have much to say, but you could tell that whole tanning thing was working out for her. Then she ate a small dog.

Sorry, Internet. I took last week off.

Let me explain – I wasn’t out with another Internet. I was just too tired to make it. Last Saturday I went Cub Scout camping. The Mrs. generally doesn’t let me take Pugsley on overnight camping trips – The Mrs. is generally concerned that I will have forgotten I brought two boys, and only bring one home. That would be an evening of explaining. Normally The Mrs. forgets that stuff the next day, so I figure I’d only be in trouble for the night.

Anyhow, The Boy, Pugsley, and I left late, and had to put up our tent just as dusk was doing whatever it is that dusk does. Night falls, morning breaks, but dusk? I think it creeps up on you, unannounced, like Arbor Day. Or Christmas.

We finally managed to get the tent up, the sleeping bags in, and had hot dogs that were raw on the inside and burned on the outside to the consistency of Rosanne Barr’s thighs after she ran a marathon. Wearing corduroy. The Boy and Pugsley didn’t seem to notice – camping drastically lowers your quality standards as it relates to food. I myself once ate my shoe on a picnic, just because it looked mildly appetizing.

That night we settled into our bedrolls and slept soundly. Except for the fighting, the whining, and the 1:30AM run to the bathroom with a rather panicked Pugsley (just had to go a lot, like most three-year-olds he’s not used to walking a quarter-mile to go to the bathroom).

The next morning we had a stellar breakfast of badly burned (but yet teasingly raw in the middle) pancakes. Non-stick is really not a guarantee, more of a tantalizing promise. Pugsley ate a bite or two, and then indicated that he would eat no more. I got to pull my “Dad” line out – “It’s a long time until lunch, son.”

Strangely, at home it’s NEVER a long time until lunch, because it’s always a short walk to the pantry, filled with Snacky-Cakes® that can be pilfered and Oreos™ that can be absconded with. This morning was different, however, since the morning Cub Scout program included Orienteering – which involves a LOT of walking with a compass. Since The Boy was navigating, I was concerned that we might actually leave Texas at some point, and end up slightly off course in, say, Nebraska. But his aim was (pretty) true, except for the time when he wanted to take us 180° off course (that’s like 560π° off course in metric). We had a knee-slapper of a conversation about the Sumerians picking a weird number like 360° in a circle, and then Pugsley came up lame with a blister on his big left toe.

Oh, sure, I thought about doing the Darwinian thing and making him catch up or get lost, but then the spectre of a night spent explaining how I was just conducting a eugenics experiment with our youngest son descended on me. I then decided to do the Dad-thing and plop him up on my shoulders and carry his heiney around that way. He lovingly patted and petted my jowls, stretching them like they were a part of Jim Carrey’s face.

Upon dismount, Pugsley then began to make bleating sounds, pointing at the pain that was in his Snacky-Cake©-free stomach. I said to him, “For the first time in your life, Pugsley, you might be mildly hungry. Eat lunch. In two hours.”

We finally made it back to the tent, did some more hiking, and finally settled down for a (mostly) fight free night, if you don’t count the incident at 3AM when Pugsley pushed The Boy off of the air mattress and I had to rearrange children. In a tent. At 3AM.

So, this week we had a good week. The biggest thing we did was go on a picnic. We’d hit Target™ beforehand, so everyone had picked something to eat. I picked some Target© fried chicken, and we grabbed a table at a local park.

Immediately the ducks began to congregate near our table, begging for bread crumbs.

Internet, I admit that I had a truly horrible and despicable thought.

I would feed chicken to the ducks, making them nearly cannibals. Of course the ramifications of this immediately ran like a fever-dream through my head: wave after wave of bird-eating ducks finally realizing how good meat tastes spreading throughout the country, finally turning on themselves in an orgy of zombie avian genocide.

The next day I was driving with the family in the car. I said to The Mrs., “You know, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I thought about feeding some of my chicken to the ducks the other day. That would almost make them cannibals.”

The Mrs. nonchalantly replied, “Yeah, me too.”

Sometimes you find the right person. Then you marry her. Then you don’t lose your kids camping. Then you find out that you’re both similarly evil.

Ain’t life grand?

"Anyone who would buy a house on the same street as a chlorine factory is an idiot. Except you, of course." - Red Green, The Red Green Show

2009-03-29T21:27:00.000-08:00

Even Bigfoot knows to wear his safety glasses when adding chlorine to the pool.

I don’t know about you, but I seem to write much better with Brian Johnson asking me to stand up and be counted, for what I’m about to receive. As long as Brian remembered to put the e before the i in receive, well, it all works out.

I apologize that The Boy had to write last week’s missive, but it seemed like that he was the better person to tell the tale. Thankfully, that was a one week thing. Because today I’m not sure that he could even see the monitor from a two-inch distance.

Let me explain . . .

We have a pool down in Texas. I think even homeless illegal immigrants named Darth Vader from the Planet Vulcan in Betelgeuse-B have pools down in Texas. I IM’d him. He does. From the Second Book of Supertramp (King James Brown Edition): “Yea, verily mother, they must havest them in Texas, for there all art millionaires.”

Anyhow.

Saturday ~~morning~~ afternoon I went outside with The Boy and saw that the pool was essentially a Petri-dish of whatever lived in the atmosphere in Houston (meaning it was a bright emerald-green that Dorothy would have thought meant that a Wizard lived there). I decided to administer that caustic poison that algae so love – wonderful, easily administered granular chlorine. (Side note: chlorine is our friend. It has killed literally zillions of bacteria. Bacteria are evil creatures that cut in line when you’re at the carnival. So, chlorine is our friend. Except when it ruins your afternoon.)

I grabbed my trusty knife and slashed open a bag of granulated chlorine. I began to dump same into the pool. The Boy popped up behind me, like some evil Lord of the Rings™ reference that I can’t really recall since I’m not twelve anymore. The Boy said, “Can I help?”

Evil, evil The Boy.

I had a second bag of sweet, sweet chlorine that I gave The Boy after slashing it open with my knife. He began broadcasting the sweet, sweet chlorine along the edge of the pool. No problem, right?

Occasionally (really, really occasionally) there is a gust of wind in Houston. One of the aforesaid mentioned gusts showed up. Right then. Flicked a granule of chlorine in The Boy’s direction. Specifically? Right into his eye. He whined. In my day, we loved having chlorine in our eyes. It was the fashion of the day. That and an onion tied to our belts. Because Grover Cleveland always did it. Don’t ask. I told him to get into the shower to get the chlorine out of his eye. As I walked in, I saw him standing with his back to the shower head, washing his hiney.

(sigh)

As most people know, taking a shower to get chlorine out of your eye involves very little butt-washing. We worked together (after various threats on my part) to get the actual eye under the water. After I got The Boy to actually start flushing his own eye with water, I went to fess up to The Mrs. . . . who was also in the shower. The Mrs. was less than pleased, but I think The Mrs. gives me slack sometimes because The Mrs. loves me.

“Umm, The Boy might have gotten a chlorine granule into his eye. I might have opened the bag for him. We may go to the doctor.”

We did. At the doctor’s we found we’d done it all right, and then they went to check one of The Boy’s eyes against the other they found that both of them were 20/50.

I lent him my glasses on the way home. He said he could see Mars in HD.

“Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t see?”

“I didn’t know.”

I would have given him more abuse, but I recalled seeing a crisp mountain on a spring day with my first pair of glasses. I hadn’t heard the term before, but HD is right.

Who knew that trees had leaves???

"Note to self: never vacation on an active volcano." - Crooow, MST3K

2009-03-22T23:02:00.000-08:00

The cats. On vacation. Is there a better place for that than a basket of warm clothes? Didn’t think so.

What I Did On My Spring Break
By
The Boy

This Spring Break was good and it wasn’t. The good parts were when The Dad and The Mom took me and Pugsley down to see Grandma and Grandpa. We had fun. I got to shoot a BB gun and didn’t put my eye out! The Dad yelled at me when I pointed it at him. Parents are funny sometimes. I like the way his face gets all red when he yells.

Grandpa made cookies, which I ate. They were very good. Grandma and Grandpa are nice, because they listen to us, even Pugsley, who mainly just grunts and stuff. When you write on Grandma’s wall, you don’t have to stand in a corner. And Pugsley and I ate ALL the cookies and nobody said a thing.

We ate at fast food places, which The Dad usually complains about. When we travel, though, it’s easier to get a Happy Meal™, since he doesn’t say “there’s water at home, if you’re thirsty.” I get tired of that.

Bathroom stops are the bad side. The Dad says that “nobody has died in the continental United States of a ruptured bladder because of a car trip since 1932.” I think he’s making that up. The Mom then tells The Dad to stop the car, and when The Mom says it, well, that’s what we do.

We came home, and then the family got to work!

We painted the kitchen, and then The Dad decided to power wash outside. I asked if I could run the power washer, and The Dad said, “OK.” He didn’t tell me that once I started (it was fun at first) that I’d have to power wash all the driveway. It gets boring after a while. At first I pretended I was a Jedi™ but there are only so many times you can blast Darth Vader™ before you get kinda bored.

I helped paint the hall, too! We painted the hall, and I got to use a brush, even though I wanted to use the roller. The Dad got upset (red face again!) when he figured out that the paint he bought was “semi-gross” and what he really needed was made of eggshells. I think. Anyhow, he and The Mom decided to just buy more paint and finish it up with semi-gross.

This morning The Mom said we were “spring cleaning.” The Dad said he’d go finish up something instead of working in the front room, and The Mom said no way – you helped make this mess and you’re going to help clean it up. That’s just what The Dad did!

Oh, yeah, on Saturday I ate half a bag of cookies instead of dinner. Boy, was The Mom angry when she found out! I think I need to hide the bag better next time.

I read like six books this spring break. It’s a lot better than listening to the boring radio that The Mom and The Dad listen to. I get to read about Harry Potter™, while they listen to stuff about the economy, whatever that is. It sure sounds like it’s not good. Maybe all the adults need more cookies. Cookies sure work for me when I’m sad.

We went swimming! The Dad and The Mom were cleaning the pool and I said I wanted to get in. They looked at me like I was crazy, but I went and put on my trunks and came back out. It was great. Pugsley got in, too! He can’t swim and The Dad told The Mom that she’d have to get Pugsley if he slipped out of his swim ring, because he didn’t want to get his wallet wet. The Mom didn’t look real happy about that.

This was a good spring break.

OK. I’m done now.

"You mundane noodle!" - Ralphie's Dad, A Christmas Story

2009-03-08T21:32:00.001-08:00

A storage tank, heading towards the San Jacinto Monument. If you were wondering which way to go, this gentleman (I think it’s either Dennis Quaid or Randy Quaid) is telling you where to go. And that’s toward the monument. I don’t know about you, but I trust the Quaid brothers. Except when it comes to automotive maintenance. They don’t know much about that.

It’s been a beehive of activity at the Wilder house recently. The Boy, Pugsley, The Mrs. and I have been working at doing . . . well, stuff. The Mrs. notes that, although it was activity, it was not interesting activity. Well, to quote Samuel L. Jackson, “Please allow me to retort.”

Oh, I’m sure that when normal folk end up with clogs in the drains of their swimming pools, they do something lame like call the swimming pool guys, or Roto-Rooter®. Not us. If Dran-o™ will dissolve the most stubborn substance known to man, i.e., girl hair in a drain, do palm fronds stand a chance against its caustic onslaught? They did not. After our pool pump spent hours sucking at a metaphorical milkshake in a Fairbanks winter, it slid the offending organic matter through it with the greatest of ease.

Besides that, I had The Boy and Pugsley fighting for my attention as I mowed the lawn. Yes. You read that right. As I started mowing, I asked Pugsley if he’d like to sit up on the riding mower, in exchange for his services picking up and throwing away the various detritus that litters a lawn unmowed for a month. In that lyrical language that Pugsley shares only with the underwear gnomes that live in his room, he said yes.

The Boy, who had previously been the only denizen of the lap on mowing expeditions, was doing, well, The Boy things. When he spied his younger brother sitting on my lap . . . “Let me ride.”

For awhile, I could only go 175’ (that’s 25.4 millimeters, for you communists) or so without one or the other of them wanting their turn. Finally as darkness descended, I put down my foot – The Boy could ride no more, since the last thing I wanted to explain to The Mrs. was how I had let a three-year-old unburdened by any sort of a) fear or b) common sense go on some sort of night-time raid on the neighbor’s fridge. Which is exactly what Pugsley would do – there would be no chocolate chip cookie safe for a thousand miles. Either that or one of my neighbors would find Pugsley in their garage, fighting the raccoons. I put my money on Pugsley.

The Mrs. shaved our elderly poodle, as well. I’m sure this is much to the relief of the poodle, since he looked like he was covered in fiberglass insulation. After being shaved? The dog looked like he had barely escaped from some sort of super-secret government testing program. Not the one that produces a super strong, super smart agent dog. The other one – the one that produces a dog with facial tics and total loss of bladder control. And, he’s all ours.

The Boy and Pugsley then helped me when I went and replaced some old tile flooring with all new sheet-vinyl. By “helped me” I mean they wandered around poking through stuff in an a manner I would describe as “non-productive” if the word “non-productive” meant that they were actually working for the forces of chaos rather than just being neutral. Eventually I stuck the vinyl down to the floor, and The Boy and Pugsley wandered over and thoroughly congratulated themselves for their hard labor. Then they went back to frolicking.

I also painted today. I’m not sure exactly how Pugsley does it, but he is the only human I’ve ever met who can touch a surface that was painted (within thirty seconds of painting) and manage to not get any on him. I think (if this talent works elsewhere) I’m going to try to convince him to go into politics. Seems to work for some of them . . . .

So, it was a day full of fun mundanity here at Casa Wilder, even though The Mrs. and I had a very short disagreement about whether or not “mundanity” is the noun form of “mundane.” Turns out it is. Ha.

(I'll finish this tomorrow - thanks Lynn!)

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"The Oilers moved to Tennessee where there is no oil. The Jazz moved to Salt Lake City where they don't allow music." - Baseketball

2009-03-01T22:30:00.000-09:00

The bell of the USS Texas. I would have hated to be the guy who knocked the first chunk off the bottom. I mean, what exactly do you tell the Captain? “Dude, I broke the ship’s bell?” just doesn’t seem to convey the sense of trouble that you’d be in. I get the same thing with Pugsley after he uses a fork to create an impromptu three-year-old welding rig in his bedroom, the better to weld Legos™ then. “Dude, I seem to have tripped the breaker?”

The Boy, Pugsley, and I have been working recently. Mainly on things like competing on extraneous gas production, but beyond that, we also have been working around the house. Seems like I’ve been ignoring minor maintenance on the house for a few years, and now my list is down to ~~186~~ 63 items now.

Working with them is, well, interesting. The Boy has some ability to help, but I’m not quite ready to turn him loose with a chainsaw. Yet. He can fetch most things that I ask for, even if they’re in extremely odd places. “Dad, I found the Vice-Grips®, underneath your underwear in the drawer.” Oh, sure, Internet, laugh, but I’m betting that there have been times you wished you had a nice pair of Vice-Grips™ in your shorts.

Pugsley? More difficult. Getting productive labor out of him is akin to getting productive labor out of a kitten. Oh, sure, the kitten appears to be willing to help you, and will try its darndest to figure out what you want, but as soon as somebody tosses a ball of yarn at it, it’ll lose attention faster than a Republicrat when confronted with a pile of taxpayer money. I apologize for the multi-layered metaphor, but let’s get to the point – three-year-olds aren’t really a lot of help. And never have been. But they’re cute and fun to have around, and can occasionally figure out what it is you’re wanting, even when you ask for a hammer and he brings an alarm clock and a banana.

Today I was replacing some old floor covering (changing from vinyl tiles to vinyl sheet flooring) and it looked like (I’m sure, since I had a saber saw and an evil gleam in my eye) that I was going to start ripping into the subfloor pretty soon to look for Jimmy Hoffa (note to the Internet – he wasn’t there). The Boy sauntered in and said, “Wow."

Eventually he got bored and attempted to hook up an Atari® to a television set originally assembled (I’m not kidding) when Lyndon Johnson was president. (I can imagine Pop Wilder, skeptically purchasing a “Sony®,” unsure that the Japanese could at all figure out a high-tech task like how to put a television together.) I think Pugsley spent his time figuring out what he might not get in trouble for breaking.

I must take a minute and discuss that Pop Wilder purchased aforesaid television back when people were walking on the moon, and brought it home. It was notable in our house for being the first color television that we ever owned, and probably cost as much as (in inflation-adjusted terms) as Citibank© stock. I mean, well, all of the Citibank™ stock. Pop Wilder brought the television home, and I watched many an episode of Lost in Space and Hogan’s Heroes on it, but one day it stopped producing sound of any form.

Pop Wilder took it back to the dealer, and I’m sure had quite a conversation indicating that he never should have purchased such a piece of Japanese junk as this. The dealer opened it up, called him (long distance, which must have cost enough to replace a kidney in those days) and asked him to come in.

The dealer wordlessly held up the speaker from the television, which had been cut to ribbons.

By?

Me.

Duh. I had a pen knife that Grandpa McWilder gave me, and it made a really cool sound when I put it into the slot on the front of the TV. Eventually I ran out of slots. The next time I turned on the TV? No “Danger, Will Robinson.” No. Just silence.

So, I understand the destructive impulses of the little Wilders, and it’s my job to paint, patch, and repair the damage done by the wee beasties as they attempt to burn, break, discolor, and smash our house and the things in here. I’m okay with that.

Heck, Pop Wilder never even spanked me. Thankfully, he was okay when I poured all of his motor oil into Mason© jars. I don’t think I spilled too much onto the carpet. Heck, if the Clampett family could be rich from some crude, we must be gazillionaires, since the oil was already refined.

What the heck was Pop Wilder doing in keeping all that valuable oil in the garage?

" A hit. You have sank my battleship." - The Grim Reaper, Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey

2009-02-22T20:09:00.000-09:00

The Battleship Texas. This ship fought in WWI and WWII, losing only one man to combat related injuries. A symbol of pride for all Texans, this ship was forever defiled by horrible snoring the other night. My snoring.

Cub Scouts presents many an opportunity for The Boy and I to interact in a way more meaningful than, “pick up your socks, now take out the trash, get me a Phillips screwdriver from the shop” sort of way. One of those is camping. Preferably it’s outdoors, since then we can start a fire and then heroically save the camp when it slips its bounds and begins to flame everywhere (this has happened to us). However sometimes a fire is just a bit inappropriate . . .

In Texas, we have a variety of ships that are available for Cub Scout sleepovers: the USS Cavalla (a submarine), the USS Lexington (I haven’t been to this one – it’s either an aircraft carrier or a Constitution-Class starship) and the USS Texas.

My first experience with the USS Texas came when I was reading a book, The Ayes of Texas by Daniel Da Cruz. In this 1982 version of Red Dawn in Texas, the Soviet Union is preparing to kick the heinies of a complacent America. Texas? They won’t hear of it, succeed from the wussified Union, and with the help of NASA engineers refit the USS Texas into a high-tech war machine that keeps the Russkies out of the Brazos. It was a good yarn.

Rather than read about it in a book that I bought at a supermarket back when Reagan was president, this time I was fortunate enough to spend a night on the Texas with The Boy’s Cub Scout troop. The Boy and I were the first ones there – I didn’t think that I’d be able to take him at all, since on Thursday he was sick. The Mrs. took him to a doctor, and the doctor indicated that it was a virus – no antibiotics required. He felt fine the next day but they booted him from school because the doctor’s note said “he’s sick”, and we proceeded to pack and head to the USS Texas.

I had been on the Texas before, primarily above decks, and, well, it seemed small for the term “Battleship.” Heck, this battleship, (at least the sign said) was a dreadnaught which meant at the time of its construction, was considered one of the baddest ships at sea. The baddest, in 1914.

Inside, however, it was a completely different story – it was not small at all. The ship was huge. I learned on our trip that at one point, 1,600 men lived on board the ship – working multiple shifts (though, unlike a submarine, people didn’t have to share bunks).

Walking through the maze of history with a batch of Cub Scouts is enlightening. They got to see where the sailors ate, where they worked, and where they, ahem, went No. 2. They even got to see where the sailors got put when they were bad when we visited the brig. In the brig, the sanitary arrangements consisted of a bucket, and the bed consisted of the cold, solid steel floor. All while the prisoner was in a locked iron box with no light and just a few holes for ventilation. The prisoner got a bread and water for two days, and regular rations the third. This, to me, seems a bit more of a deterrent than our current penal system, but I’m thinking that the tennis skills and bench press abilities of our inmates would suffer should we follow a course of punishment similar to this.

Anyhow, after a tour belowdecks, we went to our room to sleep. It was 10PM, and I was tired. So were the Cub Scouts. We went to our bunks and bunked down. Outside of various Other Boys coughing, and my Olympic-Quality snoring, the night was uneventful. At 10:30PM the speakers came on and the mournful melody, Taps, played. Of course, by that time all the Cub Scouts were nearly asleep, so another five minutes of “What’s that??” was followed again by quiet.

Until 6:30AM. That’s when Reveille played. I was completely not ready to get up. While I do not turn to dust at 6:30AM on Saturday, I do turn into pea gravel. Ugh.

We convened for a nice breakfast, and, mercifully, some coffee. After about six cups I gain an actual personality. I could only get my hands on three, so I had to fake it. We walked about the upper deck, and got to view the Captain’s quarters, the inside of one of the 14” guns, and the bridge. Standing up on top of the bridge, imagining the ship under full steam into the sea, was wonderful. Or would have been wonderful, had my head still not been ringing from a conk from a low overhead beam. I’m imagining that sailors must have been shorter at some point.

Well, the Texas isn’t a futuristic war machine slated to kill Evil Soviets, but, with a few lasers here and there and maybe a cold fusion drive . . .

"Gold silverware?"-Jane Jetson, The Jetsons

2009-02-15T19:44:00.000-09:00

So, at last the stimulus package has reached the Wilder family. I can report that The Boy has decided that he will quit second grade and begin working a job so he can get that extra $13 a week and do nothing but spend it on cheap Pez®. Oops, he has to get a job first, and it seems that all of the “street urchin” positions have been filled in Houston. So, I guess he’ll have to go and sell hedge funds futures in his Lego™ collection, which is probably a better asset than the third mortgage on a million-dollar condo in Encino that Wells Fargo is calling a “prime asset.”

Warning. What follows is a rant. It may not have the strict technical construction and tight, razor-sharp wit that normally accompanies Wilder By Far. Okay, you’ve been warned.

I try not to make this a political blog, because the one thing that I know politicians fail at horribly is that little thing called “the truth.” Oh, sure, Obama is going to bring “Change”, but frankly I like being alive, drinking beer, and eating steak. If he were going to change those things, well, that would make me sad. If he were going to make me a millionaire so I could spend more time being alive, drinking beer, and eating steak, well, I’d be in favor of that.

Apparently, the “Change” Obama was talking about was his address. Dunno ‘bout you, but I’m with The Who . . . “Please meet the new boss, same as the old boss . . .” Oh, sure, I’m thinking he might ride in on a winged unicorn that craps M&M’s® but I haven’t seen that quite yet.

Call me jaded. I guess that I would look good as a green statue. At least then my abs would be rock hard.

But I digress.

The thing that people forget about the Great Depression is that 70% of people had good jobs. Oh, sure, they had sand-flavored Jell-O® as dessert (or should that be desert?) and had nothing but chicken to eat for eleven years, but they made it through.

Not that it didn’t mess with their nuggets, though. Ma Wilder made it through the depression and made the family save all the tin plates from the Swanson™ TV dinners (this was back before the microwave made such a packaging faux pas a potentially incendiary event). I asked her why she saved TV dinner plates and dill pickle jars once, and she said, “You never know when we might need them.”

I still cannot conceive of a use for Swanson™ TV dinner tins. Perhaps she wanted us to spot-weld them to her Impala© in the event of rust. Other than that? I’m still at a loss. And since we lived in the driest part of the US, where rust was a century-long event, it may be that Ma Wilder was just off a bit.

I also know Ma wanted us to be self sufficient on our 2-1/2 acre slice of heaven. Since the only garden that she had tended for THREE YEARS had produced nothing but itsy-bitsy potatoes (after we had planted big ones) and some anemic strawberries, I hated to tell her that if the USSR ever launched the apocalypse against the US, well, pretty soon we’d be eating dog and sagebrush, since she couldn’t grow formaldehyde in a FEMA trailer.

But Ma Wilder did manage to put some stories through my head that ring familiar now. “Don’t ever buy stocks – that’s how The Man gets ya.” Since Pop Wilder technically was “The Man” in his day job, I didn’t argue this one. Ma Wilder also stored money about the place, and as soon as the Feds allowed purchase of gold again, I think she and Pa bought a bit. I know that at one point they had a LOT of silver coins, to which the disposition thereof was never made clear to me, since they were travelling a long way and came back with oodles of cash in their hands. But I got an Atari™ with Missile Command© soon afterward, so I was cool with that. (This by the way is an example of Gresham’s Law: Bad Money drives out Good and the son of people who have good money can get an Atari™. Silver=Good Money, and everyone kept the silver coins and wouldn’t give them as change. I challenge you thus: have you ever got a real silver (pre-1965 coin) as change at Taco Bell? Nope. So there.)

(OMIGOSH MOMENT: The United States used to mint money that was made of SILVER. ACTUAL SILVER!!! They stopped that when they had most of us conditioned that if it looked silvery, it was money. Fact check: DID YOU KNOW THAT WE USED TO USE GOLD AS MONEY, TOO????)

(Final fact check: DID YOU KNOW THAT THE CONSTITUTION REQUIRES WE MAKE MONEY ONLY OF GOLD AND SILVER? “Nor shall . . . any state make any Thing but gold and silver Coin a Tender in Payment of Debts.”)

So, now the Treasury is too cheap to make a penny out of copper – because it would actually cost them more than a penny to make. And they didn’t make pennies out of copper way in the past because copper was so expensive – it was because copper was cheap. Did I mention that nickels used to be made of nickel? Yeah, not so much now. I think they make current coins out of the stuff that the chicken processing plants can’t use to make McNuggets®.

The other notion that Ma Wilder put in my head is that you have to take care of each other, in a far greater sense. I know her family took in a young boy and raised him through high school when his parents couldn’t care for him. He ended up calling those sorta-adoptive parents Mom and Dad. This is another good way to ignore The Man.

I used to worry that Congress was creating obligations far in excess of what any economy could ever produce, but that was too scary. Now I worry about fashion. It’s easy. Does this shirt go with that? Hmmm . . . . . Okay, as long as my belt matches my shoes, I’m in the house.

I talked with a friend of mine and he mentioned that this particular financial calamity, still unfolding as I write, was fairly debilitating – it was like being nibbled to death by ducks. Evil, Wall-Street-Banking-Ducks, but, still ducks. It was hard to get mad at the ducks, because they were just being ducks. But the news just keeps getting worse as we go along. I imagine that in Stimulus Package XVII that perhaps the San Francisco 49’ers will defeat the Denver Dread Deflation. My response? Live out of debt (he’s working that way) and remember the important people around you and the love and life you can share. And all that beer that you can drink.

Make no mistake – we are in deflation now. I can go into the husk of a Circuit City© and buy a completely awesome plasma flat screen for a third of what it was last year. Same thing in Best Buy™. Heck, they even had a Wii© in stock for the first time, well, ever.

I remember seeing a Mad™ Magazine comic from my brother’s collection that summed it up: deflation is where everything is cheap, but nobody has any money. If only a Stimulus Helicopter would fly by . . . .

Perhaps I need to look into that street urchin job . . .

"You work for Torchwood?" - The Doctor, Doctor Who

2009-02-08T22:57:00.000-09:00

The construction crews building this new intersection must get a lot of joy out of this work – they’ve been doing it for two years.

One of the joys of parenting (outside of sending them to bed so that The Mrs. and I can watch movies that have cursing of a stronger vintage than “shucky-darn” and characters that aren’t animated talking animals solving hopelessly contorted and implausible crimes involving the old deserted amusement park) is watching my children learn the important lessons. Oh, not the ones that involve how to win a knife fight against drunken bikers, but in this case the importance of work.

Perhaps the most important lesson that Pop Wilder taught me (outside of how to handle myself in a knife fight against drunken Old West bank robbers – Pop is old enough to have voted for Roosevelt – Teddy, not that young whippersnapper Franklin) is that work is a good thing.

Yes, I know that work is something I’m supposed to avoid since it cuts into time that I could use to eat Pez®, but frankly, I like to do most work. There’s something about the feeling of accomplishment that I get when I finally mow the last foot of hedge or mop the last square foot of lawn. There’s a bit of a Zen feeling of completeness – of satisfaction from doing something, doing it well, but most of all, finishing it. This is similar (I think) to the feeling that heads of large banks feel when they get lots of government money for free.

On Saturday I grabbed The Boy and we went outside to work. Last year when we had bagged massive amounts of savagely ripped apart plant matter, The Boy had complained bitterly over everything from the temperature, (“My face is melting”) to his tools (“I think I’m allergic to trash bags”). This time? He worked quickly, quietly, with the exception that he said, “I like working” several times. The Boy even put his gloves back in the shop when he was done, rather than let them sit out to rot on the concrete, as is more usual. The Boy still has a little ways to go when it comes to initiative, and empty pop cans appear to be invisible, or perhaps artifacts of nature that should never be disturbed. “That’s an endangered A&W® root beer can in its native environment. Be quiet!”

Learning to like working is what it’s all about. So much of our lives (unless you are Paris Hilton) revolve around work – work is one way that we can add significance to the actions we take and make the world a better place, filled with meaning and joy. Unless you’re Paris Hilton. Or the head of a major bank. Or in Congress.

I still remember Ma Wilder telling me that I would appreciate things more if I paid for them, although I thought her rent increase when I turned eight was just a bit much. But, really, Ma was right. I did appreciate them more, but more than that, they were mine, and I wasn’t beholden to anyone for them. Of course, as soon as I could buy fireworks, I then discovered that I could also make the things I’d scrimped and saved for explode, which was, perhaps, even more fun.

So, The Boy happily picked up, cleaned, fetched, carried, and didn’t complain a bit. For about six hours of his time, The Boy figured I should pay him about $5. Actually, he’s worth more, and given that his rent is due to increase soon, I might even chip in a $10 for this weekend. He’ll need to start saving for knives.

"Pavlov was this scientist guy, you know, and every time this dog would ring a bell, Pavlov would eat." - Michael, That 70's Show

2009-02-01T19:12:00.000-09:00

Reliant© Stadium, where no football was played tonight. If you listen to most Texans™ fans, no football has ever been played at Reliant® Stadium. (Actually, I sort of like the Texas JV team, they may suck, but they’re plucky.)

The Boy finally had the metal staples removed from his skull, apparently with little discomfort. I don’t know about you, but I personally think that head wounds should hurt a bit – it’s sort of a Pavlovian conditioning to keep you from doing stupid things, like that hangover I got from eating Nuclear Jell-O® in college. Nuclear Jell-O™ is regular Jell-O©, but my friend made it with pure grain alcohol, and is thus very insidious because it’s got about a twenty minute time delay from consumption to the part of your brain that enables the use of verbs and, coincidentally, walking, to shut down entirely. The next day? I hoped only for death. Maybe a grilled cheese sandwich first, but death should follow quickly thereafter. Unfortunately for me, I lived, and still had to go to Physics 231.

That’s why I’m against all the namby-pamby dressing of kids in full body armor prior to letting them loose on a bicycle. I’m sure that this trend started in California, because they’re the only ones who had the time and smarminess available to decide that riding a bicycle required more protective clothing than we’d sent with a typical GI as he stormed Normandy. As a sidebar, that typical GI had a different experience learning to ride his bike as his father taught him to ride the bike during the Great Depression by only feeding him if he could prove he had scraped his elbow on raw concrete until you could see bone, after making through the impromptu minefield his father had thrown together.

Me? I’m not so extreme, but I think wearing helmets while you ride a bike makes sense if you’re Lance Armstrong and are going down a French hillside at 834 miles per hour (9,324 km/hr). I can see Lance wanting to put on the latest in tactical gear. Does he do that? No. He shaves his legs so that it’s easier to pull off the bandages that he knows he’ll inevitably get. That’s the way that men deal with pain.

An eight year old on a bicycle with a top speed of six miles per hour? No. The pain should be a motivator to teach them to not do stupid things. That’s why we have pain.

Take, for instance, me. There’s a regular occurrence in the Casa de Wilder wherein I run through the house to the master bathroom (where we keep all the serious medical supplies) and The Mrs. gets up, sighing, (because this is a regular event) to collect her keys and get Pugsley ready so she can drive me to the doctors to get stitched up.

The last time this happened I tried to open a drum of unknown provenance that came with our house in Alaska (it said it was used cooking grease, but you can never tell). As the tool slipped, so did my pinky. It impacted the drum, which proved to be pretty adroit at removing it. The doctor finished the job.

Now that The Mrs. has at least two people in her life committed to wreaking havoc upon their own bodies, I’m sure that she’s resigned to multiple trips to the doctor a year to have various appendages sewn up or, in more drastic cases, just removed. (If you’ve never had your fingernail removed, it’s only slightly more uncomfortable than having to pay taxes.)

Thankfully, my parents never knew the real dangers I got myself into when I was young. I had my friend C.R. try to pull me up while I was hanging over the side of a cliff when I was eight. He couldn’t. (Stupid Six Million Dollar Man, anyway.) I was stuck in the middle of a highway lane of traffic (on a blind turn) as my bellbottoms got entangled in my bicycle chain. (You can inch your way out of danger if you hustle and aren’t too worried about how much you rip up your Sedgefield® jeans.)

Should I skip the motorcycle wreck? The time my friend Daniel Cisneros and I found the tear gas grenade, or the time we played Light Saber® with fluorescent bulbs? The time that my car spun six times on two wheels?

I have no illusion that we live in a world without risk. Part of childhood is embracing that risk, and jumping into the swimming hole not giving a rip if a rattler is also enjoying a swim.

So, parents of the world, chill out. I’m sure your Mom was quite upset when she found that you’d eaten a significant number of her birth control pills when you were four.

Mine was. Apparently poison control, once they stopped laughing, told her the risk that I’d get pregnant was pretty low.

" Shut up! Or I'll wound your inner child!" - Beavis, Beavis and Butthead

2009-01-25T22:34:00.000-09:00

The Astrodome, which, while being very dome-y, is not very astro-y. Heck, I don’t think it’s suited to travel in outer space at all. I checked, and the darn thing has a lot of concrete in it. I know the Russians experimented with concrete spacecraft, but I just don’t think this is a good design for a spacecraft.

Many times I sit down at this keyboard on Sunday night, Internet, and I wonder just exactly what might be interesting to chat about from the previous week. Oh, sure, sometimes you might get a long diatribe about the potential pitfalls of being near a wild Pugsley during a spaghetti dinner, and how it turns out that ear wax is relatively soluble in tomato sauce. Maybe it’s the acidity of the tomato?

Instead, Internet, this week I have tons to tell you, and have the luxury of picking and choosing. I guess I’ll start off with The Call.

I’m at work, happily doing whatever it is I do when I’m not using my body as a chemical treatment plant for coffee, when the phone rang. I suppose the phone is supposed to ring from time to time, but rarely does The Mrs. call me later in the afternoon. The conversation was short and clipped.

“Minor emergency center. Now.”

I made it there before her.

I could tell that The Mrs. wasn’t on top of her game, since she parked in the lot due east of the parking lot she needed to be in. The Mrs. walked cross-country across an open lot holding Pugsley’s hand, and I saw The Boy clutching a blood soaked rag to the back of his nugget. If only Pugsley were playing a drum, The Boy a fife, and The Mrs. carrying a thirteen-star US flag, the picture would have been complete.

“What happened? Did the neighbors finally launch an invasion?” I have been predicting that the neighbors, who claim they need something called “lebensraum,” would cross the border, perhaps with tanks, or more likely a Mad-Max style lawn mower. Perhaps it was the Home Owners’ Association venting on our lawn care practices?

No. Turns out that it was much more mundane, since The Boy was playing with The Mrs. (she was ticking him) and he took a step back. And fell. Backward. Into the concrete divider stones that prevent the invasion of the lawn into the flower bed.

Ouch. Turns out that’s worth fifteen staples. When they indicated that they were going to staple his noggin shut, The Boy decided that wasn’t at all what he wanted. “No, you can’t do that.”

I calmly explained that these weren’t normal staples, but that, in fact, they were mechanical closure devices that depended upon the use of mildly deformed metal to hold multiple surfaces together. Which, of course, is exactly like a regular staple, but it shut him up.

We explained to The Boy that every Boy ends up with something sewn up – if you get out of childhood without a good wicked scar or two, you simply did it all wrong.

So, since the medical folks were worried, he was put on a liquid diet for the next 24 hours. Which meant – shakes, pudding, yogurt, Jell-O®, but, sadly, no Pez™. I can inform you that nothing cheeses off a little brother more than watching his big brother eat pudding for the main course of lunch, followed by pudding for desert, and ice cream if he was good.

Thankfully, The Boy was able to go to Pinewood Derby©, wherein his car finished respectably (faster than last year, but not enough for a first place, though two of his runs were wicked fast).

His mechanical fastening system closing up his noggin wound will be removed sometime next week. The Boy was philosophical about his rough week.

“I’m going outside to play.”

It’s nice to be eight.

"Don't let it smell your fear!" - Artie, The Adventures of Pete and Pete

2009-01-11T20:11:00.000-09:00

Pugsley, wearing glasses with enough magnification to let him see through walls. His goal? To find all of the cookies in the house.

After Christmas, we took a trip to go see The Mrs.’ parents, on their 34,324 acre ranch somewhere in Zanzibar or Tanganyika. Sarah Palin has no idea where either of these places are, but Joe Biden is pretty sure they were our main opponents in WW IV, when Franklin Roosevelt defeated the Klingon Empire.

Anyhow, we got in the car and headed out of Houston. Sixteen hours of tough seventy-mile-an-hour driving later, we’d nearly made it out of Houston. Thankfully, traffic was light that day.

After driving over the river and through the woods to Grandmama’s house we went. Unfortunately, Pugsley had ingested approximately 83 ounces of unapproved Super Big Gulp®. We discovered this when every five minutes he would frantically indicate that his youthful bladder would explode with the force of a hurriquakanoado (a hurriquakanoado is the simultaneous combination of a hurricane, earthquake, volcano, and tornado, or, every news network’s dream come true).

After finally getting our passports out at the Texas-New Mexico (or was it Oklahoma?) border, we finally drove through another state or two and reached our ultimate destination.

There is no love more pure than that of a three-year-old for his Grandparents, primarily because those bonds don’t involve nearly as much standing in the corner as the parent/child relationship, and a whole lot more, “Well, if you eat all of that broccoli, you won’t have any room for cookies.”

For my part, this part of the vacation was exactly that – vacation. I slept, ate ham, slept some more, ate more ham, and then watched people cooking ham on the Food Channel™. Occasionally, I’d nap on the couch. The Boy and Pugsley basked in the glow of Grandparental attention, which culminated with Pugsley disassembling Grandpa’s television and then reassembling it so it was now an HD version, and could pick up signals from intergalactic sources. My Father In Law can now watch the Andromedan version of “Two and a Half Zxclormecks.”

We took The Boy and Pugsley out to the park on a glorious (and fairly warm) New Year’s Day. They hit the swings, slides, and other various kid-powered playground toys with youthful vigor. Until it came time to slide down the fireman’s pole attached to one of the toys.

Pugsley, with all the bravado that a three-year-old can muster, indicated that he wanted to slide on down. It’s a drop of about 10 feet, so, knowing that he just might forget to hang on while in mid-slide, I said, “no.”

The Boy indicated he’d like to ride. I told him, “Yes.”

The Boy climbed to the top part of the structure and then looked down into the gaping chasm that was the 10’ from platform to ground.

“I don’t want to do it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m scared.”

“Well, that’s not really a good reason,” I responded. “You’ve seen other people do it. It’s your turn.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes. You have to. Otherwise you’ll be even more afraid next time. You don’t want a fear of playground equipment chasing you around forever, do you?”

Eventually, after much cajoling, threatening and outright blackmail, he slid down the fireman’s pole.

On the way to the car, he said, “That was fun. I’ll have to do that next time.”

Not sure when we’re heading back, since the newscasters have me scared to drive during hurriquakanoado season . . .

"This Millennium Group, they really believe all that stuff; Nostradamus and Revelations, the destruction of the world?" - Bob, Millennium

2009-01-04T18:44:00.000-09:00

~~Nostradamus~~ The Boy bringing you our creepy New Year’s prediction page. I wandered in and asked him why he was dressed like that, but all he would tell me was, “Ask not, Father, and yea, verily, ask not why the cat is missing half of its hair.” Typical.

Predictions are very tricky things. They require insight, guts, and, for the really good ones, at least some consumption of beer. As rumor has it, Nostradamus would get plowed on Natural Light® and then write his quatrains down, which explains why they sound like something a drunken Frenchman would write.

For the record, I am not French.

So, here, Internet, are my predictions for the future. I may (if I remember next year) score myself and see how I did. Do not take these too seriously, and sell your house, and then hole up in the woods with 17,000 rolls of toilet paper and enough ammo to make the Chinese army blush. Unless you were planning to do that already. If you were, add some jerky to your stash.

January will be a fairly boring month:

I think (going out on a limb here) it may snow, someplace in the lower 48 (53 if you’re Obama) states.

GM will likely show up at Congress and say, “When we said we needed $15 billion, we really meant $15 trillion. An intern in accounting made the mistake on the calculations for what our power bill would be for that hot tub we’re putting in that will seat all of Michigan.”

After getting confidential briefings from the Treasury Department and the Federal Reserve Bank, Obama will immediately demand a recount of the 2008 election, and claim that he cannot serve because, well, he’ll think up a list. McCain will decline the recount, and then ask a bunch of kids to get off of his lawn. Joe Biden’s hair plugs will be unavailable for comment.

February gets more interesting:

I get used to my bifocals, and begin chasing kids off my lawn. The Super Bowl™ ends at halftime with the crowd rushing Bruce Springsteen after he shows off one of his nipples in a wardrobe malfunction. He claims it was all Justin Timberlake’s fault. Then Al Franken shows up, and they make out. Remember, prophecy isn’t an exact science.

Deflation¹ begins to really mess with the economy, starting with “The Price is Right®”. Drew Carey will have to admit that the new Corvette, trip to Acapulco, and personal space shuttle is only worth $1.78, and that’s at MSRP. In related news, a seventeen year old will be depositing his check from delivering pizzas. He banks at a Citibank and accidently sign a contract and find out he owns Citibank. Citibank will not let him out of the transaction.

March comes in like a lion, but goes out like a small Key lime pie. Al Gore demands seconds, then explains with a whipped-cream covered lip, that the pie is a sign of Global Warming®. He then chastises the rest of the country for using Redi-Whip©, since, “it’s scienfificalslsdfy proven that it kills polar bears. Manbearpig!”

In April GM, Ford, and Chrysler determine that they can no longer manufacture cars and maintain a profit, and instead focus on the newly lucrative Pez® dispenser market. This requires a $123 billion injection of funds from the Treasury for retraining of their workforce using magic beans they bought on the way to market and solid gold Etch-a-Sketches®.

In May, all major banks determine that their model of “lending money to just about anyone who has a pulse” may have had a small flaw. Given Federal government pressure, banks now begin lending to the dead. George Washington buys a condo in Miami, right next to Thomas Jefferson’s.

In June, people who live in Blue States determine that all the food and gasoline are produced in the Red States. They protest that they are the leading producers of “smug” and have the lots of investment bankers.

In July the Wilder family goes on a slightly humorous vacation. I may stub my toe, or, more likely, nearly sever a non-essential limb and perform slightly humorous home surgery. Who can say?

In August, I will write about how darn hot and sweaty I am, no matter where we live.

In September the NFL© will resume play. To save on money, they will only play local games. The Houston Texans® lose to the Ft. Bend County Junior High All-Stars 48-23. But it was closer than that. Houston then demands a new stadium, to keep up with Dallas.

In October, the Dow Jones Industrial Average reaches a high of 12. I’ve saved enough spare pocket change that I buy the New York Times©. Circulation goes up 2300% my first week as editor, with the “All Dilbert” issue being the highest selling newspaper in history, right after my “Moose and Swimsuit Issue” featuring Drew Carey.

In November, many turkeys will be unpleasantly surprised. (Dang, that nice farmer guy fed me for months. I didn’t see that coming.)

In December, with a near 100% certainty, I believe it will snow somewhere in both the Eastern Republic of America and the Southern Hegemony of America. The Western Kingdom will have snow in the Duchy of Washington. King Arnold the First will proclaim a day of eel fishing and free gruel for all.

¹Deflation is where Paris Hilton’s becomes even less valuable than previously.

I’ll leave you with this from Fred Thompson. Love him, hate him, he’s absolutely right in the following (apolitical) message, and if you’re interested in the difference between Keynesian and Austrian economic thought, drop me a line. I encourage you strongly to listen. It made me chuckle, and, it’s safe for work.

"I see you have constructed a new light saber. Your skills are complete." - Darth Vader, Return of the Jedi

2008-12-28T20:42:00.000-09:00

Can you fit an electric Arctic Cat® PowerWheels™ into the back of a family sedan? Only if you take the car for dinner and dancing first.

Christmas has come and gone again, but that’s because we have time. Time is the thing that makes sure that everything doesn’t happen all at once, and also the thing that makes sure that your beer goes flat if you don’t drink it within some reasonable time period. The best definition I ever read of time is the “measure of increase in entropy of a system”, which, if applied to the wrapping paper on a Christmas present is quite a measure. Entropy, of course, is the measure of increase of disorder of a system, i.e., a group of tiny cats, when you shake them up in a bag and then pour them on the floor will go every which way. From a true physics standpoint this isn’t good experimental design, but it’s just fun to grab a bag of small cats, shake them, and then drop them on the floor. The sight of small cats running in terror from the gigantic beast that encased them in burlap and then vigorously shook them puts me, for one, into the holiday spirit.

If The Boy and Pugsley had their way, it would be Christmas everyday. Of course it would. They’re eight and three, and don’t realize that it’s far more fun to go to work and slave away for hours at a time. Don’t worry, Internet, they’ll eventually get there.

Our family is a “Christmas Eve” present opening family. It tends to lead toward a more relaxed Christmas Day, not to mention that the little dears get so excited about the presents that they got the day before that they don’t get up at 3:42AM to see what Santa brought. If you’ve had any wine at all, you can see what sense this makes.

I don’t know about your house, but Santa definitely leaves very little at ours, the cheap elf that he is. Most (if not all) of the really good presents come from Mom, Dad, and the Grandparents. Santa might bring a few doo-dads; an orange, perhaps a toothbrush, but nothing really, really fun. Santa (at least at our house) seems somewhat overly obsessed with hygiene.

Anyhow, Christmas Eve brought a celebration of the Geek. Each boy (including yours truly) received a brand spanking new Light Saber® (these are the really cool ones with the polycarbonate blades that make the appropriate sounds when we turn them on and smack them together), with which we battle continuously, if somewhat inconclusively. I was unsure that a three year old would be a good owner of a Light Saber©. So was The Mrs. It turns out Pugsley is as giddy as a kitten with poo to cover to have one.

The Boy was likewise happy with his presents. “You didn’t get me crap like you usually do.”

He stammered a bit, even at eight realizing that this was a slightly impolitic statement to make. “Umm, I mean I really like that stuff you got me last year, but I just don’t know where it is.”

Eight is a big year for Legos® and he has a bundle of them. Already he’s made several improbable-looking Jedi© moving contraptions that he loves. Like Pugsley, The Boy will at a moment’s notice, attack me with his Light Saber™. Thankfully, I spend most of my time working on my relationship with the Dark Side® of The Force©.

Pugsley? He just rides on his bouncy horse when he’s bored. (Let me tell you, putting that thing together was an exercise in the near-grotesque-the horse came headless, and no small number of Godfather™ jokes were made in putting it together.)

The Mrs.? Oh, she told me exactly what she wanted. Through a small bit of luck, even though what she wanted was definitely a special order item, it just happened to be available.

So, a merry Christmas was had by all.

Now if I only had a bag of small cats to shake . . . .

" A pentagram, and reindeer laughing. You figure it out." - Tom Servo, MST3K

2008-12-21T20:08:00.000-09:00

Angel Six, Angel Six, this is Red Nose. We have a man down, repeat, we have a man down.

At Christmas, we’re lucky enough to get letters from our friends that tell us of the fun events and excitement that they have had during the previous year. Generally, it’s the good excitement they tell us about – new babies, fresh cosmetic surgery, and never mention terms like “claw hammer” or “incarcerated.”

I say we’re “lucky” because I can’t recall sending a Christmas card out in nearly a decade – yet these people (I’ll call them “nice”, because they are) haven’t given up on the Wilders. I mean, oh, sure, they’d like to give up on us, but they know our address, and, heck, it’s just one more card.

The real reason that we don’t do it is that we’re lazy procrastinators. Really, we intend to do something like that, and vaguely recall that intent sometime late at night two days before Christmas.

This year I’ll repeat the process and give an update of the Wilder Year, but do it in distinctly non-Wilderesque fashion – I’ll do it before Christmas. So, here’s the annual update:

January:
Pinewood Derby. The Boy’s car won, but my taking a claw hammer to the competition for some last-minute “adjustments” may have had something to do with it. It also averaged 130°F outside during the days.

February:
The leaves in our trees fell out sporadically. I called the Centers for Disease Control, but they told me it was nothing to be worried about, since it was due to something called “winter.” I also went to Canada, where I found a tropical paradise festooned with palm trees. Just kidding. It was Canada, where the national motto is, “Politus, Frozenium.” I think the Canadians are so suspiciously polite because they worry we might just turn our tanks north, now that we’re done with Iraq.

March:
I nearly kill The Boy after having to spend the night with him on a submarine. I’m thinking that the other people on the sub wanted to kill me, given the whole “snoring loud enough to create a tsunami” thing. Fortunately, the tsunami destroyed only Cuba.

April:
I paid taxes. There are no state income taxes for individuals in Texas, so I paid no Texas taxes. It’s funny because they have the same letters, but only one of them has a sense of humor.

May:
We were sucked into a time-space vortex and missed most of May. I think that was good. They still paid me at work.

June:
We blissfully headed north for a Family Reunion on The Mrs. side. It was 103°F in Houston, so we escaped the heat in Dallas where it was only 102.9°F. Cleared toilet (not the bowl, the PIPE WAS CLOGGED) of 142 little bars of hotel soap that Pugsley had dropped into the toilet. I’ve never felt so dirty yet clean at the same time.

July:
We headed farther north, where it actually was cooler, again to see relatives of The Mrs. (if parents are considered relatives). We made it home and The Mrs. and I were briefly incarcerated after a naked claw-hammer fight on the front lawn (we were just recreating a scene from Aliens). Alcohol may have been a factor.

August:
Discovered endless cheap energy source that anyone could fabricate in their garage out of common household materials, but did so just as the price of oil fell. Guess nobody wants that now. I’ll just burn the plans for heat in my fireplace.

September:
Hurricane Ike hit Houston, then doubled back and hit it again while it was down and quivering. Since there was no electricity, cable, or Internet, the family had to devolve to “talking to one another.” Happily power soon returned.

October:
Stock market crashed, and the Fed Chairman called me and asked me what to do about it. I told him, “Oh, just lend money to the most incompetent businesses, but only the ones that were really reckless. Don’t bail out competent businesses.” Does that man not understand sarcasm?

November:
Turkey-induced coma. Sadly, I did not get a call from the Obama transition team. I was really hoping for to be appointed to be the Secretary of Health, Education, Pantyhose, and Pez®. I already had my position papers ready on National Pez© Policy.

December:
Decided that I believed in Global Warming™ after all. The snow in Houston was my first clue.

Merry Christmas!!

"Dude, some guy in a wolf costume with a light saber just said 'Hi' to you." - Shawn, Psych

2008-12-14T20:04:00.000-09:00

It snowed in Houston. Really. Apparently, it snowed several inches in a spot or two, and the accident count was ~100 an hour. Yay, snow! Of course I was out of town, so I guess I’ll just have to wait another few years for the next snow. This must be a harbinger of Global Warming®, since snow in Houston can only be related back to global warming (I think I really read something like that).

Pugsley has begun to speak. Oh, sure, Internet, you might not interpret the shouted “MO!” as “NO!” or “mew” as the word “cat”, but give the little guy a break. Pugsley is three, and has been in no hurry to talk.

Of course, this confounds babysitters, who ask Pugsley if he wants “more” and then he says “mo” and for some reason gets angry when mo isn’t interpreted as “mo.”

Pugsley’s talking (or lack thereof) becomes somewhat secondary with the stupidity drug that Christmas is for all those under 12 or so. Pugsley and The Boy are all atwitter, dancing around like goons while humming out-of-tune versions of “Carol of the Bells” and eating candy canes. Am I the only one who thinks that it’s grossly unfair that all we had when I was a kid growing up were those crappy mint-flavored candy canes, and now you can get them in all sorts of non-sucky flavors?

I tried to explain to The Boy how lucky he was that we had the ability to buy him toys for Christmas, how my Mom related that during the Depression had been happy to get gently-used uncomfortable underwear for Christmas, and were happy about it. The Boy just gave me an expression that indicated:

He didn’t understand me.

He didn’t care.

This better not be a softening up routine to signal he was getting used socks for Christmas.

Actually, that isn’t the case. This will be a Star Wars®-themed Christmas, since I intend to kidnap a Princess®, invade and Ice Planet© and finally watch my evil schemes torn to shreds by little walking teddy-bears™.

In reality, The Boy and Pugsley are getting Light Sabers® (and I am, too) so we can wander around the house willy-nilly hacking on each other. Exciting? Yes. We should have some fun with this, especially if I can avoid having them hack my right hand off.

I look forward to a continued batch of idiocy in the house as we head towards Christmas, even if at times it comes in the form of incomprehensible little outbursts of red-faced rants from a three-year-old who is getting frustrated that we can’t open the presents today.

Me? I say, “Mo means mo.” Also? “Just say mo.”

Keeps things consistent.

"Surprise! I got us a second wife to help with cooking and cleaning. Her name's impossible, so I call her Thundercat." - Stan, American Dad

2008-12-07T19:19:00.000-09:00

This is probably not a bad representation of Thundercat.

It’s amazing what a three-year-old remembers.

I mentioned Christmas tree, and Pugsley immediately started pointing at the corner where we had last year’s tree. Of course, last year’s tree is identical to this year’s tree, because we’re definitely the “having an artificial tree means you have the same tree every year for a tradition” kind of family and also I’m a “buy a tree once and you don’t have to buy a real tree year after year” kind of cheapskate.

There may be those among you that say that Christmas is no place for cheapskates, but I would wager that had Joseph called ahead for a reservation that there wouldn’t have been any of this manger business. I can only imagine the six layers of abuse that Mary gave him. Me? I think this is the real untold story of Christmas.

But I am not Scrooge, though really it all turned out well for him in the end and he had oodles of cash. I like Christmas very much, and I like it even more now that I’m an adult and on the giving end of presents more than the receiving end. The way that the eyes of Pugsley and The Boy light up when they pull those great chunks of coal out of their stockings? Priceless.

Okay, I don’t do that. I’m not a monster. In reality, we try to keep our holidays here a little less strained than some, and that’s all for the good. I don’t know of any sibling rivalry in either family, but I am attempting to stir some up between The Boy and Pugsley, just to keep the holidays interesting when I’m older. I think I’ll tell each of them that I like the other better. That might do it.

But, sadly, right now I have to deal with small children who believe happily that Christmas is all about love and family, about spending time together, about (Houston version) slightly cooler weather, trees, candy canes, time off from school, and presents. I think they vaguely understand the religious connotations.

Me? I have the problem of selecting gifts. Not for Pugsley and The Boy – I know (and, perhaps, The Mrs. knows even better) what little boys like – Light Sabers® and Legos™ and science kits and soldering irons and books and BB-guns and slingshots. Anything that can put an eye out counts as a big plus.

No, my problem is much deeper, Internet. It’s The Mrs.

Oh, sure, The Mrs. is happy to sit and write the night away, and is happy with her two pairs of shoes and four pairs of jeans and has asked for very little while we’ve been married, but darned if I can figure out what she wants for Christmas.

DVD’s? We’ve got oodles that we’ve no time to watch.

Pez®? The Mrs. has a lifetime supply. The Mrs. even has the coveted Yosemite Sam© dispenser.

Watches? The Mrs. has enough watches for Kali®.

BB-guns? No. The Mrs. would shoot my eye out.

Diamonds? No. The Mrs. is unimpressed by highly compressed carbon. “Carbon’s carbon,” is what The Mrs. says.

So, Internet, help a friend out.

Oh, sure, I can think back to those two Christmases in the past where The Mrs. went online and created a shopping list of things that she would like, printed them, and then handed them to me. I picked from the lists and ordered presents (The Mrs. was kind enough to specify size) and a Merry Christmas was had by all.

Surprise value? Hideously low, but it was outweighed by the “husband’s present not sucking” value, like the time I got her a commemorative plate of the Pope visiting Dodger® Stadium, complete with photocopied certificate of authenticity.

So, Internet, give a guy a hand. Help me with a good surprise, so I can keep using both eyes.

"You mean you'll put down your rock and I'll put down my sword and we'll try to kill each other like civilized people?" - Wesley,Princess Bride

2008-11-30T20:07:00.000-09:00

A sign at the Ren Faire®. This was in a cane store, where you could buy, umm, a cane. Or a wizard’s staff. Note that they don’t honor Ye Newe Worlde Expresse.

This year we followed our tradition of eschewing the rampaging mobs of bargain shoppers to head to the Texas Renaissance Festival®. By “tradition,” I mean that we have done it once before, and intended to do it again. By “eschewing,” I mean chewing in pumpkin pie in an ‘s’ pattern to get the Thanksgiving turkey from between our teeth after waking from L-tryptophan-induced comas. Besides, being around a group of sword and battle-ax wielding nerds is far safer than being anywhere near Best Buy® on Black Friday.

We loaded into the Wildermobile to head to TexRenFest (that’s what all the cool kids with the +2 swords call it). By loaded, I mean we skillfully smashed four adults and two children into a car that comfortably seats three adults (if one of them is short) and two children. In a pinch, I think you could fit sixteen children under the age of eight in to the car (or even more if you put infants in pet carriers), though the driving might be a touch more erratic when the seven-year-old driver forgot completely about the driving thing in order to wrestle the kid sitting next to him.

Notice that there were two extra adults? The Mrs.’ parents were in town, and we had decided to go to the Ren Fest. The Mrs. has the nicest parents, and it was wonderful having Thanksgiving with them. Thankfully, they were flexible about being extra close during the trip, by which I mean that I finally used a shoehorn to get us all in the car. We took turns breathing.

The loading of the car itself was problematic, since we were leaving in the early morning (it was just after 11AM) and the environment among the people in the car was similar to a bag of tom cats that had been shaken. I just think that the adults were caffeine deprived, and the kids had been nipping into some leftover Cool Whip®. After various iterations of putting kids in the trunk were rejected for various reasons, we finally managed to find a pattern that more or less assured mutual discomfort. After things finally calmed down, we drove the two hours from our home to TexRenFest©. Whataburgers® helped improve the mood significantly.

We finally got to our destination, whereupon we immediately saw the ranks of other people heading into the festival. About one person out of ten was dressed in either some form of velvet dress, leather armor with spiky-things on it that would frighten both the Predator® and the Alien©, someone auditioning to be Johnny Depp®, or just generally wearing flouncy clothing. Most interestingly, I did see a girl dressed in a chain mail bikini, but she was walking (I’m not making this up) staring cross-eyed at a slight head-tilt upwards as if she were taking instructions from a tiny insect god. She was armed.

I don’t know about you, but people taking instructions from tiny insect gods are rarely the kind of person who I feel will give good advice about building a strong portfolio for investment advice. I’m not going to judge and say that those people are weird. But they are.

One of the more distracting things was being called “m’lord.” It’s cute the first time that you hear it, but after that it just grates on me. Being called m’lord after you buy a funnel cake from “Ye Olde Funnele Cakee Shoppe”? Just odd. What exactly am I supposed to call them? Scum? Commoner? Peasant?

Ye olde funnele cakee (commonly called a “funnel cake” which is part sugar, part doughnut dough, part sugar, part cooking oil, and part sugar, and then covered with powdered sugar) introduced a strong streak of sugar-induced idiocy into The Boy. “CanIridethis? Canyoubuymethat? Ohhh,cooool,swords! Oh,Iwantasoda. Murwareweraagh!!!” I had been unaware that Leonardo DaVinci had done most of his work under the influence of funnel cakes, but The Mrs. informed me was indeed the case. After making him run in circles for about 20 minutes, he seemed to calm down a bit.

We eventually made past nearly every store there, and after examining no small number of swords, hats, knives, mugs, chainmail bustiers, and crossbows, we decided once again to head back into the 21st Century. The Mrs. made the note that I never actually purchase anything at the Ren Fests and Faires that we go to, and The Mrs. is right. If I ever want to dress like I’m in character for one of these things, I want to do it right, and not like the guy wearing a flouncy shirt, knee high velvet boots, a sword, a funky hat, and Levi® 501’s. Everyone knows that the medieval guys didn’t wear velvet. Sheesh.

We finally made it out of the maze that is TexRenFest®, but not before battling hordes of Orcs. Oh, wait, no. We just walked on out to the car, though there were plenty of rickshaw drivers willing to take us there for a few shillings and a promise not to beat them too soundly. We made it home in pretty good spirits.

I’m not sure that being called “m’lord” while I’m traipsing around in hiking boots and cargo shorts is very good for my ego. I tried later that afternoon after we got home to get a war party together to storm the manor across the street to increase my holdings and obtain a dowry to marry off the absent Alia S. Wilder, but was thwarted because The Boy and Pugsley had to stop the siege for naptime.

Maybe next year? I think that if I give them funnele cakees first . . .

Two men are dead. This is not the time for petty sibling squabbles. That's what Thanksgiving is for. - Shawn Spencer, Psych

2008-11-23T18:52:00.000-09:00

Richard Nixon preparing for his 2012 presidential run.

We’re now almost ready for Thanksgiving in Houston.

Oh, sure, Thanksgiving brings (for most people) the idea that you’d be pulling on a sweater, pulling your horse out of the barn, and taking a freakishly cold ride to Grandmother’s house on a one-horse-open sleigh. You might sing, but if you did, your larynx might be frozen solid by the time you reach old man Sutter’s pond. Then you get to Grandmother’s house, and she pulls a turkey out of the oven, and you pretend that it’s good, even though she’s cooked it to the consistency of beef jerky that’s been underneath the seat of a 1964 Corvair since Nixon was president. Your larynx? Still frozen.

In Houston? We had the air conditioning on today, not because we wanted to make snow inside to create the ambiance of late November, but because it’s still hot outside. Open the window? Besides the glass keeping the legions of lizards chewing their way in through the screens at bay, opening the window just lets the moisture inside. Do you want to be moist like the inside of a Twinkie® wrapper? I didn’t think so. We all know that isn’t good.

So, my childhood memories of Thanksgiving being outdoor temperatures generally being about 20°F are now receding. Now my memories are filled with the denizens of Houston huddling together like poodles in a freezer (don’t ask me how I know what this looks like) because it’s reached the alarming low of 67°F and debating the merits of various types of parkas.

To wit: The other day The Mrs., The Boy, Pugsley and I all went to the local grocery store. We ambled towards the store wearing (all of us) shorts and t-shirts. We saw residents of Houston running, running to the store to escape the cold in parkas and snow boots. I think we had the AC on when we drove home that day.

I think that Thanksgiving in Houston is primarily memorable because you don’t have to mow the lawn nearly as often, although the hedges grow twice as fast. It’s also too cold to swim. The upside? On the nights (three so far) that it’s cold enough that I can justify a fire in fireplace, the fence that blew down in the hurricane burns nicely.

Besides the whining above, I do feel that we Wilders have a lot to be thankful for this year. I’m thankful for lots of things, but I’m not putting the list out, because this isn’t a “very special episode” of Wilder by Far. No. I’m not going to be like the Fonz when he admitted that he had been beaten by President Eisenhower because he forgot to take out the trash.

No, instead I’ll just share a “Happy Thanksgiving” with all out there, hoping you keep your beer cold and your larynx warm.

"I met her in my quantum physics class. Isn't she great? Hold all my calls." - Bud, Married, with Children

2008-11-16T22:47:00.000-09:00

Bat Pugsley. On Halloween if you were wondering if Bruce Wayne could have perhaps hit the gym a little harder and hit the Oreos® a bit less hard, then you might have seen the elusive Pugsley. He doesn’t talk much, but it turns out after decoding that melodic grunting of vowel-sounds that passes for his speech that he wanted to be Bat Dog, rather than Batman™. “Woof, woof.”

“What’s the Oort Cloud, Dad?”

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been waiting forever for The Boy to ask me that. Technically I wasn’t expecting the question much before he was six, but getting it from him when he’s eight is close enough.

“Well, The Boy, the Oort Cloud is a batch of matter out far beyond the farthest planet (Neptune, if you’re a punk or, if you’re old school, Pluto).” My nerdy-heart pitter-pattered.

“What’s it made of?” Oh, additional nerdy goodness!

“Ice, some rocks, maybe. Long period comets probably originate there.”

After a few more minutes of discussion on things astronomical, the conversation drifted off into more mundane matters, like, “Oww, owww, owww! Pugsley’s pulling my hair!” Although this isn’t really a conversation, I think you get my drift. He’s still eight.

I am willing to admit it. I’m a nerd. The Boy wants to build a radio incorporating homemade capacitors and inductors? I’m in. (Note: I read on the Internet how enterprising prisoners of war built these radios out of speakers from a tank driver’s headset, some wire, and a rusty razor blade and a bit of pencil graphite to create a point-contact diode. Apparently these radios were good enough that they could hear aliens thinking on one of Jupiter’s moons. Obviously they had more than an evening to work on this and no women or beer to distract them.)

Build a second radio because the first one only picked up a very slight noise? Also in. Build a third because the second one only allowed us to hear the a tiny amount of incomprehensible noise and what might have been Mariachi music? Well, not yet. But probably some day.

This isn’t an isolated event: The other night The Mrs. was off in the other room writing (or, perhaps, just hiding from us smelly men), and The Boy was burned out on television. I’m pretty sure that The Mrs. would extract my spinal column if I showed him the Bleu-Wray® version of Predator that I wanted to watch, so we started, ugh, talking. (Side note: I’m pretty sure that the Predator never picked on Moms for a reason. Too scary. Plus a typical Mom would make him feel all guilty before she killed him, and then dusted his skull and put it on the mantle.)

We started having a conversation on astrophysics. I happened to have a textbook on Cosmology in the bookshelf (not the “look pretty” Cosmetology kind, but the “how did the Universe start” Cosmology kind). I drug the thing down, blew the copious amounts of dust off of it, and, after coughing a bit, started to explain some of the topics in the book. Since I had actually gotten the book from a “Science Book of the Month Club” I hadn’t spent a lot of time tearing through it. It was mainly for, er, reference? Heck, I’ve never even opened the darn thing. I’d have to be “lone nut in a cabin in Montana and completely out of trees to cut down” bored before I started to do homework for a class I wasn’t even taking. It was very physics-textbooky, which is to say, there was very little that would interest a physics student, let alone an eight year old. Instead we talked a bit about how a star evolves (first, you’re a waiter, then you get a walk-on part in 90210, then you do a series of hit movies, and then you enter rehab, then, if you’re lucky, you direct) and which stars explode in glorious super-nova fashion (Robert Downey, Jr.).

Actually, we talked about the ultimate fate of the Sun, and how one day, billions of years from now, it would swell up and eventually swallow Earth because in the core of the Sun it would be fusing heavier elements than hydrogen and would create correspondingly greater pressure. He seemed a bit upset that the Earth only had billions of years left in the way that only an eight-year-old can – I could see the gears in his noggin working and attempting to figure out a way to save the planet.

Perhaps he will figure out a way to save Earth, and develop a clean, safe energy source to power our civilization for millennia. Perhaps they will build statues of him.

Perhaps. Or perhaps not. I tend to think he’ll start dating instead.

"It's a growth economy, Gus. We've already made, like, 500 rupee." - Shawn, Psych

2008-11-09T17:04:00.001-09:00

President Roosevelt, showing that he was actually a Terminator sent from the future to eat George Patton.

I had intended to actually write this post about something other than politics. Most people had been focused on that for the past two years.

My friend, however, wouldn’t let me rest. He called me and said, “You watch, within a week of the election the banks will be closed and troops will be in the streets.”

I said, “John (I surround myself with people also named John), it won’t be that bad.”

“Well, Tuesday is Veteran’s Day.”

I do have some significant (you can’t hear me screaming in panic as I push the couches against the front door and polish my ammo over the Internet) concerns about the economy – I think that President-Elect Obama will face Change He Wasn’t Ready For. Hey, what do you expect, the guy’s a lawyer, and the only training in economics that they teach in law school is how high you should set your fees (high enough to drain most of the blood of the client, not high enough to actually turn them into a legal vampire like yourself). President-Elect Obama understands the economy the way the average man understands the emotional motivation of his wife, which is: Not At All. I tend to think that his advisors will bring out piles of M&M’s©, and use them to simulate international trade using a Risk™ board. They may simulate international banking by using a Monopoly™ board with Skittles™ as counters and pretending to be China and France. Let’s face it – the man has no idea what he’s doing, unless he gets to be the shoe. Then he might be okay.

It’s not that we would have been in a better place with McCain. As a fighter pilot, his first instinct would likely have been to launch all of his missiles and then hit the afterburners and then kiss Kelly McGillis after a beach volleyball game. Unfortunately, the Oval Office doesn’t have an ejector seat.

Don’t feel sorry for Senator McCain. He has never been married to Madonna®. He has several bunkers in Arizona stacked high with Campbell’s Chunky Soup®, hydrating body wash, gold coins, and Pez™. It’s not nearly as cool as being the nominal leader of the free world, but he has a big screen TV that you can see from space, and all of the beer he will ever want to drink, and will never have to have PhD’s explaining how the world works using outdated board games and candy.

The economy? Was it my imagination or were things working better before the majority of our elected representatives voted $700 billion dollars worth of pantyhose and frilly things to the bankers? Didn’t my Econ 101 professor say that the beauty of the free market is that those who do well are rewarded with profits, while those that act like six-year-olds sugar-drunk after eating sixteen chocolate Easter rabbits are ~~punished~~ given $700 billion? I may explain in detail why this was stupid, if the nice policemen who want me to unstack the couches and come outside and talk will let me go about my business.

Thankfully, those controlling Congress added $150 billion in pork so that they could assure passage of this economic version of Freddy Meets Jason.

Back to voting. As always, my concern is that (for some reason) it seems like the American people are nearly goaded into voting, regardless of their ignorance on the candidates. Commercial after commercial, including commercials from heroin-addled rock stars and Valium®-addled movie stars encouraging us to vote. Because they’re such good role models for responsible citizenship.

Did any commercial say, “learn about the issues and candidates”? No. Voting is a right. The unmentioned part is that voting is a responsibility – not just a responsibility to haul your hiney off to the polls: voting is a responsibility to cast a meaningful ballot. I didn’t vote for candidate after candidate, simply because even with my massive cranium I simply wasn’t informed enough about the issues related to those candidates. Voting down the party line? No. Not for me. I might be voting for a modern-day equivalent of Millard Fillmore – and our Republic is still living down the horrors of his administration, namely, admitting California as a state. Were California still a territory, we could sell it off to France in trade for Fiji or something cool and keep a straight face.

I think we haven’t had a decent candidate in years. If Jefferson was running today? The whole “having sex with his slave” thing wouldn’t have played well in Iowa. If Lincoln were running today? Tall, ugly, wife that’s batsnot crazy. Washington? Well, okay, Washington would have just stared down his opposition with his heat-vision and melted their souls. There is no debating Washington.

I, for one, welcome the time when Washington will wake from his multi-century slumber and put things to right with his fire-breath and laser-eyes.

"You mean your vote counts the same as mine?" - Dick, Third Rock from the Sun

2008-11-02T18:13:00.000-09:00

General Patton may not want you to vote. If you’re stupid, stay home. Oh, and if you've got some spare time, please dust me. And fix my G*&%$#mn tie.

On the Sunday before this most solemn day for our Republic, I have in my mind a thought or two. The most important thought is that voting (by the Constitution) should be left to adults. Since you are a reader of this website, you are amongst the smartest, most handsome, most popular, best smelling, least likely to make a left hand turn from the right hand lane type of people on the planet. You win. You should vote.

If, on the other hand, you ~~have friends~~ know people who are mouth dragging morons, convince them (in an entirely legal way, since telling people that they should vote on Wednesday is for some reason illegal) that they should leave the problem of governing the United States to adults.

I hate, hate, things that make it easier to vote. If I were in Congress, I’d make damn sure that if you couldn’t solve a quadratic equation your opinion would not count at all. Oh, sure, we’d let you come to pretend to vote, but your mark wouldn’t add against the total. You would have to attend at least two (two!) city council meetings to register.

Oh, anyone who uses the term “feeling” when they should be “thinking” would also be ineligible. If you can’t name the three branches of government? Off to that lurking pit of evil that is Canada with you (they are very suspiciously too polite). Like you’d know the difference.

This year? Vote if you must, but I’m going to vote for someone who I know won’t win. That’s right, I’m wasting my vote on Thomas Jefferson’s ghost. Because Jefferson would come back and whip the butts of both parties with this thing he wrote, the Declaration of Independence. Plus. Thomas Jefferson was 11 feet tall and weighed in at four tons. He would put any professional wrestler to shame. I just wish he was around to debate the current candidates. As soon as he hit them with his fire breath and laser eyes? He’d be a shoe-in, since he’d be the only candidate left standing.

So, after that, my point should be clear. Friends don’t let dumb friends vote.

My new national slogan? “Voting, if it’s too much bother? Stay home. We’ll give you some fresh Pez®.”

Okay, now for a digression. In 1980, as the Western World entered one of the biggest recessions of the last 50 years, AC/DC® released “Back in Black.”

Now, as we head toward the jaws of another, they’re again number one on the charts. Coincidence? I think not.

For your pleasure, I have transcribed an AC/DC™ tune, as written by William F. Buckley. Enjoy.

If you’re experiencing difficulty with the school principal
He’s making you quite sad
You wish to complete education without resorting to implied sexual intercourse
Here is a course of action
Grab a telecommunication device, I never leave my domicile
Contact me whenever it’s convenient
E-mail – Bonn.Scott73@acdc.com
I conduct my life through extralegal means

Hey

Nefarious acts, performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts, performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts, performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts and they’re performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts and they’re performed inexpensively

You are experiencing difficulty with your life partner
You have serious emotional depression over the relationship
He’s conducting a clandestine illicit possibly romantic relationship with someone with whom you share extremely strong interpersonal ties
You may feel so emotionally distraught that you cry
Grab a telecommunication device, I am currently not in the vicinity of other humans
Or come visit informally with no set purpose or agenda
Enter and remove thoughts about him from your mind
We will cooperatively either stage a fancy dancing party or partake of our own illicit romance

Hey

Nefarious acts, performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts, performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts, performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts and they’re performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts and they’re performed inexpensively

You have a female domestic partner whom you wish to no longer have contact with
But you lack courage to take action
Your domestic partner is continually argumentative and critical
Sufficiently so to make you question your mental competence
Grab a telecommunication device, leave your domestic partner without other human companionship
The proximate moment for you to exhibit some sort of courage is now
With reasonable financial remuneration, I would be glad to
a)perform a silent act of assassination while you pursue your own alibi or,
b)have an illicit romantic encounter with your female domestic partner
(the Internet is unclear here, I prefer version a since I see no reason version b would in any way bring the situation described to a favorable conclusion, but there is some scholarly debate)

Nefarious acts, performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts, performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts, performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts and they’re performed inexpensively, yeah
Nefarious acts and they’re performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts and they’re performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts and they’re performed inexpensively

Heavy quasi-stone masses intended to sink bodies when attached to the feet
Molecules containing triple-bonded carbon and nitrogen
Tri-nitro-toluene
Performed inexpensively

Ooo, common items used for the purpose of constricting the ability of a subject to breathe
Agreements to do wrong
Large differences in electrical potential
Performed inexpensively, eah

Nefarious acts, I will perform them without regard to what they are, performed inexpensively
Nefarious acts, nefarious acts, nefarious acts, performed inexpensively

Yaaargh

"Five billion years and it still comes down to money." - The Doctor, Doctor Who

2008-10-26T20:55:00.000-08:00

An early Texan flag, wherein they indicate that if the Mexican Army wants the cannon, they should come and take it. Which was the Mexican plan anyway, right? Am I missing something?

Sorry I was away last week – I seem to have discovered the only place on Earth where there is no Internet. Sadly, there was no beer there, either. As Heaven above is my witness, a man can live without beer for a couple of weeks, and can live without Internet.

I was actually joking about the 401k conversation at the end of the last post in the attempt at a cheap joke, but, what the heck. Nero fiddled while Rome burned, so I guess I can guffaw and poke fun at the ongoing destruction of billions of dollars daily. It’s a target-rich environment.

I was thinking that it might actually work, the Fed and the Treasury Department showering the financial firms with billions of dollars to make sure that the party didn’t end on a sour note when Lindsey Lohan went face first into the punch bowl.

Yeouch. Not so much.

The first question you might have is: what’s the big deal?

Good question. Glad I asked it. If you live in California, you can already see that the price of a house has dropped. This is not uncommon when you remove hordes of borrowers from the market by, for instance, taking the drastic and intemperate step of making sure that they can repay you. Oh, sure, if you or I owned a bank we’d like to lend $1.2 million to an unemployed lettuce picker so he could buy a cozy two-bedroom condo, but after getting burned several hundred thousand times on this sure fire transaction, they’re getting a bit skittish.

So, to cover the horrible irresponsibility of lending money out like it were somehow radioactive (“C’mon Harry, let’s make a few more loans today, or else my genes will mutate enough that I grow a fourth arm”) Congress has decided that unsound banks that did stupid things should fail.

No, just kidding. Congress is rewarding their utter lack of financial prowess by giving them laundry baskets full of cash so that they can bathe in it and laugh maniacally.

Is the pain over?

Sadly, no. These same banks that would lend $2.1 million so that former members of “New Kids on the Block” could buy a clubhouse and hang together are now scared to death to lend money to anyone, especially each other. If you owned a bank, would you trust another bank? See. They’re getting smarter.

The downside to this is that literally dozens of businesses depend upon loans for thing like keeping their inventories of Pez® and pantyhose. Down the street, we have a little, independent guitar store. I’m pretty sure that the owner has borrowed money to keep his inventory stocked, and soon enough the bank will say, “Were we drunk? We loaned money to a musician?” and their credit will disappear. Not to mention that all the parents of budding young Angus Youngs will be saving their shekels so that they can pay for gas to get down to the bread line. This business? Toast.

This will happen with big companies, too. The major problem isn’t that there isn’t enough money. There’s plenty of money, piles and piles of it. It’s just that it’s not moving anywhere. If you do the math, the air pressure in a balloon is determined in part by the temperature of the air. Increase the temperature, increase the pressure, since those air molecules go zinging around ever faster. Decrease the temperature? Decrease the pressure. Same with money. We’re watching our economy implode right now because the money isn’t moving.

The Pez® farmer is saving money because he’s worried that no one will buy his Pez©, so he doesn’t go and buy pantyhose, figuring he can use those old ones that have the little tiny run up the side instead.

The pantyhose brewer isn’t buying Pez™, because he’s worried that nobody will buy his pantyhose, and chews on a bit of broken glass instead.

Investment ideas? Hmm. My ammo didn’t decrease 20% in value last week. Neither did my beer. I think those steaks I have in the freezer actually jumped 20%.

Me? I’ll keep enjoying this ice-cold Natty Light while I fiddle.

So, if I’m going to talk about the economy and such, I should probably end with the disclaimer. “The writer of this blog is not aware of owning any stocks, though there may be some dwindling amounts in mutual funds in his 401k that he tried to get out of several weeks ago with the Dow at 10,000 if the transactions didn’t go through. Oh, and there’s that whole “attempting to move the 401k” thing that may or may not have worked. The writer of this blog is not a financial advisor, nor licensed to give financial advice, and if you act on the financial advice of a blog writer on the Internet, you get what you deserve.”

"Dolphin meat! Dolphin meat! Nature's greatest treat! Oh what fun, it is to eat dolphin, dolphin meat!" - Marco, Sealab 2021

2008-10-12T20:44:00.000-08:00

The Mrs. took this incredible picture of a big fish (I think they called it a dol-fish) as it leapt from the water to eat a child that wasn’t doing what he was told. At least that’s what The Mrs. and I told Pugsley and The Boy.

One of the places that The Mrs. wanted to take the kids was Sea World®. For some reason, the logic of having an oceanic museum in a landlocked portion of the world that nearly borders a desert eludes me. Maybe it was cheap land?

Anyhow, packed our Wilder-things and then we checked out of the hotel. I asked the nice clerk at the desk, “How do I get to Sea World©?”

Her response? “Become a killer whale.”

Okay, she didn’t really say that, but instead gave me an incredibly complicated set of directions (go South, turn left at the SEA WORLD sign, tourist) and sent me on my way.

My car has all sorts of gadgets that tell me all sorts of obscure facts about it’s functioning, such as that it’s lonely, it needs oil (wonder what that means), it’s tired of hearing the same “Scorpions” CD again and again, and how fast I’m going.

The Mrs. noted that one of the gauges indicated that within the span of several hundred feet (distance) we would soon all be using our feet (actual) to push the Wildermobile to Sea World™. And that she wasn’t at all good with that (okay, the gauge didn’t tell me The Mrs. wasn’t good with that, The Mrs. told me she wasn’t good with that, and, besides, I’d have to do all the pushing because three-year-olds like Pugsley cannot steer). That seemed awfully hot and sweaty.

So, as I passed exit after exit I reasoned, “Hey, it’s Sea World©, right, and it’s in Texas, right? They have to have the biggest gas station EVER right out front. Perhaps it has shower stalls so I can take a shower in nice, warm Super at $0.10 a gallon.”

No. There is a McDonald’s, though. Then? Everybody in the car professed a deep, soul-ripping hunger so bad that they were all sure that they hadn’t been fed in weeks. I turned around and managed to find a Chili’s® and we ate, and then to a Shell® where we fed the car for good measure.

At the entrance gate to the parking lot at Sea World©, they offered me $10 for regular, and $15 for preferred parking. I chose the regular.

If the sea were an ocean of asphalt parking lot, then I’ve seen it. The Sea World® parking lot is easily fifteen thousand miles long. I could see the curvature of the Earth as the parking lot faded in the distance. Fortunately, we had enough supplies to make the trek from our car (hence called “Basecamp” to the entrance. Some notes from my journal might explain:

Day one: Spirits are high as we make our way from the car. We hum marching songs and laugh often.

Day two: Entrance still not in sight. Spirits still high, but somewhat depressed that we forgot sunscreen. The Boy upset that I had him set up the tent in the back of a Dodge Ram™ pickup we passed on the way. Hard to drive the tent pegs through the pickup bed.

Day three: It is clear that we have not provisioned well enough for this trek. All hungry and filled with despair.

Day four: Ate stroller. Rubber wheels chewy.

We finally made it to the main entrance. They charged for all, even Pugsley. Cost: $206. Not kidding. Would have been more but I had a coupon for $2 off. Really.

Despite the fact that I mortgaged my kidney, I must say that Sea World® was really, really neat, and (it makes my cheap soul whine) probably worth the cash – everybody had fun for hours. You can only imagine how I’d whine if I’d gotten there and it was just a fish in a jar.

Instead, we had hours of fun, and I only lost my left hand when that wild loose seal attacked.

Next: John Wilder discusses ~~401k~~ ~~301k~~ ~~201k~~ 101k tips.

"There's no basement in the Alamo." - Tina, Pee Wee's Big Adventure

2008-10-05T21:39:00.002-08:00

The Alamo. Despite my preconceptions, there were very few musket-wielding Texicans fighting off Santa Ana inside.

We made it finally to San Antonio. The biggest, most important thing there? A hotel where Pugsley hadn’t flushed The Mrs. deodorant down the toilet. I’m thinking we can blame someone else, like feral Greek leprechauns, if we have to. Oh, sure, there are no Greek leprechauns, but that just makes the story more believable.

One of my main goals was so see The Alamo – having seen it on Davy, Davy Crockett® way back in the day when Fess Parker was thought of as bigger than, say, Obama®, The Alamo had a special place in my heart.

San Antonio has a bus system that connects most major hotels with downtown, and costs approximately nothing to ride. The driver picked us up, asked us where we were going, and dropped us off a block from The Alamo.

Despite rumors to the contrary, I could find no basement at The Alamo. I did, however, walk through and see one of Davy Crockett’s rifles, some of Jim Bowie’s knives, and some of Sam Houston’s missing REO Speedwagon albums.

At the opening to the main area (after you cross the line that Travis drew in the dirt, memorialized in bronze) a sign requests that men remove their hats. In truth, I was honored and humbled to be on the grounds where men flocked from all over the United States and Europe to fight and die boldly for freedom. I’m not at all sure that they were sold on the whole “die” part, but they did manage to stare down Santa Ana for seventeen years (my history might be a bit off here) while he and his 10,000,000 men tried to take one monastery filled with six guys and some squirt guns. Okay, that’s a big exaggeration, but the Texicans fought and died for freedom there – knowing when they didn’t cross the line that it was likely that they’d die. I’ll gladly take my hat off for that.

As The Mrs. read from a brochure, “Santa Ana was a man born to greatness, who rose to greatness, and who had greatness thrust upon him and managed to screw it all up.” Needless to say, Santa Ana is as popular in Mexico as Nixon, Carter, or Paris Hilton. He was the winner at The Alamo, if you would call Mike Tyson taking on the Chinese Gymnastics Team in a boxing match and knocking them out after twelve rounds a win.

Directly across from the museum is the Guinness Book of World Records® exhibit. Why? To snare gullible tourists. Like me. Hint: DON’T DO IT. It made me feel cheap and used, though Pugsley did manage to get in some exhibit meant to entice you into (I’m not kidding here) spinning basketballs. Because the rest of the exhibit sucked so much. Really. Eisenhower still had the record for most sex in the Oval Office, and, well, we know that Jimmy Carter probably beat him by a whole bunch.

Next we went off to Madame Tussad’s House of Wax™. When I was a kid, my folks took my brother (John Jingleheimer Wilder) and I off to Disneyland©. They gave me the choice of going to the Queen Mary or Madame Tussad’s. I chose the Queen Mary. Dang, how right was I? Perhaps the only redeeming feature of Madame Tussad’s was their wax statue of Evil Abraham Lincoln:

Evil Abraham Lincoln didn’t want to defeat the South, he wanted to eat the South. Bad, bad, Abraham.

We got back on the bus after hearty steaks at the Hard Rock Café San Antonio®.

Next day? Sea World® and home.

"Allow myself to introduce, um, myself." - Austin Powers, Austin Powers

2008-09-28T20:48:00.000-08:00

The flag the folks at Gonzalez put together after they heard Mexican authorities were getting ready to come take their cannon. Unfortunately for them, the Mexican Army thought they were dealing with the French, in which case this would have meant, um, yeah, come and take it, rather than PRY THIS CANNON FROM THE COLD DEAD HANDS OF A TEXAN. (historical note: Santa Ana lost.)

I’ve got the aftermath of a hurricane to deal with: shingles to replace, siding to fix, Pez® to bake, fence to rebuild, pantyhose to clean, dangerously dangling limbs to lop off trees. Logical response?

Road trip. Otter and Boone would understand.

In actuality, this road trip was planned, cancelled (work), planned again, cancelled (hurricane), and then at the last minute, we had a “what the heck” moment and said we’d do it.

The causes for the road trip at this time and place were twofold: 1) A favored author was visiting Austin to sign books, and 2) The Mrs. indicated that she would begin slowly poisoning me with arsenic if I didn’t take her on a real, honest to goodness, vacation. In her defense, I’m not particularly sensitive to arsenic (unless the hair loss and tooth loss isn’t normal) and I haven’t taken her on a vacation – not where you go visit family, but a true vacation, in something like four years.

So, we packed up the Wildermobile and headed to Austin. As usual, I managed to test The Boy’s ability to hold his bladder. I think this is a good thing for all fathers to do, since there hasn’t been a fatality associated with a bladder rupture since 1932. Although I don’t think this is a true fact (I read it when I was 10 or so in a Mad™ Magazine), it certainly doesn’t keep me from quoting it on long family trips as if it was transported to my mind directly from Heaven above via angelic text-message.

We made it to Austin and found the bookstore where there was a book-signing that I was going to. The author (Neal Stephenson) is notoriously introverted and takes about four years to put out a novel. The introversion thing isn’t good, because that means he didn’t hang out with me after the signing while I convinced him that The Mrs. should co-author a book with him, she could write it all, and he could take 90% of the profits. Instead? He signed my books.

My mistake was taking The Boy with me. The Boy was not only bored by Mr. Stephenson’s readings and Q&A, he was bored out of his skull bored. Threatening him with physical violence at some unspecified future point seemed to work a bit. I wasn’t about to bribe him, since I don’t make deals with young blonde terrorists – that always comes back to haunt me.

Neal Stephenson, in all his boring (to eight year olds, that is) glory. Frankly, he was interesting, and I think the rest of the fans would have been disappointed if he had broken into a clown act to appease The Boy.

We got back to our tiny, tiny hotel room, and went to sleep. Sure, that sounds simple, but “and went to sleep” is never simple with a three-year-old in the room. There were threats of immediate physical violence that seemed to work a whole bunch better than the threats of violence at some unspecified future time and place.

The next morning, we went to The Alamo. No, wait, that’s in San Antonio, not Austin. Okay, we went to Sea World®. No, wait, that’s in San Antonio, too. Instead, we visited the state capital, where they have a very nice, shiny floor.

Oh, and we also saw the typical resident of Austin. Apparently, to be a resident of Austin you must walk around on the streets carrying a backpack and talking on a cell phone. Who you talk to and what you say is unimportant. What you carry in the backpack is likewise unimportant. You must have them. Why? Because it’s Austin.

The floor under the rotunda, wherein Texas maintains its status as an independent nation. Actually? That doesn’t sound so bad. I bet we could whip California any old time.

Looking up at the rotunda. Dang, it’s sure round.

Next: San Antonio

"But you're better then normal, You're abnormal." - Fry, Futurama

2008-09-21T18:05:00.000-08:00

A guy selling ice for eight bucks a bag. Probably illegal, but what the heck, if I really needed ice I’d have bought some, and been happy about it. Me? I’ve got principles. I’d sell it for six.

Work was incredibly efficient this week – it being easy to get lots done when (on most days) you’re the only guy in the office. There is much less of a line at the coffee bar, and you’re always first in line at the copier and printer.

I actually got very much caught up at work, yet managed to take off early every day to come home to shingle my roof. Shingling is a very silly looking word, yet the actions of shingling allow one to ponder on the mysteries of life, since putting one shingle down is much like putting all of the rest of them down.

As to lessons I learned during the hurricane that I pondered on the roof:

I like frosty-cold beers that are at exactly 34.4°Faherenheit, served in a mug that has been frozen to at least 8°Faherenheit. The hurricane taught me that warm ones that had been in the bottom of a fridge for two days are okay, too.

FEMA is utterly, well, a Federal Bureaucracy. More good was done by Home Despot® and your local grocery store than FEMA ever thought of. An example: when giving away ice and water, where do you select to give it away? A parking lot of a store where people already go to get food and that’s easy to get in and out of? Maybe one that doesn’t have power? No, not if you’re FEMA. If you’re FEMA, you pick City Hall, a building whose location is known only to the Mayor and the Planning Department. Because in an emergency, you really need to have the building permit people involved. I could go on and on about FEMA. But I won’t.

Speaking of FEMA, don’t I qualify for a FEMA charge card that I can spend on beer and video games?

Don’t shingle when it’s really hot.

Don’t even think that anyone is going to help you during a disaster. The best you can do is to plan and have a closet full of Pez®, beer, chocolate treats and water so you don’t become part of the problem. We were set up for a month of really hideous living, but fortunately the power came back on 66 hours later. We were lucky, being in the first 20% of people to have power restored. Our neighbors went nearly another week, and I think they got desperate enough that they ate some family pets. Dunno, it was that or take-out. (The restaurants came back up pretty quickly.)

You can cook a hot dog over a scented candle, but it often ends up tasting like jasmine-hot dog.

Get your shingles early, before the rush.

There is a reason that folks during the Revolutionary Era spent weeks reading Plato. There was also a reason they had an average of seventeen kids. Not much else to do at night.

If your child has a birthday during a hurricane, tell them that it’s “good for their character.”

Most people like to have a gas can full of gas, me, I like to have a spare car full of gas.

No one checks to see if your registration is current on your pickup that you never drive just after a hurricane.

The whole “four-way-stop” at dead traffic lights is over-rated. I think the law of the jungle should apply. The guy with the crappiest car goes first.

I really don’t need electricity. I could get by with just enough for my fridge. And my television. And my computer. And my air conditioning. And the coffee maker. And the lights. And the blender. Don’t really need all that much electricity.

When the power comes back on after 66 hours, you feel just like turning everything on for the heck of it, turn on the A/C and then prop the windows wide open. Turn the oven to 475 empty. Dunno why, but it feels nice.

So, things are getting normal, quickly here. I’ve still got fence to build, siding to put on, and a roof to finish, a three-year-old listening to Yanni (why??) a dog sleeping in a trash can, and a frog in the pool.

But that’s as normal as it ever gets around here.

More to come.

"I want to give mankind the gift of electricity." - Harry, 3rd Rock from the Sun

2008-09-15T18:22:00.000-08:00

We’ll miss you, Mr. Oak. You gave shade, oak nuts, oak fries, and oak electricity. May your cellulose rise to meet your roots.

Wow. Didn’t see that coming.

Oh, wait, we did. On radar, on the radio, on the Intertubes. As I said, it was unlikely that we’d stop until the power stopped or the beer ran out.

I still have beer.

At 6:20PM, the lights went out. They flickered on, off, on, off, on, then finally, utterly, off.

We dug out candles (the last of the ones left over from our attempt to forestall the coming dark ages presaged by Monica Lewinski) and hunkered down around a crank-radio we bought for emergency (Y3K?) purposes.

Then, we put the young ones to bed, and sat around a candle-lit table and listened to the radio. There may be nothing more boring than listening to radio announcers talk about a storm you can’t see (that’s worse than frigging baseball on the radio). So, we dug out The Mrs. laptop and began watching John Adams, the HBO© miniseries. We saw John Adams and Ben Franklin duke it out in Summer Slam™ 1778, and then went to bed.

Oh, we went outside first to encounter the winds. They were moving about sixty MPH, and it just seemed like the storm wasn’t trying hard enough.

So, after a bottle of pinot noir, I shouted, “Is that all you’ve got?” at the top of my lungs, into the wind.

The next morning, I lounged on the couch, tired from waiting for the hurricane. Still no power.

After our next-door-neighbor, Gladys, came to check if we were dead from carbon monoxide poisoning, I ventured outside.

Siding gone. Shingles gone. That metal stuff that goes underneath the shingles on the edges, gone. Fences (two) gone. There were so many palm fronds outside, it looked like the Skipper and Gilligan’s hut exploded.

My neighbors faired better, for the most part. My whole, “Is that all you’ve got?” defiance must have come home to roost. Never, ever, ever, taunt a hurricane. They will mess you up.

The day was spent in shock, like the day they announced that Val Kilmer would play Batman®. It was horrifying. No Internet!! Beer starting to loose that frosty-cold taste. Ugh. Welcome to Houstonistan.

We listened to the radio, which mainly told us that the power company wasn’t going to do anything that day (though, that afternoon, The Mrs. indicated that the power had flickered while The Boys and I went out to reconnoiter. Sorry that we missed it, but we did find that there was power on either side of us, not three miles away. No stores were open, and we had no phones. Thankfully, one of the previous announcements for hurricane preparedness had told us to have “food, water, and ammunition” (I am not making this up). We had food for a month, water for a similar time, plus more ammunition than the Pakistani army. We were set. The only thing we were missing was sweet, sweet propane for heating the grill.

Eventually, washing came up. I avoided the subject. The Mrs. doused The Boy and Pugsley with coldish water (they howled) and then we ate cold Spagetti-O’s® and sat around in the dim candlelight. Living in the 18th Century was rapidly losing it’s charm.

The radio had limited information. The hosts kept telling us to check their website for more information, even though 98% of their listeners were without power. Perhaps the average person has a hand-crank satellite Internet connection?

Then FEMA came on and indicated that you could contact them by calling (no phone!) or by Internet. The Mayor of Houston indicated that within 24 hours they would have 24 trucks of ice in, but he didn’t say where they’d be. He didn’t know.

A representative from our power provider indicated that we might be out of power forever, really, since they had no idea where that mythical lightning in the wire came from. It was really a mystery to them. They even indicated that changing a light bulb might require Federal authority. They began blaming FEMA for the problem. (In actuality, they said that it might be four weeks until the power was back on, in which case I would be looking for a suit of armor, a mighty steed, and a really cool battle-axe.)

That night, perhaps the coolest person in the world (a next-door neighbor) delivered salvation in a can. Propane.

On night one, The Mrs. and I had grilled hot dogs over candles. It worked okay, but our hot dogs tasted a bit like apple potpourri.

Now, ugh, Mongo have fire!!

The next morning I made coffee for The Mrs. and I. It improved our disposition greatly. Then I cooked ribeye steaks that I’d gotten on sale and frozen. That helped our disposition more. Ribeye for breakfast? Mmmmm.

I took The Boy and Pugsley to see if we could get a generator. This act in Houston (currently) would be like searching for Paris Hilton’s virginity – just not there anymore. Lowe’s® was open, and had a generator. Nah, just kidding. They had bottled water and some Chiclets©.

I came home, and began cleaning up Gilligan’s hut in the backyard. It was horrible, little pieces of red shirt, but the white cap came out whole.

It appears that hurricanes smell like sex to fire ants (jerkusantus invictus). I got bit five times pulling branches out of my formerly fire-ant free backyard. I then unleashed a genocide of Biblical proportions on them, making the chemical warfare of WWI look like a Disney production of The Little Mermaid® in Candyland™.

I went back inside, and the power-gods deigned to tease us again. The lights flickered during dinner (T-bones and bratwurst saved from spoiling through immolation).

The utter lack of information was maddening. Anecdotal reports of FEMA commandeering truckloads of generators. Reports that Responders (I am ever so tired of that word) being stuck without food – you’da thunk they would have thought far enough ahead to stock up their patrol cars with Snickers®, pantyhose and Pez™ before heading to Houston. No. A Congresscritter was on the air complaining that the responders didn’t food, and wanted THE PEOPLE WHO HAD NO POWER TO COME TO THE NICE AIR CONDITIONED AND POWERED PLACE AND BRING THEM FOOD.

If you’re a responder without chow, you’re part of the problem, not the solution, bubba. I was not feeling sympathetic as I threw out $200 in spoiled food.

Power? That was a myth at this point, the electric company representative, and never really existed. Those things that you call “outlets”? Used for hanging meat to feed short animals. The representative suggested burning furniture to boil water to create steam to power a crude generator. I would have built one, but I had no power for my welder.

We went to bed early. Nice.

The next day I went to work, to an office with power. And ice. And TV. I charged the laptops so the kids could watch Garfield© DVD’s. I had hot coffee. A functioning microwave to dry my socks. I’m not sure why I came home. Oh, yeah, the fam.

I got home and told The Mrs. that, indeed, there was more electricity running about today then yesterday. I then loaded The Boy into Wondertruck and we went in search of shingles. I saw a power company truck go wandering by. A bit of hope filled my evil soul.

I purchased $43,762 worth of shingles, $2,121 worth of nails, and some bottled water and then headed home. I saw . . . our porch lights on.

The mythical lightning had returned.

More to come.

"Okay, our next nominee is Ike the Genius." - Mr. Garrison, South Park

2008-09-12T12:39:00.003-08:00

The baked goodies section at Tärgét©. Apparently, hurricanes make people crave baked goods, since the bread aisle was also out of stuff – not a bun, roll, or slice of bread in sight. I think that all the Atkins© dieters just went nuts and decided that hurricanes are carbolicious.

I’ve decided to create an experiment as Ike© bears down on Houston. I thought I’d blog until the power or beer ran out, primarily because I want to create a record of this, and I know that the hundreds of billions of people that I claim read this blog would be waiting with bated breath, or, if they were fishermen, baited breath.

The Mrs. and I have been through blizzards, tornadoes, floods, and a full-bore locust invasion. We’ve even had our lives interrupted by a volcano. But never have we experienced a hurricane.

Thankfully, we have plenty of beer, but more on that later.

The latest forecast in my area is that we will have sustained 45-65 MPH winds (6,000-18,000 km/hr), 4”-8” (0.02mm-0.04mm) of rain. I have no idea what mileage my house will get at that speed, but the water sure will make it slippery. Given the nature of a hurricane, I wanted to see what the heck people were doing out there to prepare. I dragged the (very) reluctant The Mrs. and we went out to make some bank payments.

Surprise! The banks are closed. This, my friends is madness – probably the start of a Mad Max sort of existence for us. I think I might begin to hack the Wildermobile apart and install a flame thrower and harpoon gun.

Most businesses were, however, very much open. Home Despot®, probably the most useful store to have open with a hurricane headed our way, was closed. This is quite similar to closing a McBurger in the Box© during lunch hour. No duct tape for me.

Target was open. The main missing items were larger flashlight-type batteries, bread, and beer.

In an unusual twist of fate, Tärgét™ had plenty of my brand, Natural Light© (motto, “It’s beer if we say it’s beer. Besides, it’s cheap.”).

I like Natural Light®. It’s got a crisp, clean taste, and next to no C2H5OH. The Mrs. makes fun of me for that, since two of her Heinekens© are enough to make me silly. I’m a beer lightweight. She makes fun of me for that, too. For some reason, Tärgét™ was selling 30 of the for $2.96. Really.

Some businesses were boarded up, like this one. Most just left acres of glass uncovered. That would be the same with almost every house in our neighborhood.

We finally went home. On the news, we found out that there was a curfew that would take effect at 7pm tonight, which might preclude our ordering pizza. These hurricanes can be darned inconvenient.

A defiant business.

As I picked up the things outside that might become 70mph missiles, I ran into our neighbor, Gladys Kravitz. She was in a panic – and told me in no uncertain terms that my house would likely collapse at the nearest hint of wind. After it flooded.

She’s so cheery to have around. As to the flooding part, I actually did check the FEMA maps before I bought the place, and it says it’s more likely that we’ll get a decent Congress than a flood here. But, keep in mind that these are government maps.

Right now, slightly windy.

More later.

3:36 PM Friday update – the city of Houston just announced that they will curl up into a ball and provide no more services (like ambulances, or fire trucks, or police) after the wind hits 30MPH. Guess they’ve never heard of Kansas or Oklahoma where that’s an average day.

3:54 PM Whoopsie-date - the city of Houston, avid readers of Wilder By Far, corrected their statement that they would leave the taxpayers to the wolves at 30MPH windspeed. It's really 50MPH. That makes it all better.

"It feels like one of those mattresses where you can bounce a bowling ball but the glass of wine doesn't spill." - Shawn, Psych

2008-09-07T20:59:00.000-08:00

The Boy, rising from the bottom of the pool like some Leviathan of the deep. Don’t worry, he’s really small and doesn’t eat people, or anything

I woke up yesterday, late. It was my job to take The Boy and Pugsley off to a birthday party. Birthday parties are nice, in that what parent doesn’t want to spend a Saturday morning around crowds of yelling, crying, keening, careening kids instead of ~~sleeping in~~ doing work around the house.

As I went outside, I had the most curious discovery: it wasn’t a million degrees outside, in fact I didn’t think the outside ambient temperature could sustain nuclear fusion, unlike most other days.

I could leave the tinfoil radiation shield inside.

I know, I know: I prattle on endlessly about the unceasing, scorching heat of Houston. But, really, it is hot here. I have run the air conditioning in our house in EVERY MONTH of the year. So, I thought I would tell of one of the few days I go outside and don’t feel like my skin is melting off.

I promised The Mrs. that she could sleep in and relax while I took The Boy and Pugsley off to the birthday party.

My alarm went off. I began to calculate in my head when I would need to get up so I could make the party on time. “Okay,” I thought, “a half-hour to drive there, fifteen minutes to pick up the present, fifteen minutesssssss toooooooo gettttttttt zzzzz square root, snort zzzz.” This was all followed by a dream that I had to go back to high school because I’d left my pants there and they can’t award an official diploma if your pants are still in your locker. That’s where I left my brown corduroys!

Snooze alarm goes off, and again I repeat my rudimentary attempt at mathematics. Then, on some snooze attempt, I actually look at the clock, and realize that I was going to be late, unless the Wildermobile was retrofitted in the airport parking lot with some sort of hyper-velocity warp drive.

I jumped out of bed, ran and got The Boy and Pugsley moving. The Mrs. got up and assisted me as I Google®-mapped the party location, and we were off. (I must admit that the whole Google©-mapping of the location was built upon numerous forays off into the void of Houston, where you just can’t guess your way there, like you could in Fairbanks – there are no moose to follow here.)

Since this was a third-birthday party, and Pugsley is three, I let him pick the present. I even think, at some sort of rudimentary level he realized he was picking out a toy for another boy, since he hasn’t been pining to get in my trunk to get the toy back out. (He’s had enough of the trunk. And enough of duct tape.)

We got to the party and I talked to some friends while The Boy and Pugsley scampered dutifully amongst the blow-up bouncy-houses that was the primary feature of the party palace. After ingesting soda, cake, and ice cream (Pugsley turned down the pizza as too “healthful”) it was time to go. In total, I think Pugsley had eaten the equivalent of sixteen cups of sugar. I ate my weight in pizza. Just helping the hosts not to have to take it home, right?

One quick, non-partisan, Alaskan thought . . .

2008-09-03T04:07:00.003-08:00

Give 'em Hell, Sarah!!!

"You're lucky you got air conditioning in here like mother nature intended." - Eddie, Vegas Vacation

2008-09-01T20:16:00.001-08:00

Pugsley wheels about his Tonka® dump truck. Which also has no AC. Do you see him complain?

This is the post wherein I describe what a despicable dastardly man I am.

As opposed to the 456 previous posts when I describe the same thing.

Anyhow, The Mrs. has a car she cannot part with. It’s our old, Alaska, Wildermobile. It’s got 147,000 miles and change on it, and she loves it dearly. It’s a four-wheel drive (perfect for navigating around Houston, at least after the nuclear apocalypse) and it’s been to the Arctic Circle and to Houston, as well as a myriad of points between. Not many cars have driven that much around our sweet continent.

Now, however, it’s developed a problem.

A summer problem, so in Houston that includes every month except January in a leap year.

It has no AC.

Oh, sure, you say, “What a whiner The Mrs. is, sitting in the hot, hot, humid, humid Houston afternoon t pick up her child. Why I once had to commute in the seventh circle of Hades. I didn’t have air conditioning, and I didn’t complain a whit.”

Okay, nobody says that.

I have made attempts.

When I found out our next door neighbor owned a car-fixing shop, I asked if they did AC work.

“Nope. When it needs work, it’s generally shot.”

Not only do they not fix that stuff, they don’t replace windows, or work on engines, or do body work. I’m not really sure what it is they fix at the car-fixing shop. Perhaps they specialize in replacing windshield wipers?

So, I went and grabbed a can of Freon (actually it’s not Freon, it’s R134a, which isn’t Freon at all, but sounds like a stupid name that George Lucas would have for a silly robot-muppet thing). Nothing. I then put it in the car’s air conditioning system. Still nothing.

Perhaps it wasn’t enough Freon. The Boy and I put a second can of Freon in. Presto. The air conditioning was spitting out chunks of ice and single-handedly reversing global warming.

The Mrs. was very pleased the next day when she picked up/dropped off our son.

The day after?

Nothing. The AC was again spitting out air warmer than the reception Al Gore gets from the three members of the Al Gore fan club at the Al Gore fan club meeting.

So, despite the fact that our sunspot count has reached a low not seen in at least 100 years (and, of course, sunspot counts are directly correlated with global temperature) thus it’s likely we’ll have some super cold weather shortly, not a bit of that weather will occur in The Mrs.’ car.

So, I’ll have to (shudder) take the car in to get it fixed, even though when the glaciers come to Texas, it’ll be silly to have AC.

"Yeah, and big chainsaw hands!" - Captain Murphy, Sealab 2021

2008-08-24T18:25:00.000-08:00

As far as power tools go, the one we saw on a flatbed a few months ago is a doozy, and, (I imagine) very good for trimming trees.

I went to the store the other weekend and bought a Pole Saw. Yes, the name would either indicate it was a misspelling of a side dish for a bratwurst (as in, “You want Slaw wid dat?”) or perhaps a saw best used for sawing up Polish people.

It is neither, though you could use it to saw up Polish people in a pinch.

It is an electric chainsaw. On a stick.

Yes, I know that the lawyers for Homelite® must have gone nuts when they saw that their product development engineers (who get PAID to make chainsaws) had decided to put one on the end of a ten-foot stick.

“Are you crazy? They’ll sue us.”

“Nah. It’s a chainsaw on a stick. How cool is that? Have a beer and throttle down, Mr. Wet-Blanket-on-our-Chainsaw-on-a-Stick.”

Apparently they had enough beers to get really, really incriminating pictures of the Homelite© lawyers, and so, I have and electric chainsaw. On a stick. It has a warning label that indicates that I shouldn’t take chainsaw on a stick closer than some specified distance to a power line. I think. It’s in metric, and the Olympics™ are over, so I guess I can just ignore anything in metric safely for another four years.

I took said chainsaw and began cutting at all the dead palm fronds from the palm trees out back. Thirty minutes and five trashbags of palm fronds later, well, The Boy and I were out of trash bags.

The Mrs. had quite the opposite experience last week. It seems that, while I can have a myriad of specialized tools for doing almost anything I can think of (router, band saw, grinder, table saw, about a zillion electric hand-held saws, electric caulk gun, drill press, hand held cordless drills) that the high-tech toys that you can buy to help clean a kitchen include a . . .

Brush.

Really. Oh, sure, there’s scrungie-backed-sponge, but that’s never good for anything besides being stinky on the back of the sink.

The Mrs. had spent hours scrubbing the grout on our tiles in the kitchen with that super-duper high-powered, er, hand brush. It looked good, what she had done.

Meanwhile, I’d taken a toilet brush, used my bandsaw to cut off most of the handle, and used it to give the toilet a nice, high-powered scrub that made it nice and porcelain shiny. It gave off that new toilet smell.

The Mrs. suggested I similarly modify a handled brush she had in the kitchen. Viola! In just three minutes (and a trip to the bandsaw and grinder) she was using my cordless drill to move at warp speed along the grout.

If the ~~Soviets~~ Chinese are going to defeat us, it’s because they give our women insufficient power tools for kitchen and housecleaning. Or, it’s because they begin to package cases of beer with each Pole Saw sold.

Note to statistics freaks: This is the 47th post wherein I mention chainsaws.

"We can't tell Rose or Sun, not yet. We've got to keep moving. I promised Sayid we'd keep moving." - Jack, Lost

2008-08-17T22:12:00.000-08:00

The Boy, after a dive, er, jump into the pool. At night. From underwater. Oh, sure, you say, this is a crappy picture. And, you would be right. But, I took it underwater.

There are several sad Wilders today, but we are sad in the way that the Germans would call Obersaddenbenfronchslich, which would mean that we are saddened, but happy since Alia S. Wilder has left us to go off to college to get some highfalutin’ knowledge.

The degree of difficulty still remains that Alia S. has no idea whatsoever as to what she’s going to study, except that it’s either astrophysics, early Sumerian dance techniques (gotta love that one that celebrates Ur), or creative kitten knitting. I’m not sure if you have to knit an actual kitten or just spin its fur into wool. Dunno.

Regardless, it was time to kick the kitten out of the nest, or the poodle out of the gilded cage. I got home from work on Friday. The Mrs. and I went shopping, and bought some steaks.

Let me put it to you straight: Texans love steak. And, at an average of $3.21 a pound for t-bones or ribeyes, it might sound expensive, but Texans still love it. I know that might sound high, especially with gas all the way up to $0.79 a gallon here in Texas, but we decided to splurge anyhow.

I burned some ribeyes and T-bones on the grill, The Mrs. sautéed some mushrooms, and, well, what more do you need for dinner if you have that? Oh, beer. Check.

So, after finishing dinner at 8PM, it was time to load up Alia’s stuff in the truck. Alia has odd things that she wanted to take, like couches and beds (silly girl) so we loaded those up first. Then, well, then there was all the stuff. Fuzzy girl things, like slippers. Swords made of wood. Cats. Her Perry Mason® poster (apparently, that Raymond Burr fellow is still quite the hotty with the young girls).

You’d think that at night it would cool down, so that we made the right decision to load her stuff up at night. You’d be wrong. It was a hot, muggy night, so muggy that if you took just two and a half steps outside the door, your cotton t-shirt proclaiming your love of Battlestar Galactica© would be saturated enough with water that you just gained ten pounds. Fun moving a couch in that? No, not really. In retrospect, we probably would have had an easier time loading her waterbed had we taken the water out first. Live and learn.

At about 2am we were in that weird part of moving where we’d loaded most of the stuff, but the end required Alia S. to pack it all up and put the finishing touches on it. You’ve been there, with the lingering questions of where, exactly, did you want to put those cinderblocks . . . ?

I think Alia S. finished loading her things about 5am. Dunno, I was asleep. I talked to her briefly in the morning, and she was off.

Thankfully, she took her cats, and her wooden sword. Because, really, the it takes a lot of time to care for wooden swords.

"No, I'm not! I'm condiments! I've been promoted!" - Murdock, The A-Team

2008-08-10T20:17:00.000-08:00

Sweet, sweet beer kegs. They’re off at an NFL® stadium where I went on a tour – turns out that there is plumbing that’s turned on every Sunday that only carries sweet, sweet (cold!) beer to the taps throughout the stadium. I took the picture to see how to fix up my future house. Mmmm. Beer.

I suppose it started as The Mrs. was reading “The Hobbit™” to The Boy that we realized The Boy is dangerous. The Mrs. related The Boy’s assessment of Gollum©’s personality, “It’s like the nice part of him is gone, and might never come back.”

Since that’s a major subplot that Tolkien spends 14,342 pages developing as hobbits and dwarves walk, sing, and complain at each other in “The Lord of the Rings©” series, looks like old J.R.R. (who has three initials?) could have skipped writing the next three books if a seven-year-old can see that one coming.

Anyhow, lat on Friday night (say, midnight) we decided we’d go see the NFL preseason game on Saturday. Since the only choice for purchasing tickets for all of us online seemed to be oriented around $190 tickets, I passed on that. I figured we could get some the next day, since it was preseason.

We paid for a parking decal to the nice lot, parked, and walked to the box office. After I had taken The Boy and Pugsley through security, I went to the ticket booth to order five tickets. The ticket lady behind the glass was getting through telling a truculent drunk man that, “no, I won’t buy your ticket back,” when I got there. I ordered the five tickets. The Mrs. and Alia S. then showed up, waving two tickets.

“Where’d you get those?”

“We were going through security when a guy came up to us. He pointed at you and asked if we were together, then handed us two tickets.”

Huh? Well, thank you, guy.

I then panicked. I had just ordered five tickets. Now, using higher math, I realized I only needed two.

“Umm, could I only get two tickets?”

The nice lady told me that it would be more paperwork for her, but since I had done this before I got drunk and started being truculent, that it would be okay.

This left us with a mathematically-based problem. We could split into a group of three and a group of two. Alia S. and The Mrs. could sit together, but that would leave me in charge of The Boy and Pugsley. No. Too much work.

The Mrs. and I could sit together, but that would leave Alia S. in charge of the hooligans. Scary, for her, I mean. We could leave the hooligans together, but that would be dangerous because it’s preseason. Given that it was preseason, the hooligans might break out onto the field and get a contract with an NFL© team.

We picked the better of the two sets of seats. There were two empties next to the two we had tickets for. We sat down. Thirty seconds later, two people showed up. I tried to explain that I wasn’t quite ready for my three year old to be starting quarterback for the Texans®, but that seemed to fall on deaf ears.

The second set of tickets were located somewhere in southern Oklahoma, at an altitude of about 13,322 feet in elevation. We made our way there, losing only one Sherpa in the process.
The game was good, for preseason. Heck, it’s football. The Mrs. wanted me to drive, so I saved tons of money on the beer I didn’t drink.

My personal highlight? When The Boy indicated he wanted a hotdog, I took him down to the snack bar. I ordered it, and he motioned the cashier close.

“I don’t want any condiments on my hotdog, please.”

"It's coming right for us!" - Jimbo, South Park

2008-08-04T19:15:00.001-08:00

Oh, sure, Mother Nature looks all nice and pretty now, but Mother Nature is no lady, she’s an anthropomorphic construct, who really got mad if you fooled her with margarine that she thought was butter.

On Sunday The Mrs. and I were enjoying a quiet dinner out in a nice (I sprung for one where you actually have to wear shoes, which is upscale for me) restaurant in celebration of our fifteen-thousandth anniversary (the fifteen-thousandth is the Fermian Anniversary, so if you’re buying us gifts, make sure that they’re made of elements less stable than Christian Slater). The Boy and Pugsley, having been ~~secured to a closet door with duct tape~~ put in the care of Alia S. Wilder, allowed us to do something that we never do – linger over dinner, slowly quaffing (if one can slowly quaff) the nice wine with dinner while the waiter brought us things we couldn’t even pronounce, and in some cases, recognize.

I chomped on a delicious bit of something green. I thought to myself, that I owed a debt of thanks to all those ancient dudes who did all the tough leg work in that ancient gameshow “Poison or Not.” The Mrs. and I had some good stuff. (I originally wrote “Hey, thanks to all those ancestors, but I think that Darwin removed the losers.)

Anyhow, I’d promised to take The Mrs. to dinner and a movie. The dinner part was okay, but The Mrs. didn’t really want to take in the movie: “I can’t see, I can’t pause it, and they get upset when you drink inside the theater.”

Hard logic to refute, so I didn’t. We were enjoying a rare pleasant summer evening (pleasant temperatures in Houston equate to not feeling like a well-cooked pot-roast after five minutes outside) and The Mrs. suggested we go buy some champagne (it’s not pronounced at all like it’s spelled, by the way, and I got caught on that once) and head home to play violent video games wherein you kill alien attackers, watch a horror movie about a Mayan temple, and then watch a cartoon about Johnny Quest™ gone bad (Venture Brothers®, on Cartoon Network – recommended if you wondered what happens when super-science is in the hands of failures).

This explains why I didn’t post last night. The Mrs. demanded me all to herself.

Wow. How did I get lucky and snag The Mrs.? More duct tape.

Anyhow, as we got home, I pulled up the Intarwebs and found that Houston is straight in the path of a tropical storm, named Edouard. I don't know why the meteorologists named it Edouard, probably had some extra vowels lying about. Prior to moving here, I thought of tropical storms as nice fuzzy things that were gentle breezes and light rains. No. It turns out that tropical storms are embryonic hurricanes.

Now, having lived through all manner of natural weather (-55°F to 115°F, shark-hail, tornados, 90 mph sustained straight-line wind, raining zebra spleens, etc.) but I’ve never been through a hurricane.

I immediately panicked

Did we have enough food or would we have to eat the dogs?

Did we have enough water, or would we have to resort to cutting down trees to drink their sap?

Could I turn the pickup into an electrical generator so we could watch TV?

Most chillingly I pondered the biggest question: did we have enough beer?

I got online and looked to see what people were doing. Short answer: nothing. Most locals expect we’ll get some wind and rain.

Now, when I look on the graph above, and see that my house will be exposed to 50 mph wind (same as a car!) for up to five hours, I get a bit worried. My house isn’t a car, and frankly I wonder what kind of mileage it’ll get.

I also purchased some extra gasoline, putting my kidney up as a deposit. The gasoline will be good to escape Houston with, should a volcano show up at the same time as the hurricane (a hurricano) and, unless that’s coupled with an earthquake and a zombie attack (a hurrizomicano-quake), we should be just spiffy.

"Got a picture of her when she was 14 in a swimming cap. She looks like a falcon." - Michael, Arrested Development

2008-07-27T19:45:00.000-08:00

Our pool on a nice an sunny day. Wait, what’s that next to the swimming pool? Is that a pocket Bigfoot? Yeah. Must be. I think I need to get the Bigfoot zapper light working again. You may click on the picture to embiggen it.

Perhaps the best thing about living in Houston (besides the traffic, man, I just love traffic) is the swimming pool, or, as The Mrs. refers to it, “The Cement Pond.” (The Mrs. kicked me when I wrote that, but I couldn’t resist.)

Swimming pools are an absolutely decadent way to spend an afternoon, especially if you’re eating steak and caviar in the pool while oppressing serfs. Recipe substitution: oppressing a simple peasant family covered with oregano and flour will do if you’re out of serfs.

One of my great pleasures is coming home from work and finding the family in the pool, swimming. I quickly slip into my swimsuit and goggles. The Mrs. says the goggles make me look like the ultimate nerd, but I really like to be able to see underwater and ensure that there are no grizzly-shark (the sharzzly) hybrids that were the result of a government experiment that escaped the laboratory hiding in the deep end.

Our family fun has generally consisted of The Mrs. and I swimming around while The Boy and Pugsley use various floatation devices, trusting their lives to Chinese pool toys, to meander around in the pool.

For some reason, The Boy doesn’t trust me. I think it has something to do with the time in his life when he was afraid of the closet monster he dubbed “Ribbler” and I hid in the closet with a glow in the dark, neon green, alien head and jumped out at midnight screaming that I was going to eat his liver. Maybe that was it.

In the context of the pool, though, he had huge issues. I think he was worried I was going to bite a bit of plastic out of his swim ring and then leave him to slowly sink and drown in the deep end. Oh, sure, the thought crossed my mind, but that would preclude me from twisting his life up further.

I bought a toy, the Toypedo®. Although it looks exactly like a German V2 rocket, it is made of rubber and will not hit London unless you take it there and slam it to the ground. The Toypedo© is, however, really cool at slicing through the water like Paris Hilton slices through, oh, I guess tomatoes, when she’s making a sandwich. The Boy and I created a rather intricate game that involved the number of times you caught the Toypedo™ before it hit the bottom of the pool.

The point of this game was twofold. First, fun. Second, getting The Boy, who was afraid of water as a cat, to stick his mug underwater. You can’t play Toypedo® from a swim ring. Within two weeks, The Boy was swimming like a fish, but didn’t realize it.

The Mrs. realized the crux of the matter. It was, of course, the Boy Scouts.

The Boy worships Scouting principles like they were written down by Moses. After Moses got his Eagle Scout, of course. The Mrs. noticed that the Wolf Scout badge required The Boy to swim 32 miles on one breath, and tread water for 34 hours. She told that to The Boy. The Mrs. suggested that The Boy swim (next to the edge of the pool) as far as he could. The Boy swam the length of the pool.

The Boy looked at me in shock. I told him, “Come on over. You can swim.”

Since then The Boy has been like a (very, very awkward) fish in water. With a few free moments he wants to hit the pool and swim around in his unique, spastic way.

Am I proud? Yes. Very much. The Boy discovered that the biggest enemy that he was fighting was his own fear. And his learning that lesson is worth living in Houston and enjoying the traffic, filled with insane, maniac, crack-addled Texas drivers on their way to the Oklahoma Psycho Convention.

I think.

“And cause I was a gazillionaire, and I liked doing it so much, I cut that grass for free.” – Forrest Gump, Forrest Gump

2008-07-23T17:35:00.000-08:00

Above is the (honest to goodness) real cover for The Mrs.’ book, due out in October. Yes, you’ll see this picture again. And maybe again after that. By the way, her name is what’s shown in the title, just like mine is John Wilder, and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s real name is Todd O’Reilly. That’s just the way it works.

I’ll admit that my long-term plans have me being the pool boy, spending the days toning my abdominal muscles, bathing in Propecia™, lifting weights, and working on my tan while push-mowing a forty-acre lawn.

I could be a kept man.

The story starts out about eight years ago. I’m a rather talentless fiction writer, but The Mrs. claimed she could write like Stephen King, if not in quality, than at least in volume. I encouraged The Mrs. to write, and after The Mrs. met the cannibal clown that is now her muse (it lives in the closet, The Mrs. says) The Mrs. started writing.

The original plot idea for The Mrs. first novel (The First Seal, you can find it on Amazon.com, and it has nothing to do with circuses, which enrages The Mrs.’ cannibal clown friend) was, in my opinion, really, really weak.

So, in true Wilder fashion, I encouraged The Mrs. to change the plot entirely. Sadly, when I read her original concept in novel form, some loser named Dan Brown had just finished closing his deal to buy Italy with the proceeds from his book, The DaVinci Code. The Mrs. originally didn’t have Da Vinci involved, but the plot elements in common with her original plot were so striking that I have to wonder if Dan Brown hadn’t been rummaging through our trash and found the notes somewhere under beer cans and wilted lettuce. There always seems to be wilted lettuce.

My problem was that I thought that the plot was ludicrous. Like the reader would buy that some ninja-Catholic group would want to kill people over rumors not fit for the National Enquirer®.

My bad.

Turns out that the reading public is pretty much okay with that, or some 2.8 billion copies sold must be wrong. Plus Tom Hanks bought into it. Loser.

Anyhow, I thought (and still think) that her book ended up being better. If only 2,999,998,342 more of you thought that way . . .

So, when The Mrs. announced she was taking a break writing her “Seals” series (she’s completed two, has a third in draft, and the second one should be out this year) to write some short stories.

One of the short stories ended up at about 85,000 words, which is a wee bit long for a short story, since it’s something like 350+ pages.

I utterly refused to read any of it until I could have 10,000 words at a stretch. Also, I utterly refused to comment on plot.

Turns out I didn’t need to. It’s her best work yet (not that I’m biased). She sent it out to three publishers and had a contract within a week. I had (perhaps) three minor comments, none on plot.

This angered her. She was used to such rich, in-depth ranting from me (“This sentence is longer than the preamble to the Constitution. Might want to cut it down a bit.” And “Are these guys knights or cats? They certainly seem frightened by a little water.”) that I think The Mrs. thought I was patronizing her.

Nope. Turns out, when I’m not in the picture, The Mrs. is a damn fine writer. Heck, maybe that guy who produced “Forrest Gump” will turn it into a movie. Don’t know if there’s a part for Tom Hanks, though.

Anyhow, if The Mrs. is going to be rich and famous, I certainly need to start working on the abs. And The Mrs. said something about a “bikini wax.” Although I’m not sure I know what the heck that is, she assures me I need one.

Plus, that lawn isn’t going to tan itself . . .

"The same thing we do every night, try to take over the world clean the house!" - The Brain, Animaniacs

2008-07-20T19:47:00.001-08:00

Pugsley, clutching his drink as if his life depended upon it. In this case, it did, since that’s where I poured in the antidote. Muahahaha.

On Saturday, The Mrs. took a huge gamble. The Mrs. left me, The Boy, and Pugsley all to our own devices. Oh, sure, I’d like to tell you that she was gambling away our nest egg playing baccarat in Monaco, but in reality The Mrs. had been invited to sign some books at a book store, and would be gone for hours.

The Mrs. does not trust me to take both The Boy and Pugsley on Cub Scout camping trips. I’ll explain:

The Mrs. is worried that I’ll come home after taking Both Boys out and she’ll say: “Where’s Pugsley?” and I’ll respond with, “He wasn’t with you?”

So, having The Boy and Pugsley all to myself on a Saturday afternoon is rare. I had fantastic plans about what The Boy and I would do after Pugsley went down for his nap. We would build an unpermitted aircraft hangar as our first step toward building our own air force and taking over Texas. The whole point of that is world domination, but I’m stating the obvious.

Anyhow, it was way way way too hot outside for all of that nonsense. If you live in Texas, it’s better to attempt to build the infrastructure for a mad-scientist-type world takeover in November. That way you catch people paying off their credit cards from Christmas in January, so they don’t notice a change of management so much. Ever notice when they inaugurate new presidents? Hmmm?

Instead we stayed inside. As the coffee The Mrs. left behind slowly permeated my synaptic nervous system, I began to be much more dictatorial. Immediately, I began ordering the small blonde household residents about.

Immediately, I was met with a chorus of:

“Awww, man,” from The Boy, and

“Ee-ee-ee EE hauf!” from Pugsley.

Despite the malingering whining from the tiny ones, I rule with an Iron Pinkie. Soon enough, small bodies were scurrying back and forth, taking trash out, mowing lawns, and welding up a new trellis.

In the span of the five hours that The Mrs. was gone, I reconfigured our media center (sounds pompous for plugging some electrical crap in, doesn’t it?) led The Boys to clean up all the spare clothing in both bathrooms, cleaned toilets, lifted barges, toted bales, etc., etc.

The Mrs. showed up, and far from seeing the scene of devastation that she was expecting, saw a house that had no less than three rooms that were cleaner than when she left. (I didn’t do dishes. Sorry.)

I always default back to that old Andy Griffith Show when Aunt Bea left to visit some relation or other, and left Andy and Opie all by themselves. They had a kegger, of course (my memory is a little vague here) and then had to rush to clean up everything so that when Aunt Bea showed back up, everything was nice and tidy.

That made Aunt Bea sad, since she didn’t feel needed. I think (again, memory is a little rough here) that Andy roughed up Aunt Bea and then she was okay. Or maybe not. Maybe it was Barney.

Anyhow, The Mrs. showed up and just was happy that the three pagans that were left in charge of the place made it a little nicer. Which is good, since I really, really don’t remember what Andy did to make Aunt Bea feel good again. I do think that The Mrs. will trust us when she has to be gone again. Fortunately, she has no idea about the kegger we had.

Thankfully, nobody reads anything on the Internet, right?

"You see, certified mail is always registered, but registered mail is not necessarily certified." - Newman, Seinfeld

2008-07-13T19:00:00.000-08:00

The invasion of the Metal Children. No wonder you can’t find a bench to sit on nowadays.

I made The Mrs. snort yesterday.

When we moved to Texas, one of the things that I specifically didn’t want was a strong, activist homeowner’s association. Why? The problem with homeowner’s associations (or, so I’ve heard) is that they are dominated by two types of people:

the retired who have nothing better to do, and
people so consistently downtrodden that they never have a chance to wield any power in real life.

This has always concerned me, since I take private property rights pretty seriously, and don’t want to be in thrall of some 80-year-old ex-postal clerk who might come by and jump off his walker to measure my lawn and make sure it’s within the appropriately proscribed height limitations. Nevermind the beer cans.

When we bought this place I talked to the President of the HOA, and asked him about the various rules, covenants, and bylaws of the association. His quote – “Once the house is built, there aren’t many rules that we have.”

About a month ago, I got a note from the mailman in my box – it indicated that a certified letter had been mailed to me, but there was a box checked “I’m too lazy to get out of the mail truck, so I’ll write this up and you can come get it at the post office tomorrow.”

Now, Internet, this is the FIRST certified letter that I’ve ever gotten in my life. I can’t imagine that people try to send good news by certified letter. Namely, I worry it’s the kind of news that’s more the “dead fish rotting in the garbage” kind of news that they don’t want to dirty their hands with.

I get paranoid.

I hit Google®, and attempt to find out why a person might want to send a certified letter. Most involved legal attempts to pull money out of your pocket. I shuddered, until I figured that by the return address (scrawled badly in a near-illiterate fashion) that it might be a local developer who had to send the notice out by law because he was going to put in yet-another-strip-mall.

The next morning I picked up the letter, and found that it wasn’t that at all – rather it was my homeowner’s association telling me that my siding was covered in a dried algae-paste, that there was waste, perhaps radioactive, behind my garage, that was just a smidgen visible if you drove by at 2 MPH (or, perhaps if you were using your walker to move on by).

As it happened, between the date the letter was sent and when I picked it up, The Mrs. had started scraping the algae off the siding (it makes a nice soup that goes well with a white wine).

Honestly, I drove by the house, and outside of a single tire behind the garage, there was scant evidence of any real issues.

The next weekend I scrubbed and powerwashed the house, and called the local haz-mat team to take care of the stuff behind the garage. Problem solved.

I had it mind to write a pretty snide response, and send it through some sort of mail service that was actually painful – one that, perhaps, had a mail carrier that insulted you to your face, slapped you, and then peed on your front step.

I decided to give it a rest, and perhaps send a much shorter letter, perhaps to the effect that “we know where you live.” I was discussing this with The Mrs. as she and I reached home after a day fiddling around Houston. On the front porch was a Home Despot© bag.

I asked The Mrs., as I squinted at the bag right on our front step, “What’s that?”

“Maybe it’s a bag of flaming dog poo,” was her quick retort.

“Oh, the Homeowners’ Association has been here.”

Yeah, that made her snort.

"Never thought I'd say it, but suddenly Independence Day seems a richly nuanced movie." - Mike, MST3K

2008-07-06T19:02:00.000-08:00

Pugsley enjoys watching fireworks light up the ~~night sky~~ gravel.

This weekend we put in a long car trip across a quarter of the U.S.A., in search of a place with more liberal fireworks laws than our community here in Texas. It’s somewhat ironic that Texas, with some of the more liberal gun laws in the U.S.A. does not require you to drive with several sticks of dynamite, just in case you’d like to have a good “whump” sound.

Alas, no. Our city prominently advertises that fireworks are immoral and possibly fattening, and thus only a communist (or communist-sympathizer) would use them on Independence Day.

The Mrs. and I enjoyed a trip across Texas whilst The Boy and Pugsley fought like rabid badgers in the backseat of the car.

The fights were about the usual things:
“He’s bothering me,”
“He was trying to sleep so I pulled his hair, which doesn’t technically violate the Geneva Convention,” and,
“He won’t give me (that thing that is mine, or that thing that is his).”

The Mrs. and I talked as we drove. Recently, this luxury of talking to each other had been supplanted by my utter inability to be available. Oh, sure, we could talk to each other, as long as we didn’t mind the other not being able to hear.

As we drove, we talked about the cities where we’d lived as if they’d been previous relationships, rather than places where we lived. I think this is called anthropomorphism, from the Latin root anthro, meaning “insecticide,” and pomorphism, meaning “having a mental disorder that makes you pretend you’re a little Pomeranian on the lap of a rich socialite.” Here are our results to date:

The City We Lived Seven Years In: “Oh, sure, she was okay. It’s not that she had any horrible habits that would make you kick her to the curb, but overall you just knew you could do better, if it you needed to. She flossed regularly.”

Fairbanks: “She was a hot, sweaty, torrid and beautiful, but you knew your relationship was doomed from the minute that you touched her – it just wouldn’t, couldn’t last.”

Houston: “Oh, I love you, Houston. It has nothing to do with the steaming piles of money, I promise.”

We finally got to our destination, the hometown of The Mrs., where fireworks laws are among the more lax in the nation – most of the firecrackers we bought were the legal maximum allowed by the federal government, and we were encouraged to carry some in our car, so that we could make a nice, satisfying “whump” whenever we felt the need to.

"And I apologize for that. I thought it was a pool toy." - Tobias, Arrested Development

2008-06-29T15:38:00.001-08:00

The unrivalled massiveness of Sam Houston towers triumphantly over The Mrs., The Boy, and Pugsley. I personally want to have a cane when I’m older, primarily because I’d like to keep a sword in it, so that if anybody ever got on my lawn, I could give them serious medieval what-for.

The last two weeks have been very tranquil at Casa Wilder. Besides our Bigfoot: The Garden Yeti infestation, we’ve been relatively relaxed. Oh, sure, we’ve had outbreaks of unrelaxedness, like when the phasers® and communicators™ arrived and The Boy and Pugsley took to phasing each other on the front lawn (there is no phaser aim as bad as the phaser aim of a three-year-old, yet our three-year-old giggles like, well, a three-year-old as The Boy fans him with a phaser© blast designed to split him into atoms.

It’s summer in Houston, and fairly hot outside, in a very special Houston kind of way. This special way includes that sweat, due to the humidity, simply doesn’t work here. Sweat has been derided for making you sweaty and salty, but in the climates I grew up in, sweat worked and allowed you to cool down. In Houston? You’re just wetter, and no more comfortable.

That’s okay.

We have a pool. Having a pool makes Houston bearable. This morning, The Mrs. strolled through the bedroom after I had been through a 14-hour hibernation cycle.

“Hey, we’re going swimming. Want to come?”

Yes. Yes I do.

The Boy, and Pugsley and I do all sorts of silly boy things, fighting, splashing, and throwing pool toys at each other. It especially tickles Pugsley when he’s able to catch me, wrap his arms around my neck, and have me swim around the pool pulling him.

The Mrs. floats placidly amidst the turmoil, only occasionally glommed onto by the horde of males in the pool.

The other distraction was the recent Cub Scout movie day where I took The Boy (a Wolf) and Pugsley (an irritating little brother) to the movies. The nice people at AMC© gave us a tour, wherein Pugsley was primarily interested in the HVAC infrastructure of the theater.

We watched “Kung Fu Panda,” which was, well, I was sleeping. It might have been good. Both The Boy and Pugsley seemed happy about the movie, and all my Raisinettes™ and the Coke® were gone when I woke up, so that would indicate a goodly sugar intake took place.

So, if you want to know how the Wilder family summer is going, it can be summed up as: bigfoot, phasers©, swimming, movies, and sugar.

Not a bad summer.

"It's a bonsai bigfoot . . . " Crow T. Robot, MST3K

2008-06-25T16:37:00.004-08:00

A fuzzy, grainy picture of what could be an unexplained, undiscovered biological specimen: ~~a celebrity that admits that they didn’t finish college because of all the weed, dude, and don’t really know the difference between global warming and the Harlem Globetrotters®~~ bigfoot.

I was on the Intertubes the other night, and came across a most curious web page. No, it did not involve Paris Hilton’s vow of chastity, but instead focused on “The Ten Stupidest Things You Can Buy from an Airline In-Flight Catalog.”

In it I saw the statue pictured above: “Bigfoot, The Garden Yeti.” (Search for this, and you can find him online, if you dare.) I laughed. Ha ha. How stupid it would be to buy that. Inside, however, warm waves of love for the statue flooded the core of my being, which isn’t nearly as comfortable as it sounds. The waves lead to sloshing when you walk, so that would explain why I list to the left when I amble about Casa Wilder . . .

Anyhow, I motioned The Mrs. to come over and look.

“We have to have it!” she exclaimed.

Really? My feverish love for Bigfoot, The Garden Yeti might have led my brain filter to mistranslate “We have to have it!” from the root base language, “What fool would buy that?”

I checked, “So, you . . . like it?”

“Yeah, order it up.”

Inside my heart did little pitter-patters of love for The Mrs. Between the pitter-patters and the sloshing of the waves of love, I guess I just passed out.

But, fortunately, The Mrs. poured cold beer on my face, stuck my credit card in my hand, and I purchased “Bigfoot, The Garden Yeti.”

It arrived a day later, before we even had the opportunity to make up the guest room for it. We pulled it out of the carton (which was approximately the size of an elephant’s kidney) and were pleased that it was the size of a two-year-old, but with feet that approximate a women’s size nine (I think women’s shoes are in metric, so I don’t really know what that means).

When I was in high school, I occasionally played Dungeons and Dragons® with my friends. We would joke (often over an illicit beer) about the various character classes. Since we were all nerds, we made up a character which was a giant dwarf, who, while looking like a normal human, was, indeed, a giant dwarf. Beer and nerdiness made that funny. I’m still nerdy, and still have beer, so The Mrs. and I, noting that we had a tiny-bigfoot, christened it “Normalfoot.”

The Mrs. response on seeing it?

“Oh, we need one for inside, too.”

I passed out again from the pitter-patter-sloshing again.

The following bigfotos show just how much fun you could have with your own bigfoot. (Bigfotos courtesy: The Mrs. You may click on any of them to embiggen it.)

The cunning bigfoot stalks his prey, the roaming gnome.

Tropical bigfoot.

Bigfoot, friend to man’s best friend. Which makes him our second cousin, I think, which means he’s marriageable.

Apparently bigfoot is afraid of sliding. He’s also afraid of Adam Sandler. You’d think bigfoot watching “Big Daddy” would be a natural. You’d be wrong.

After a hard day of bigfooting, what’s better than a dip in the pool?

Spring break, baby, bigfoot style.

"You know, evil comes in many forms, be it a man-eating cow or Joseph Stalin. Evil is just plain bad." - The Tick, The Tick

2008-06-22T19:10:00.000-08:00

Why does NASA have a tracked front end loader? Because they have it on the back of a NASA flatbed. I peeked under the blue tarp covering the object on the front. It was gold-colored, and had a bazillion wheels. I (just happened) to see a link to what the heck it was two days later. It’s on the Youtube link below, and shows up best about 1:10 into the clip. I know this still doesn’t answer why NASA has a front end loader, but if it were my guess? They had the budget money, and wanted to play with one, which is exactly what I would do if I were NASA.

The only night we stayed in the hotel, Pugsley was happier than a pig in mud. Since we had forgotten our duct tape at home, we had few other choices than to let him sleep between me and The Mrs., since The Boy had claimed the couch for his own.

Pugsley has attempted sleeping with The Mrs. and I many times. After his nightly scrubbing, he’d jump up on the bed and begin to rub around on the sheets like a cat, then claw at the sheets when we pulled him off. My own take on this was that he had decided that he’d prefer to sleep with The Mrs. and I, thank you very much, and leave that room with the doors he cannot open for somebody else, say, his brother. Our answer is always a firm “no.” The last thing we want is our camel to have his nose under the tent. Pretty soon the camel is looking for the remote and wanting to borrow the keys for the car.

The Mrs. and I talked late into the night, about politics, science, the weather, and any subject that flew through the transom as Pugsley reveled on our bed, then finally slept. A wonderful evening. We went to sleep about two AM. The Mrs. indicates that Pugsley slept well, until I started snoring. Then The Mrs. indicated that I woke Pugsley up, and that kept her up all night. Fortunately, I slept pretty darn well, which in the end is all that counts.

The next morning our suite was family central as The In Laws converged. Given that Holiday Inn Distress® has a free banquet, The Mrs. took The Boy and Pugsley down to feed them. I showered, and was walking down the hallway when I ran into an obviously irritated (her nose flares when she’s angry, and by flare I mean that blinding light shoots out) The Mrs. coming back down the hall.

“What’s up?” I ask, knowing that maybe I shouldn’t ask.

“It’s them, the bovine people.”

The Mrs. was referring to the people that were making rounds at the free buffet downstairs. She described a people, not by girth or hairiness, that acted (more or less) exactly like cows.

“When there was no more sausage, they just stood there, expecting more sausage to magically grow from the tray!”

“Moo?” I rejoindered?

“Exactly! And then, when I had to cross in front of them in line to get Pugsley a fork, they stared at me menacingly.”

“Moo!” I replied.

“Exactly! And then, when they circled the line, filling their plates, at the end, they had been eating, so their plates were empty, they got right back in line.”

“Mooooooo!”

I had to have some coffee. I went downstairs and got in line, and saw first hand the behavior that had driven The Mrs. mad. Moo!, I thought.

We then left for the family reunion. The Mrs. had met nearly none of these people before, although when you looked around the room, you could certainly see lots of people that had been kicked by the same genetic mule.

Me? I didn’t know anyone there, ‘ceptin’ The Mrs., The Boy, Pugsley, and the In-Laws. I took it upon myself to make sure that The Boy and Pugsley didn’t crush all the dainty and delicate ceramic looking things around the house back into dry clay.

The first thing The Boy found on his explorations was one of those Wurlitzer® organs from 1970’s. The Boy powered it up and began playing “And The Cradle Will Rock” from Van Halen, but I convinced him (with a slap to the nugget) that was a bit advanced for the crowd this afternoon.

Instead, I took them into the backyard where the relatives had a veritable cornucopia of child-ride-upon toys for their own grandspawn. Immediately, The Boy and Pugsley began to fight over the same one. After knocking their heads gently together, they began to dimly grasp the concept of sharing, or, perhaps, don’t irritate dad. Either one works.

Two hours later, as the rich aroma of barbequed brisket began to permeate the deck, and The Mrs. indicated it was time to leave.

Time to leave? I think, “The barbeque (full of luscious, sweet, grease-dripping meat!) is almost done! How could we leave now??? I’ve snooped and found no beer, but, that might mean they’re just hiding it!”

It was her family. Instead, I said, “Sure.”

We drove home, missing our turnoff, but Texas is a big state with lotsa roads, and Pugsley was asleep in the back seat. A good day, a good trip, and the only worry that I had lingering was that Sam Houston might come and kill me in my sleep for mocking his hugeness. Perhaps, just perhaps, I could pretend to be a cow - that might fool him.

Moo.

"You realize that in Zen terms everything in the universe is just molecules, don't you? Ying and yong, ping and pong, mmm?" - Eddie, Ab Fab

2008-06-18T19:47:00.000-08:00

Sam Houston is really huge. Really, really huge. He was, unfortunately, smaller than King Kong, but still managed to defeat him using his super-powered Masonic cane. Sam Houston was so powerful he would have probably even defeated Mothra, if it hadn’t been rained out in the third inning. Around the base of the statue, various people bought bricks with their names on them, including Dan Rather and George W. Bush (the only place you’ll find those two together, I’m sure, and Nobel Prize© winner Lech Walesa (a personal hero). If you hadn’t noticed, my e-mails to Stockholm have gone thus far unrequited.

A long drive is either a way to get closer and bond with your family, or to learn to hate each other with a passion not seen outside of the passion involved in hating movies starring Mickey Rourke.

In our case, Zen was satisfied: it was both love and hate.

The backseat was a jungle of juvenile jousting, with The Boy and Pugsley each initiating and retaliating hostilities – it was like watching the news involving Spike Lee and Clint Eastwood sniping at each other. Don’t know about you, but I’d be really scared of antagonizing Dirty Harry®. First he’ll mock you, then he’ll save a million dollar trial with a $1.39 worth of lead and powder. It was noisy, and frankly, I antagonized my big brother the same way.

Finally The Mrs. snapped.

“You,” The Mrs. said, pointing at The Boy, “put on your headphones and shut up.”

“You,” The Mrs. said, pointing at Pugsley, “do whatever it is you do in that smug little mind of yours.”

The Boy dutifully put on his headphones and began listening to a mixture of vintage Judas Priest® (which, for some reason, he insisted I put on the mp3 player), kid songs, and mp3’s of a radio host talking about ghosts and exorcism. The Boy is all about eclectic.

Pugsley began doing, well, he began doing whatever three-year-olds do on a long boring car trip.

The Mrs. and I talked far and wide, about philosophy, about love, about money, and about my hairy ears.

Both The Mrs. and I had read the Scottish Play (if you know Shakespeare, you know we’re talking about the one where the guy named Mac kills the king, etc.). Early on, I had read in the Shakespeare liner notes where “fop-eared” meant that one had hairy ears, generally a sign of low-bred villainy.

I had noticed that my ears were a bit hairy. Since this was going to be (yeah, after 11 years of marriage) the first time that I had met these particular relatives of The Mrs. at the family reunion, she intoned,

“Yea, verily, anon, gaze upon yon fop-eared villain cozening upon near yon potatoe salade.”

Thankfully, Holiday Inn Express® has a free razor that I used to shorn the fop-eared look. The Mrs. knitted a nice sweater out of the foppishness. She’s crafty that way.

Anyhow, we finally got to the hotel, and The Boy wanted to go swimming. The pool was smaller than the one we have at home, yet he was drawn to it, mainly because I think he was bored out of his skull. I put on my swimsuit (Pugsley steadfastly refused to go) and we headed on down.

The Mrs. and I formerly owned a hot tub, which we abandoned in Alaska. The pool had a nearby hot-tub, and I jumped in. Ahhh . . .

Don’t know about you, but I’d turn down a pool any day for a hot tub. Hot tubs are evocative of music, conversation, and, well, beer drinking. Pools? Fun, but not nearly as cerebral. I think that Einstein would have had a hot tub, but Paris Hilton has a pool. Need I say anymore?

Again, Zen is satisfied, Albert and Paris. Yen and Yang. Sort of.

"I have come up with a plan so cunning you could stick a tail on it and call it a weasel." - Blackadder, Blackadder

2008-06-15T22:42:00.000-08:00

The Boy pays homage to the giant, disembodied partial head of Sam Houston. It is a little-known fact that Sam Houston was actually 74’ tall, and weighed 329 tons (an even 300 if he laid off the carbs), and could crush a Mexican army regiment into itsy-bitsy pieces through the power of his mighty thoughts alone.

This weekend we packed up and headed off to go see various relatives of The Mrs. at a family reunion. This is an unusual event for me, since my side of the family (the Wilders) are essentially as feral as a group of rabid weasels, and a family reunion for us would no doubt result in some sort of footage on Youtube that would garner the Wilder family 1,134,532 page views and a lawsuit from the descendants of the Three Stooges for stealing their material.

The Mrs. had set her alarm for 5:30AM on Saturday.

It is my considered opinion that with the exceptions of getting off a boat on a French beach with the intention to invade, hunting, and going off to get firewood (all on the same day, since I don’t think the French would put up much of a fight), there is no real reason I would consider valid to get up at this hour on Saturday.

Fortunately, The Mrs. actually had set her alarm for 5:30PM. When she awoke at 6:30AM, she immediately hit that flood of adrenaline that comes from understanding that she’d grossly overslept. Immediately, she was taking action, doing seven or eight or ten things at once (I swear, The Mrs. was packing her toothbrush while dressing Pugsley while making coffee). Me? I turned over onto my pillow and slept.

It does (generally) not engender goodwill and affection from the fairer side of the species when you essentially abdicate all responsibility for essentially all activities. Does “I was kinda tired,” make a good excuse? Men voting only, thank you.

Anyhow, we got onto the road. The Mrs. drove the first leg of the trip.

Since we had moved to Houston (little known fact: Houston is named after the Houston Astros©) we had occasionally travelled north on I-45. As you near Huntsville, TX (home of, I am not kidding, “Old Sparky”) you reach a point where the road begins to curve northwest – and at that point stands a great, giant of a man – Sam Houston, named after Sam Adams® beers and the Houston Astros™.

Actually, it’s just an enormous statue of Sam. The real Sam is sort of tiny by comparison, and not at all alive. By not at all alive, I don’t mean that he’s an unreasoning, ancient zombie or even in Congress (pardon the redundancy), I mean he’s, well, deceased.

Most of the time that we head on a family trip, our objective is to travel as long and as far as possible, often travelling for 14 hours straight at 74.593MPH (17 kilograms per cubic nanometer), stopping only where OPEC demands or when little bladders get full. During this particular trip, however, we were only going to Dallas. A short trip, by Texas terms. I felt that we owed it to ourselves to stop and see the sights.

“Let’s stop and see that statue of Sam Houston,” I told The Mrs.

Rather than hitting me for my smugness at first making her do all the heavy lifting in getting us ready, and then taking the first leg on driving, The Mrs. just nodded. Huh. Maybe she was tired from all that work earlier on in the day.

We were nearly the first visitors to see Sam. As we walked toward the statue, a young employee of the Huntsville Chamber of Commerce bolted out of the guest office and said, breathlessly, “Please come and sign our guest book!”

I signed the Wilder family in, and The Mrs., Pugsley, The Boy and I went to look at a truly enormous statue, nattering and clawing at each other like the rabid weasels we are.

Next: Big statues, Nobel Prizes, and Hotel Pools

"It's quite a pleasure to see your entire life's work summed up in a three-minute film." - Prof. Farnesworth, Futurama

2008-06-11T20:12:00.000-08:00

What, me?

It’s hot in Houston, but it’s really supposed to be hot here. I think that’s fortunate, because otherwise nobody could afford a house here, and we would all have a much closer proximity to Paris Hilton, and, frankly nobody wants that.

A friend of mine made the observation that “The only reason people live in Houston is to work.” Since we were both actually working at the time (or more properly, were being paid to have lunch together, which makes it sound so wrong), I find it fairly rough to refute his statement.

Houston is a city with lots of working people, lots of nice cars, and lots of shiny metal objects that distract The Boy, Pugsley, and I.

Pugsley is the new entrant to the scene of being distracted by shiny metal objects. His Grandmama had given him a transistor radio, and he became enthralled. For whatever reason, this radio will only pick up National Public Radio, so for quite a while all he could listen to was opera and classical music at night, and in the morning be serenaded by smarmily over-enunciating talk show hosts that think Obama is the right-wing candidate for president.

Pugsley eventually got tired of NPR after he found The Boy’s radio actually gets stations that play music conceived in the last 200 years. So, Pugsley does what any three-year-old would do: he steals his brother’s radio.

Normally this occurs around bedtime. Pugsley will be in his room, blankie ready, and then sneak out to The Boy’s room and then walk, as quietly as a three-year-old can (US Army tank divisions are quieter than Pugsley) back to his room.

Unfortunately, one of these episodes of brazen theft was accompanied by him dropping The Boy’s radio onto the tile floor, rupturing some sort of tiny unicorn or rainbow that makes the radio emit music. I tried to fix it using the physics theory that the sum of work on a closed path is equal to zero (I dropped it again) but found that my freshman physics theories were incapable of fixing it.

Pugsley still insists on having it in his room, even though now it is less functional than a typical government agency.

I’m wracking my brain attempting to figure out how to get enough work out of Pugsley to pay for a replacement radio. Unfortunately, all he’s capable of is:

Bringing you random small objects you don’t need at the moment,

Taking small objects to the trash (if he doesn’t forget where he was going),

Throwing out pieces of our silverware (I’m pretty sure that’s what’s started the Great Spoon Shortage of 2008, now we have to share one spoon)

Screeching at his brother,

Removing batteries from remote controls,

Rummaging through the pantry for brightly packaged snack food, and

Pulling the dog’s tail.

It might be a while until he pulls his weight around here. At least we get nice smiles until then.

"Judas Priest on a pony!" - Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane, The Dukes of Hazzard

2008-06-08T16:41:00.000-08:00

Pugsley stairs at a mannequin that will never, ever, ever manage to land the big one at our trip to the local Bass Pro Shop©. I think that between the things The Boy wanted, and the things I wanted, we could have spent $575,321. Thankfully The Mrs. was there to keep us from spending my nursing-home money away.

It started innocently enough.

“I want to dance. Dance for about two hours,” The Boy said.

“Later,” was my response. I can understand the impulse to cavort wildly in the air-conditioned haven that is Casa Wilder, but, frankly on a Friday night after a week of work, I was not inclined to dance. Rather, I felt a much more rational response was to melt into a puddle of lethargy.

Not fair to The Boy and Pugsley, I decided, since I had spent upwards of seventeen minutes with them during the past week. “Okay, let’s go swimming.”

The Mrs. demurred. “I swim with those little hairy men every day. You go.”

We did. The Boy (having just seen the film Master and Commander, about a ship during the Napoleonic era shooting Frenchmen as part of his self-imposed summer curriculum of learning about times around the Revolutionary War) wanted to re-Christen our pool raft the H.M.S. Syren. So we could capture French pool invaders, perhaps?

Pugsley also determined that it is very, very scary to capsize off of your swim ring and have nothing between you and sinking being your natural buoyancy, your panic, and your father’s good will.

After swimming, it was time for Pugsley to head to bed. The Mrs. put on a set of headphones and worked on building an imaginary railroad empire in 19th century Britain while The Boy repeated his request.

“I want to dance.”

Me? I was plumbing the Internet for information related to various types of flightless waterfowl. No, not interested in them, just ended up at that page.

Anyhow, The Boy kept pestering me.

Finally I relented, and put on some music, some vintage 1980’s Judas Priest®. The Boy appeared to feel that, indeed, that if I chipped away at his brain that I would, indeed, have another thing coming. Another thing coming.

I bought a DVD on amazon some time ago of a Judas Priest© concert, so I thought I’d spin that up for him.

“Do you like this,” I asked, as two sweaty, leather-clad, long-haired guitarists (okay, I actually know their names, K.K. Downing and Glen Tipton) flipped solos back and forth between them.

“Oh, yes,” said The Boy.

A little later he made the devil horn (or, hook ‘em horns, if you’re a UT grad) sign with his hand.

“What does this mean, Dad?”

“Rock on, little dude, rock on.”

So The Boy danced to all manner of 1980’s metal as I learned that the flightless cormorant is a bird that I cannot even spell without Spellcheck® and, shockingly, the Internet informed me that gas is expensive.

Maybe he’d like Iron Maiden©?

"I was getting a piping hot cup of coffee. It's far too hot to drink, but luckily my leathery man-mouth can take it." - Stan, American Dad

2008-06-04T18:06:00.000-08:00

A tiny guy has no idea he’s being stalked by a giant, animated skeleton of a tyrannosaurus rex at the Houston Museum of Natural History. I think he’s a Hillary supporter.

I got a list today:

Sciences:
Electristy
stars
planets
soil

History:
Reveloutonary war
famos invintors
famos Authur’s
famos war’s

math:
3 4 and 5 Diget problems

spelling:
number words
-ate
-ape
-each
-ea

What prompted this list is that The Mrs. and I were talking to The Boy about what he wanted to learn about this summer. I asked The Boy to make a list, and here, Internet, you are allowed to see what this particular seven-year-old is interested in.

School is winding down, and The Boy recently came home with a folder full of awards. There were awards for math, science, spelling, etc. in the packet. Knowing that the educational system nowadays awards pretty much everything to anyone, I asked him if there was an award he didn’t get:

“Citizenship, of course. (well, duh, he’s related to me) And perfect attendance. Didn’t get that one either,” The Boy responded.

Good for him. At least there was some criteria.

The Boy is excited that school is nearly out, and so is The Mrs. This means that, instead of waking to a busy hive of activity as I go to work, I’ll get up (quietly) to a slumbering mass of Wilders and tip-toe out the door. The Mrs. refers to this as “grizzly bear noises in a china shop,” but she’s being kind.

So, summer is here, and Houston moves from the season of being Nice, to the season of being Hot, and finally into the season of Nice and Hot.

"Want to know what the nice thing about humming is? You can stop." - Red, That 70's Show

2008-06-01T18:44:00.000-08:00

The Fountains of Paradise, or, at least The Fountains of The Museum of Natural History. Which, really, has nothing to do with the following post. Man, I hate that when the author does that.

Ever have an annoying tic that you’re pretty sure is just your own? Yeah, if you’re like me, it isn’t just you that notices.

Every since the first Indiana Jones© movie came out, I think of the theme song whenever we’re getting ready to take a long, cross country adventure trip. I imagine a map with the Wildermobile moving across it. Dunno why – perhaps it makes the trip feel shorter, and much more adventurous than stopping at a bunch of convenience stores so that various members of the family can relieve themselves of the pressures of the road. If you know what I mean.

So, after a recent batch of Indiana Jones™ movies, I noticed that The Boy was incessantly humming the theme song, in places like the grocery store, where I guessed he was imagining taking a twelve-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper® off the shelf, replacing it with a bag of sand, and then steering our cart through the aisles as all of the drain cleaner bottles exploded and having to use a bullwhip to skirt the frozen food section. Frankly, that’s what I imagine, because shopping is boring as can be.

I observed this the other day, and told The Mrs., “You know, whenever we get ready for a long trip I think about the Indiana Jones© theme song.”

The Mrs. looked at me incredulously.

“You’ve been humming that song, nonstop, for the last eleven years whenever we start a car trip longer than ten miles. Telling me you do that is like telling me you snore.”

Oh.

Caught.

Nevermind?

Anyhow, on Saturday we were in Bullseye® buying food, and The Boy, procuring that twelver of Diet Dr. Pepper™ was humming the song.

The Mrs. observed, “At least he comes by it honestly.”

Da-da-DA-da, da-da-DA.

"You're just not looking at the big picture, Doc." - Sawyer, Lost

2008-05-28T21:40:00.000-08:00

Why would we need studio pictures of Pugsley? He took this one himself. Truth be known, if he gets his grubby hands on a camera, he’ll take about a dozen or so pictures of his eyes. I think he’s distracted by bright and shiny metal objects – put an LED in a chrome hubcap and he’d buy it, if he had money instead of blocks. Like father, like son.

We went off to Bullseye® (not their real name) on Sunday. The Mrs. likes to take pictures of The Boy and Pugsley on their birthdays (we can afford a birthday for each one, but they have to share a cake – each one gets the cake on alternate years) at an actual studio. I keep telling The Mrs. that we have numerous pictures of the back of their heads and we can print those out on plain paper, but for some reason The Mrs. insists that would be grounds for beating me with a broken broom handle.

So, off to Bullseye™ we went. The Mrs. had procured an appointment the day before, so it wasn’t like we were walking in begging for pictures to be taken on a whim. We had . . . an appointment.

We arrived two minutes early. We’re that prompt on the weekends, at least after noon. If we have an appointment.

The clerk dutifully gave us a clipboard to sign in on, along with requests for various bits of personal information, such as the liability limits on our auto insurance and our pant sizes. In the midst of this the photographer bursts from the studio, and begins pecking at the computer, and the snippet of conversation that I overheard indicated he felt they had “wiped all of last week’s data,” and that “John McCain is one scary dude.”

They ignored us.

After waiting ten minutes, The Mrs. and I had enough. The Mrs. crumpled the form (a-ha, now you’ll never know how long my inseam is!) and we walked out. They didn’t say wait, they didn’t say, “I’m sorry.” Nada.

The Mrs. was relatively infuriated.

I decided to assuage The Mrs.’ hurt feelings with a nice meal. We drove off to a restaurant. It had valet parking, but then again in Houston McBurgerBell® has valet parking.

No valet was in attendance. “Maybe they’re off getting pictures at Bullseye®,” The Mrs. observed.

"Emphasis on doom." - Capt. Dylan Hunt, Andromeda

2008-05-26T15:49:00.000-08:00

Many stone statues of Presidents. I had no idea that people in the past were so much more massive than people of today, and that no President had arms. Beyond that? I love Jefferson’s collar, but The Mrs. won’t let me buy one like that. Says I look too much like a pirate.

The Mrs. and I were in the car yesterday, and she mentioned that I am filled with the loving seed of Doom.

How so?

There is a cute (if you find mice cute) mouse hanging in our house. The Mrs. indicated the other day that it was running into things in the kitchen, and she either thought it must be blind or attempting to be cute enough that she would buy a no-kill trap for it and release it to the land of cheese.

Apparently that strategy worked, because we had to stop at Home Despot® this weekend and purchase a three-bedroom trap for the mouse that wouldn’t harm it in any way, unless it consulted a civil rights lawyer.

Now when The Mrs. indicated that this cute mouse was running straight into things, bouncing off, and then getting back up, I asked her if it was a cartoon mouse. The way The Mrs. described it, it sounded a lot like “Jerry” of Tom and Jerry© fame.

“Nope, real mouse.”

In reality, when critters act like that, I assume they’ve been drinking my beer (mostly unlikely, unless they have thumbs) or they’ve got some sort of disease that only Stephen King could adequately describe.

I mentioned that to The Mrs. She reacted poorly, renaming me ‘Buzz Killington’ for the moment.

We decided that was not quite correct. Hence, my designation as “Captain Doom.” She even suggested that she could get a Sharpie® and draw a little doom cloud emblazoned with a big ‘D’ on a white t-shirt. In that way, people could know of my super doom-forecasting powers.

I know that when we have an extra few bucks, chances are I’m going to ram my car into an unsuspecting idiot actually stopped at a yield sign and I’m going to have to fork a few bucks over because I’m pretty sure that money isn’t just to come to me and accumulate in my bank account.

Call me suspicious of the universe. I’ve been around long enough to not trust the idea of a free lunch.

So, I intend to remain doom-filled, but I intend to keep it bottled inside of me, like I keep my emotions. Because that’s healthy, right?

"Don't call me junior." - Indiana Jones, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

2008-05-21T22:34:00.000-08:00

Alia Wilder and the Poster of Enormous Hugeness. You can see our fireplace in the background. Alia Wilder is invisible due to the gravitational lensing effect of Harrison Ford’s massive head.

As I have written before, besides his father (well, duh, me) The Boy has no better friend and role model than Indiana Jones®. Oh, sure, essentially everything Indiana Jones© does would nowadays be considered looting of cultural artifacts, destruction of prime scientific data and theft of national heritage, but he hates Nazis, killer religions, Nazis, and Commies, so that makes it okay.

Besides, if Indiana™ didn’t go get all that cool stuff, all he could do legally would be to go and unearth Swanson’s® frozen dinner tins from the 1950’s from the local landfill and attempt to escape the clutches of the EPA and the vegans who were unhappy that it was a turkey dinner, and that the turkeys should have been given several million years to evolve thumbs, language, and Turkey Idol© so that we could consider them to have culture. Thus, eating them isn’t good, it’s some sort of murder. But, it’s a tasty, tasty murder. With gravy.

Anyhow, Alia came home late last night, toting in sections of cardboard that were longer than she is tall. (Alia is fairly short, like 2’1” tall, so most Amazon.com cartons are bigger than she is.) She began assembling with some sort of parts that she had ferreted in various pouches secreted about her clothing.

While she industriously worked away, The Mrs. and I watched the old cast from MST3K skewer The Matrix, (you can buy and download this stuff from rifftrax.com) and, like usual, ignored her patently strange goings-on. She hasn’t attempted to burn our house down in a while, even accidently. If Alia wanted to tell us why she was assembling a huge cardboard structure in our front room, we guessed she’d tell us.

Eventually Neo© rescued Morpheus™ from Elrond®, and The Mrs. and I paid attention to the Great Construction Project going on behind us.

Alia S. Wilder stood the structure up.

There, before us, was the looming, obelisk-like visage of one Dr. Henry Jones, Jr.™

Eight feet tall, Indiana Jones® had now rescued our family from, oh, I guess it’s communists this time.

Alia S. told us, “I got it for The Boy. He likes Indy.”

Did I weep Internet? No. But I did have another beer, which is exactly like weeping, if you replace “weeping” with “having another beer.”

This was a very thoughtful think that Alia S. Wilder had done – she’d gotten this from work. Alia S. works ~~at a movie theater~~ in the entertainment industry, and had been given this massive, massive picture of Harrison Ford’s enormous head, surrounded by a sword-wielding androgonous person, Karen Allen, Mario (from Mario Brothers™) and a young Marlon Brando.

Is it just me, or is Harrison Ford’s head way bigger than Karen Allen’s head? Maybe they made Harrison Ford’s massive head look smaller in the first few movies through some sort of Hollywood® magic? Dang, that’s one big melon.

How did The Boy react, groggy after just waking up on a school day when he saw his idol taking up most of the living room?

He danced. The Boy danced the dance of a seven-year-old delirious with joy (but still well enough to go to school).

I imagine what he’s thinking: Crushing Nazis, getting The Girl, stealing really cool gold statues from Nicaragua.

Brings a tear to my eye, and by tear I mean “another beer,” and by eye I mean, "mouth."

"Was it a dinosaur?" - Hurley, Lost

2008-05-18T20:14:00.000-08:00

A skeleton-zombie T Rex stalks an unsuspecting guy in a white t-shirt. Workman’s Comp rates for this place have to be high. You can click on it for embiggened goodness.

I work really hideous hours. I go to work when the folks on the East Coast are supposed to get there, and often leave about the time that people from Guam are supposed to go home. Do I intentionally work so hard? No. It’s because they beat me if I don’t work harder.

Weekends, though, belong to family, except for errant work-related phone calls that The Mrs. really, really loves.

So, this Saturday we had planned to go to the Houston Highland Games and watch a bunch of sweaty Scots throw cabers (trees). Heck, I had halfway convinced myself that I should go and throw a caber myself. I like throwing trees. The Mrs. reminded me that I didn’t have a kilt, and wasn’t a Scot, was old, and that my back hurt when I got up from chairs. I told The Mrs. that she was being defeatist, and that I could rip a t-shirt and have a kilt, speak with a brogue for the day, and drink enough beer so that my back didn’t hurt when I threw trees.

Didn’t matter. Everybody in the Wilder household was pretty darn tired on Saturday morning, and The Boy and Pugsley were likewise lethargic after bolting through an entire box of those tiny Dolly Madison® chocolate-covered donuts (if we don’t buy those, Pugsley just eats the frosting off of real-size donuts and puts them back in the box. You can get used to the flavor of the de-frosted donuts if you don’t mind baby spit.

Anyhow, by the time we all were awake, it would have been long after all the cabers had been tossed. The Mrs. and I were debating what we wanted to do for the day when The Boy piped up. “Let’s go to the Museum of Natural History and look at all the stuff we didn’t get to see the last time we were there.” I nodded at The Boy’s uncharacteristic bout of sanity, since just before he had been jumping on a tiny trampoline and laughing like a loon at the adventures of an orange cartoon cat that loves lasagna. The Mrs. objected to this. “Ummm, remember you have two boys we’re taking. Museums don’t tend to make toddlers very happy.”

“Oh, piffle, woman,” I replied, since I’d always wanted to say, “Oh, piffle, woman.”

We went. On the way, we stopped at Burger King® and I had to return home after a wardrobe malfunction with a Whopper© left me drenched in, as The Mrs. referred to it, “Meat Cologne.”

One change of wardrobe later, we arrived at the museum. On our previous visit, Pugsley had been in a stroller, now he was a free-range Pugsley. Since The Mrs. had objected to our destination based upon the crazed-weasel behavior of Pugsley, she noted that I was to make sure he didn’t singlehandedly destroy our records millions of years of Earth’s history in a crazed toddler-tantrum.

After watching a Foucault pendulum knock over a block of wood (higher tension than a Die Hard movie), we strolled first into the energy museum. The Boy and I were in hog-heaven.

If you look at what people in the energy business do, there is no real business that’s cooler. They take massive steel drills tipped with frigging diamonds and bore into the Earth and pull out highly pressurized explosive, flammable stuff that they then boil so you can drive to Target© and buy Cheezy-Puffs®.

That’s manly. We walked into a room where the focus was on seismic techniques to determine what the heck is below the ground (voodoo, I think it’s called, or maybe it was geophysics). There in the room they had a column of water with a nifty stainless-steel gizmo in it that periodically shot out bursts of compressed air into the water column. If you can imagine the huge, deep, “thwunk” that makes, well, you’ve probably been shot at with a 12 gauge while you were trying to swim away underwater from, umm, something you’d probably not like to talk about. It sounds just like that.

Anyhow, The Boy, Pugsley, and I put our hands on the outside of the cylinder, awaiting the next thwunk. It came.

The Boy pulled his hand away, thrilled. Pugsley pulled his hand away, and then hesitated in the way that only toddlers can before they either laugh or cry. It was cry. Pugsley was scared out of his little shorts, and it took The Mrs. about five minutes to console him. Stupid geophysicists.

Anyway, we made our way next to an exhibit about chemistry and physics. I could sense a buildup of frustration from The Mrs. as The Boy and Pugsley went from exhibit to exhibit learning about phase transitions, immiscibility of certain fluids, and differential density of various planets.

“What’s the matter, The Mrs.?” I asked.

I could see by the look on her face that the sheer testosterone-fueled nerdish exuberance of all of us was getting to her.

Well, we come by it honestly, even if we didn’t get up early enough to watch the sweaty Scots throwing trees, which, I know, is really, really, what all women want.

" I can't wait til they start the internet." - Crow T. Robot, MST3K

2008-05-14T21:07:00.000-08:00

How did we ever make it to the Moon without the Internet. Oh, yeah, really big rockets, lots of thrust. Sliderules.

I remember way back in the before-time, before there was the IntraTubes. Back then, The Mrs. and I would get in steel-cage death-matches over whether or not the actress in The Jerk was Jamie Lee Curtis (She wasn’t. I was, I know it’s difficult to believe, wrong on my actress identification.) or whether Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite (Internet version: tie).

Now as The Mrs. sits and writes her novels (on the purchased one, the editor said, “I love working on your novel – editing is a dream.”), The Mrs. can effortlessly determine the average, real-time flow of water in the Sabine River in Texas, or view historical data on nose-picking rates among left-handed near-sighted dentists. Not that The Mrs. does that, since she doesn’t write about dentists or the Sabine River. But, The Mrs. could.

The Intertubes have, besides short-circuiting domestic disputes and keeping The Mrs. and I off of “Cops: Nerdville,” also given us instant access to meandering conversations from Pop Wilder in the Wilderbunker:

Pop Wilder: “John, I think they know where I live. Love, Pop”

John Wilder: “Pop, The code guy inspected the bunker when you pulled the building permits. The tax assessor valued the place at $231.34 last year. The Postal Service delivers the mail daily. Yes, they know where you live. Love, John”

Pop Wilder: “John, Is that why the President stopped by for scones and herb tea last week? It was nice. We watched The Wire on HMO. Love, Pop.”

Okay, there’s that, too. E-mail and instant messaging don’t necessarily lend themselves to the fifty-odd pages of letter that George Washington would write to Einstein (assuming that one wasn’t dead before the other was born) detailing the spring planting of hemp in Virginia and the potential ramifications on the Special Theory of Whoa I’m Totally Baked, Dude.

Instead, future historians will need to plumb the depths of recovered SIM chips in cell phones and attempt to decipher the near-hieroglyphic “LOL DUDZ IMO IDK TTYL.” In the future, Shakespeare’s lines of “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” may be replaced by Tiffany Q. Lowrisepants version of “U R 1 HOT T.” The English Lit profs will probably be ROFLPITP.

One of the nice things about the Internetnet is that you can get content that would otherwise be unavailable. The Mrs., Alia and I were watching South Park a month or so ago and they did a parody of the Shirley Jackson’s short story “The Lottery.” Even better, they did a parody of the film of Shirley Jackson’s short story “The Lottery,” done by Encyclopedia Britannica in the late 1960’s (featuring star of stage and screen, Ed Begley, Jr.). I remember (vividly) watching that movie when I was in fifth grade. Since Trey Parker and Matt Stone probably watched the same exact copy of film (Trey, Matt, and I all grew up in Colorado) I really wished I could show it to The Mrs. and Alia S.

Thanks to Youtube, we watched it that night, so the ladies in the house could understand why I was laughing like a fool at several scenes. Mainly, really, it was so they could indulge my narcissistic side and make them watch that.

The Mrs. and I also loved (back in the day) Mystery Science Theater 3000®. Turns out that Mike Nelson has a site (www.rifftrax.com) that you can download audio tracks that parody currently popular movies. (If you liked MST3K, go, visit, purchase.)

Me? I think can barely remember the before-time, when I had to go to bookstores, and if The Mrs. and I got into an argument that we could factually prove, I could yell, “OMG, IS THAT A HERMAPHRODITIC SQUIRREL THAT LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE JAMIE LEE CURTIS? ROFL!”

Less chance of me being a battered spouse on “Cops: Nerdville.”

Thank you, Internet.

"Nine hundred years of time and space, and I've never been slapped by someone's mother." - The Doctor, Doctor Who

2008-05-11T19:26:00.000-08:00

The Boy and Pugsley paw through Pugsley’s birthday presents. No actual newspapers were harmed in the filming of this birthday.

I’m a slug. A horrible, horrible bad slug.

Let me explain.

It’s Mother’s Day (or is that Mothers’ Day? I’m thinking it’s Mother’s Day unless you can have multiple mothers.) and I woke up this morning at 11:00 (AM) or so. I looked and worried that there was coffee I could make, or perhaps bacon and sausage and eggs I could make. Instead The Mrs. walked in, gave me the standard WWE® tag-off hand slap and said, “You’re on.”

Me? I’d fallen asleep the previous night while The Boy watched Indiana Jones™ and the Temple of Doom®. I walked into the room when Indiana Jones™ was on his Last Crusade©. I read a book on probability and statistics (well, not so much, really a book on how we fool ourselves through probability and statistics, but that’s another story) while Indiana® and Dr. Henry Jones© deal with amazingly stupid Nazis© to find the Holy Grail®.

It was Mother’s Day, so I let Pugsley pick the next movie, which involved a mouse that’s either unable to talk, or, like Pugsley, faking the inability to talk. Never trust the ones that don’t talk.

During this The Boy said, “Mom picked Indiana Jones©, and Pugsley picked Maisey®, so I should be able to pick the next movie.”

He said this like it’s normal for a thirysomething mom to want to watch an Indiana Jones® movie first thing on Sunday morning, and that he was horrified and tortured to have to watch the whole thing.

I gave him my best “father knows you’re an idiot” stare, but allowed him to pick a Garfield™ movie anyway. I nosed back into my book on probability (and how we’re all idiots).

Eventually Pugsley headed down for a nap (during Garfield®) and The Boy continued to cackle like a grinning goofball at the antics of the lasagna-loving feline.

The Mrs. opened her cards from Pugsley, The Boy, Alia S. and me. She got the stuff she’d picked out yesterday.

Not a lot of excitement here at Casa Wilder after that.

We mulched some trees. I edged the lawn and drank some beer.

So, to all Mothers everywhere, happy Mother’s Day.

Let your husbands sleep in. They like that.

"And I apologize for that. I thought it was a pool toy." - Tobias, Arrested Development

2008-05-07T19:38:00.000-08:00

Pugsley wonders why fake-microwaved plastic chicken tastes exactly like real-microwaved plastic chicken.

One of the big benefits to living in the ~~hellishly hot~~ wonderful climate of Houston is that everyone has a swimming pool. Everyone. Even the local taco trucks have swimming pools on their roofs, though they don’t change the water near enough for my tastes.

We have one, too. Since we don’t have precious, sweet oil or wonderful, delicious natural gas bubbling up from our property, we don’t heat the pool. I believe, after living in Texas, we are the only ones who don’t regularly bath in gasoline since it’s cheaper than water. (It is. Move to Texas. After you fill up with sweet, sweet gasoline, they put a credit on to your account for helping you get rid of that plentiful stuff.)

It’s really only been the last week or so that the pool hasn’t been colder than an Paul McCartney’s ex’s stare after “When I’m 64” plays on the radio when she’s attempting to get her leg waxed.

On Saturday, it seemed nice and warm enough. My usual modus operandi on getting into the pool is to get on the diving board, get The Boy and Pugsley all excited (The Boy does a countdown) and jump in. I will admit I had somewhat the reputation of being a showboat at certain times (hint, hint, high school) but I never think it’s a bad thing to instill in your children that you’re larger than life, that you could whip an alligator, a grizzly, a rattlesnake (all at the same time, otherwise, what would the challenge be?), cut down a tree, and then whip their little hiney’s at chess while doing one-handed pushups.

In truth, Internet, I do it because I don’t want them to see me wince when I step by step edge a little deeper into the oh-so-cold water. Do you want to see your Dad be a wuss? No. Rip the Band-Aid® off, take the tax loss for unitemized depreciations carried forward into the current tax year, show your courage all at once.

So, we frolicked in the pool like crazed wombats with swim rings.

Did I mention that the pool was cold? It was. I have this little theory that running the water that goes back into the pool through black hoses makes it warmer, since it soaks up all the global warming. I’m not sure if that’s right, but for US$18.34 (that’s like six pesos nowadays) I can pretend that the pool is warmer as my pasty body plunges into its icy depths.

On Sunday, Pugsley turned the ripe old age of three. Pugsley refuses to talk, even though you can talk about very complex, multi-subject and verb sentences and he can carry out everything you ask, “Pugsley, carry out the trash, make me a Swiss cheese and mushroom omelet and work on solving Fermat’s last theorem. Now, please.”

And, he’ll do it. But he won’t talk.

I generally help pick out the presents, but this time The Mrs. bought Pugsley’s presents while I sat in the car and sweated with The Boy and Pugsley. I was busy figuring out how to turn “hot parked car air” into some sort of useful energy with them while The Mrs. picked out a selection of things that Pugsley had pawed at from the comfort of a Toys ‘r’ Us© shopping cart.

Heck, I’m still not sure of all the things that we bought Pugsley. The Mrs. might have gotten him a 12-gauge for all I know.

But one present stuck out from all the rest – a toy microwave.

Of all the things you can call Pugsley, just don’t call him late for dinner.

After cake and presents were done, The Mrs. and I were talking, and Pugsley was two rooms over. I asked (in a normal voice), “Want to get in the pool?”

In ran Pugsley.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” as he ripped his shirt and shorts off to get his swimming suit on.

Okay. He talks sometimes. And he has dog ears. Heck, he might even be reading now for all I know.

Just hope he doesn’t cause himself fake-radiation poisoning with that fake-microwave. Somebody should regulate those things.

Oh, wait, I think California already does.

" Dad, I have never seen Maris this angry. I swear, her eye was twitching like a frog in a science experiment." - Niles, Frasier

2008-05-04T20:48:00.000-08:00

”Dude, that’s my skull.” – Jeff Spicolli I don’t know about you, but I thought that the inside of an alligator wasn’t so bony. Perhaps I thought they were made of Jolly Rancher© candy instead. Probably green apple.

The Mrs. says I don’t rest well. I tend to want to fiddle, fix, and fret when I have a few down moments. This weekend I sought to prove The Mrs. wrong.

It started on Saturday. On Saturday I got up (unwillingly and with complaint, as usual) with The Boy and Pugsley. The Boy, fresh off some new transgression at school, was banninated from television. We shared a hearty breakfast of Pop Tarts©.

Upon consuming the delicious chemicals meant to mimic strawberries, I assumed a prone position on the couch and proceeded to watch a special on the socioeconomic effects of the Little Ice Age (in 1732, Alburtus Gorus warned us all that newfangled sailing ships were “stealing the wind” and making the earth cold). As exciting as that was, I still fell straight asleep, but the “parent” kind of asleep, where whenever anything is too noisy or too quiet, you wake up and yell.

On one of those yells, I heard Pugsley rustling around in the kitchen.

“PUGSLEY, GET IN HERE NOW,” I yelled.

“He’s in here with me, Father of the Year,” responded The Mrs.

Oh, good. The Mrs. is up. Now I can really sleep.

The Mrs. walks by. “What is this show? I walked by once and they were talking about the Spanish Armada. Now they’re talking about beer.”

“Little Ice Age,” I muttered.

“Huh. I’m going back to sleep.”

Eventually (two hours later) all the Wilders were ready to head out. By head out, I mean that we had exactly three destinations in mind – Starbucks©, The Scout Shop, and Toys ‘r’ Us™. At Starbucks© The Mrs. and I discovered that the primary cause of our extraordinary malaise that morning was an utter lack of caffeine in our blood. At The Scout Shop, The Boy had to bring his Scout Stamps in to pick out a prize for selling Scout Fair coupons. He picked out an orange-colored doo-dad that had a compass, flashlight, thermometer, whistle, and secret Cub Scout compartment.

Then, to Toys ‘r’ Us® for Pugsley’s birthday presents. Since Toys ‘r’ Us© were all out of One Rings (oooh, my precious) The Mrs. picked out something for Pugsley while he and The Boy and I went back to the car.

I was in the car with the air conditioning and the radio on.

The Boy: “Dad, would you turn off the air conditioning? I want to see how hot the car gets without it on.”

Me: “Sure.” I’m not one to avoid an experiment on myself even if it results in my blood pressure going up forty points, nearly enough that would have sweat blood, due to a massive ingestion of salt (yes, this really happened, and no, I’m not going to discuss it). The Mrs. chastised me soundly for this, indicating that there was a reason that doctors went to medical school . . .

Five sweaty minutes later The Mrs. bangs on the trunk, I press the button that opens it, and she puts in Pugsley’s birthday loot.

The Mrs. opens her car door and gets into the car.

“Jesus, John, are you trying to kill the kids?” The Mrs. asks as she gets into the oppressively hot car.

“The Boy wanted to run an experiment . . .”

From the backseat, The Boy announces, “Hey, cool, it got to 105°F. That’s like 500 kilometers!”

I could see the emotions warring on The Mrs.’ face. Finally it settled on defeat.

“Okay. There are two of you idiots. At least there’s still hope for Pugsley.”

Next:
Swimming
Solar Power
Pugsley Turns Three

"Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes?" - Indy

2008-04-30T21:02:00.001-08:00

If Indiana Jones grew up in Houston, he wouldn’t be creepy about snakes, but instead about fire ants. The picture above is of a fire ant magnified fifty gazillion times.

I remember going to see Raiders of the Lost Ark when I was a kid. I’ll guiltily admit why I went: here was a movie that had Han Solo® in it. I had seen each and every crappy movie that Harrison Ford was in between Star Wars™ and Raiders, hoping that they would not be filled with great gulps of suckage. Sadly, each movie (Heroes??, Hanover Street????) attempted to crush my youthful hope into jaded cynicism. It was like Hollywood© was attempting to do its best to make me hate movies.

It was before the Internet, so I hadn’t heard anything about Raiders of the Lost Ark before it showed up in our little two-movie-theater-town (two showings at each theater a night, except on Wednesdays). Note: two theaters in a small town wasn’t so bad. I learned when I was fourteen that the theater down the street (which showed only R-rated movies) trained their ticket-takers that “cash-in-hand=17.” Oh, the education!

I sat down in my usual fold-down theater seat (before you can drive, if you were a kid you had a usual seat, since VCRs, DVDs, and iPods® had yet to be invented by Al Gore, though Al had invented the first video game, the ALtari™ several years earlier) and prepared mentally to be horribly disappointed again.

No! There he was, Harrison Ford, in a movie that didn’t suck! I floated home with that light feeling in the chest, that feeling of having been uplifted by the ultimate in coolness.

Fast Forward, er, Skip Chapter . . . .

While The Boy was growing up, the Indiana Jones™ movies were released on DVD. I hesitated buying them. First, fifty bucks was fifty bucks, and that was an expensive proposition for movies I’d already paid to see. Second, it’s not like The Mrs. and I were going to sit around and watch them on a Friday night. Or a Saturday night. Heck, we could get into R-rated movies if we wanted to.

Now The Boy is 7. I’ve noticed him enjoying things that aren’t cartoons, and decided it was time. I bought the trilogy on DVD. He walked by my desk after the helpful folks over at Amazon had delivered it.

“Hey,” The Boy remarked, “Indiana Jones™, I’ve heard of him.”

“Seen an Indiana Jones™ movie yet? And,” I continued, “where, exactly, little Mr., did you learn to pronounce ™?”

“Nah, haven’t seen one. And, really, Dad, all the kids at school say ™, all the time!”

I let the whole ™ thing drop. Let The Mrs. handle it. “Want to watch an Indiana Jones™ movie?” said the spider to the fly.

“Well,” hesitating, “I guess.”

The Mrs. and I sat down on our couch, and I hit ‘play’ on the remote.

As Indy walked through the thick South American jungle, into the temple, and retrieving the gold idol, I could see The Boy watching with rapt attention. When Indy replaced the golden idol (which, by the way, is mooning us) with the sand, The Boy clapped his hands excitedly.

The Boy watched Indy run from rock marbles, jump chasms, fly in planes, hate snakes, retrieve the Lost Ark while Nazi’s turn into piles of goo (sorry if I spoiled the whole ending for you) and, finally, put it in a big government warehouse where they keep wooden boxes, probably filled with government forms for requisitioning wooden boxes, or, perhaps they keep our secret government hamster army.

The Boy started the movie in the chair. The Boy ended up on the floor in front of the television, in rapt attention, and, according to my mother, ruining his eyesight. I had to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn’t get sucked into the movie, and have to live in a government box. The Boy would then have to fend for himself against our crack US Hampster Force. I couldn't live with that sort of guilt.

I think I’ll show The Boy the next two Indy movies. Then? I’ll make him watch Heroes or Hanover Street.

Just because I’m mean.

But I won’t make him watch Witness, because even I’m not that mean.

"One of you is gonna fall and die and I'm not cleaning it up." - Mal, Firefly

2008-04-27T18:38:00.000-08:00

Paris Hilton on a diet.

“Well, tell me thank you, then.”

That’s what The Boy said when asked what The Mrs. and I should do after his stellar performance in cleaning his room this weekend.

Let me explain:

There is a point in the life of a child when they cease becoming helpless and become, well, helpful. This weekend was when that switch flipped inside The Boy. Sunday afternoon, I told him, “Go clean up your room.”

The Boy: “I want you to help me.”

Me: “No, I have to clean the kitchen. You go do it. Pick up your toys. Take the trash out. You can do it.”

I expected him to stamp off and then dither about for a few hours while I scrubbed and cleaned. That would be okay. At least I could get something done.

Then I heard a noise. The vacuum.

A little later, The Boy came into the kitchen and said, “Want to take a look at my room?”

“Sure.”

My actual anticipation was that The Boy had somehow caught the vacuum into the chords on the blinds on his windows and it was repeatedly gouging holes into the drywall in his ceiling.

My bad.

The Boy’s room actually (for the first time in a long time) looked like a place where an actual human could live. It looked, well, good. I didn’t see festering piles of clothing covered in a variety of bacteria and insects that would make the Centers for Disease Control clamp down a biohazard warning on our house. I didn’t see candy bars slowly melting into the carpet so that the infestation of ants was placated and didn’t try to eat The Boy.

Instead I saw something I hadn’t seen in his room since we’d moved in here: carpet.

Someone apparently snuck in and replaced my little-tiny The Boy and put in a little tiny Young Man.

I decided to test this thesis. I asked him to clean up the pit of despair that was the lair of Pugsley while I fed Pugsley some alphabet soup. The Boy marched off. Fifteen minutes later, he showed back up.

“Done.”

If you’ve never seen the hideous devastation a two-year-old can bring down on a room, well, let’s just say that if you had a crazed hammerhead shark (or Nick Nolte) living in your house, a two-year-old can create more havoc than either of them. Or both of them. Or, even if it was Nick, the hammerhead shark, and the illegitimate offspring of Nick Nolte and the hammerhead shark.

I walked into Pugsley’s room. It looked like, well, a room, rather than looking like Tijuana after a visit from Christian Slater and a horde of Visigoths. The Boy had done a good, quick, thorough job.

The Boy is growing up. He didn’t ask for candy, just asked us to tell him “Thank you.”

So, “Thank you.”

Now take the trash out.

Next: Indiana Jones® Meets The Boy

"Standard Scrabble® rules apply: no kicking, biting or slapping. No projectiles of any kind." - Dilbert's Mom, Dilbert

2008-04-23T22:27:00.000-08:00

Some people take Pinewood Derby too seriously. I mean, the car is made of pine, but who has to insure that their car has insurance against termites? (This car is named “The Splinter” – how cool is that?)

The Mrs., Pugsley, The Boy and I all loaded into the (newly repaired from my collision with that idiot who was stopped completely legally at the yield sign) Wildermobile and headed out to the Scout Fair. Thankfully, my car was not made of wood, or else I would still be waiting for the varnish to dry. The Scout Fair consisted of lots of polite kids, polite adults, and long (polite) lines at the Army booth where they were handing out custom dogtags.

We enjoyed all of it, and I think the marshmallow-throwing catapult was a favorite. No eyes were lost in production of the day.

Afterwards, we went to a book-signing. By “went to” I mean “drove at least thirty miles down a street looking for a bookstore before we found it because The Mrs. left the directions and address at home on the printer.”

You’d think at a book-signing, the books would be free. Surprisingly, this is not the case – they seem to want you to pay, regardless of if the book has your name in it or not. Philistines.

The Mrs., with the ink still drying on her book contract, had a friend who was doing a book signing at a local bookstore. EVEN THEN, they still wanted us to pay.

Anyhow, we got to the signing. The bookstore specialized in mystery/murder/suspense books. Since I graduated from “Encyclopedia Brown®” books, I have avoided mystery books entirely – I’m still mad about that whole Encyclopedia Brown: Solving The Mystery of Paris Hilton’s Fame book, and it’s soured my taste for that stuff.

The Mrs. was there to meet a friend she’d never met in person (the magic of the Internet), so Pugsley and The Boy were my responsibility. So, me holding the reigns on two rambunctious boys while The Mrs. wanted to meet (in a polite way) her Internet friend. A recipe for disaster.

Internet, I did poorly. While The Boy perused the section of kid books (Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and a collection of other kid books, Pugsley went on a terror to make Genghis Khan proud.

If you don’t have kids, let me explain: if you have a two-year-old who needs a nap, and he hasn’t had one, you have on your hands the equivalent of a crazed Satanic group of PETA volunteers with Sharpie™ markers at a harp seal hunt in an antique store. It’s like sixteen poodles who haven’t eaten in a week fighting over half a Chicken McNugget™. I’m running out of metaphors here, but let’s just say Pugsley was like piranhas on a Pop-Tart©.

So The Mrs. waited politely while her friend, the other author, made small talk with a fan. Me? I’m subtle. I would have jumped right in. To explain: when I (this happened) suddenly have to pretend to be the Cub Scout Den Leader because ours is unexpectedly gone and hand out awards, I can do that, even when surrounded by a group of complete strangers.

The Mrs.? Not so much. Plus there’s this whole “girl etiquette” thing about not interrupting a group of people you’ve never met and introducing yourself like you own the place. With guys it’s much simpler. “You like beer and football? Me, too. Let’s have beer and watch football.”

With women, there’s this whole set of rules that other people have to stop talking before you start. You can’t talk with your mouth full, or pass gas indiscriminately. Apparently there are places you shouldn’t scratch. It’s just so confusing.

In the end, The Mrs. met her friend, and I ended up paying for a book with The Mrs.’ name written in it. I think if we had changed our minds we could have gotten a heck of a discount. I also got a first edition Philip K. Dick (who wrote the movie Total Recall was based on) book (The Mrs. read the back cover and said, “Hmm, looks like he wrote only one book, but just kept putting different titles on it.”).

Yeah, but he didn’t have a wooden car. But he probably thought he did. Or thought that the government wanted him to think he did since he was a slave on Mars.

"Shatner is, was and ever shall be Kirk to me. I need my hero." - Robert, Free Enterprise

2008-04-20T21:23:00.000-08:00

A gator, swimming in what appears to be lime-flavored Gatorade®. Note: I did NOT spit on this alligator.

To recap: I’ve been camping with The Boy. The Boy kept waking me up because I was (he says, but has no proof) snoring. I must say it was actually a cunning plan on my part to ward off the hordes of vicious raccoons that had surrounded our tent and demanded that we give them Cheetos® or they would do something unspecified (but horrible) with their evil little opposable thumbs. They also threatened to use mind-control technology on us to make us drop tasty things if we did not relent and give them the crunch-styrofoamish goodness that are Cheetos™. My snoring must have been answer enough.

We went hiking, if walking on an asphalt path for a half-mile around a lake is your idea of hiking. We walked back to our camp, and I cooked up some macaroni and cheese for The Boy and some hot dogs for myself. When getting the hot dogs off of the grill, I needed an extra hand, so I asked The Boy to come and take the dogs over to the table. He managed to drop two of the three dogs into the dirt. The evil raccoons with their mind control technology win this one.

We ate. I raided our supply of lunchmeat since apparently sleep-deprivation makes me hungry. The Boy then walked over to the playground right next to our camping area, and I slowly drifted in and out of slumber on my lawn chair, while reading a P.J. O’Rourke book. I think this was one of the reasons that The Mrs. didn’t send Pugsley with me, since he could have made it to Montana during one of my brief bouts of narcolepsy.

A slight digression: when I say “The Boy then walked over to the playground,” I actually mean that “The Boy then used an assortment of strange steps and odd gaits that make me think of Monty Python’s skit about the Ministry of Silly Walks to somehow get himself over to the playground.”

In a bid not to be named “Father of the Year” for taking The Boy camping and spending the trip sleeping on a lawn chair, I grabbed The Boy and headed to another part of the park, where a cryptic legend on the park map indicated, “Here be gators.”

We got there, and there was a gator, swimming contentedly under a fishing pier. As I looked down, I saw him directly under us, and, for whatever reason I had the strangest urge to spit on him. I looked around, saw dozens of other people, and decided that would be rather rude, gauche, and somewhat childish.

The Boy and I watched as the gator lazily floated around the dock. Occasionally, a person would spit on it. I saw adults (at least in size) older than me horking loogies at the ‘gator. This bothered me until I remembered that alligators are cold blooded, and these people were probably attempting to share their mammalian heat with the ‘gator by, umm, spitting on it.

Okay, that sounds bogus to me, too.

Anyhow, we ended up back at the camp site where a game of dodge-ball was developing. At first it was kids versus kids, and that was fairly amusing to watch. The Boy seemed to be a better target than thrower, but I figured by the time The Boy was an actual The Boy Scout, he would gleefully toss a rubber ball into the noggin of an unsuspecting first grader.

At some point, it was Dads (three of us) versus kids. This led to the (rather) surreal ending of one game where a hulking blonde parent was faced off against a nine-year-old girl. The parent was, well, me.

How do you end a game like that? I couldn’t throw the ball at 90 mph at her, because it looks like I want to win too bad. Also, I throw like a nine-year-old girl, so I can’t throw a ball at 90 mph. Conversely, I can’t throw the game. It’s just not right. Eventually, the scene became longer than the end of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly where the camera kept focusing on Clint Eastwood’s bulging vein. I think the little girl was Lee Van Cleef.

Eventually I threw a rock at her, hit her in the shoulder, and then threw a blazing dodge-ball into her forehead.

Okay, I’m joking. I caught the ball she threw at me.

I then avoided further moral uncertainty. I drove to the observatory to buy tickets.

Did I mention our campground had an observatory sponsored by the Houston Museum of Natural History? Well, sorry I skipped that. I got tickets (very hard to come by, actually, since there were oodles of other nerds in line).

We told ghost stories around a campfire. We got into a weird conversation where The Boy defended Canadians because he found out that William Shatner was Canadian.

His quote: “William Shatner was a good actor in Star Trek.” That’s my boy.

The Boy then told the third ghost story of the night, blatantly plagiarized the immediately preceding story and recast it with a slightly different ending in the way only a seven-year-old can do and get away with. The Boy was hilarious, and the Scouts and Parents applauded him.

We then went off to the observatory. The slide presentation was about Saturn, since that was where the big, 36” optical telescope was pointed. The Boy and I wandered about the amateur astronomers (I think there’s a video called, “Astronomers Gone Wild” where each amateur astronomer shows naked stars) and they took turns showing off their nebulae. It’s always an uncomfortable conversation when a father has to tell his son about the nebulae and the pulsars.

Oh, did I mention then we went back to our tent, and every time I started to initialize my raccoon deterrent system (snoring) The Boy emitted a high-pitched keening squawk.

Camping is fine. I’m thinking next year I’m going to bring some duct tape, though. Why? No particular reason . . .

"Whoa," - Neo, Teh Matrix

2008-04-16T22:12:00.000-08:00

A dead Roman dude. I’ll call him Deadus Romani Guyus. Apparently all Romans were made of gold, and this is an itsy-bitsy gold fossil of an actual Roman, unless I read the placard wrong at the museum. That happens sometimes.

An Astute Reader (I’ll call him “Aaron”) noted in my little rant about economics that he’d like me to toss out some economic predictions. We’ll see if he ever asks me to write about anything again after this collection of random, lint covered Post-It© notes I’m pulling from the dark corners of my mind.

To better illustrate this, I’ll use the movie The Matrix as a backdrop to illustrate my points.

Here are my economic predictions (note, unless offered copious amounts of cash or some free beers, this economics column is a digression, not a new direction – I’ll continue on the adventures of the Family Wilder in the next column):

Prediction 1. Crowds of people will stay as stupid as a herd of drunk toddlers. This is not new. Sadly, this will not change.

Back during 1635 in Holland (I assume people from Holland are the Dutch, since whenever I say Hollandaise I get a nice, cheesy sauce instead of a strapping young blonde woman), a single tulip bulb sold for 6000 florin, which was enough of whatever a florin was to purchase sixty tons of butter (this is true). I don’t know about you, but if I had the choice between sixty tons of butter or a tulip bulb, I would choose the butter, but would have to look for 734 tons of nice hot biscuits and about 88 tons of honey. Alternately, I could melt the butter and just roll around in it until I was nice and greasy. That would still be better than telling my friends that I paid 6000 of anything for a flower.

The Dutch even sold futures contracts on tulip bulbs they intended to plant.

Why would anyone ever do something so stupid?

Internet bubble, anyone? I have a buddy who made a gazillion Internet dollars when he sold his Internet company for (sadly) stock in another Internet company. Don’t cry for him – he came out with at least seven figures in real money for two years’ worth of six hour work days.

Oh, and house prices always go up, right? Oh, and carbon dioxide, that stuff that plants eat to make more plants? It will kill us all. Maybe we should plant more tulips? Good curb appeal while pulling deadly carbon out of our atmosphere.

Let’s face it, whenever you get batches of people together, we’re stupid. This was true even in the year 348 BPH (Before Paris Hilton). How humanity manages to not drool all over itself all of the time amazes me.

Lesson from The Matrix: People are sometimes more valuable as batteries.

Prediction 2. The dollar will be worth less than it is now. Probably a lot less.

Currently, the Fed is pumping money into the economy as fast as they can print electrons. Given modern technology and quantum mechanics, they can do this pretty fast. The Fed is doing this because everyone bought ~~tulips~~ houses on really cheap money pumped into the economy to stop the problems from when everyone bought ~~tulips~~ Internet stocks.

This also is not new. Back when Sweden was warlike and had a king (six years before ABBA was formed), they messed up their money, too. Sweden based their currency on copper, since they had a good supply. Before long, everyone was carrying around copper coins that weighed in over thirty pounds to go buy a loaf of bread (this is also true). This also limited the popularity of becoming a stripper, since they had to have some seriously beefy thighs to hold up thirty-pound copper coins slipped into your (titanium, I presume) g-string. And their huge legs would be green from the copper verdigris.

The central banker that did this in Sweden? Beheaded by a burly (from carrying tons of copper to go and buy a six-pack) Swede, probably politely. We give central bankers nice pensions and book deals instead. More humane.

Side note: this is an extrapolation of a current trend – beware those, since if you did an extrapolation of Elvis impersonators from 1979-1988 you would conclude that in 2023 eight out of ten people would be Elvis impersonators.

Lesson from The Matrix: Money, like The Matrix, is imaginary, but sometimes it’s very heavy, especially if we leave the Swedes in charge.

Prediction 3. Commodities will be worth more.

Food, oil, beer, and steak: all of them are going to increase in price, maybe by a lot. Why? Because I said so.

Lesson from The Matrix: Trust Morpheus, or he’ll kick your butt.

Prediction 4. We will elect an idiot.

Okay, admittedly this is not much of a stretch. Notice I didn’t specify whether it would be a shallow idiot, a thieving idiot, or maniacal idiot.

Lesson from The Matrix: Take the blue pill. Or the red one. I forget. Take whichever one makes you forget reality.

Prediction 5. Some really, really wild things are going to happen.

No, this does not mean that Buffalo will win the Super Bowl®. Not while I’m in charge.

We live in a rather wild and interconnected world, so much so that people think, “Aha, ethanol made from corn will solve all of our energy woes!” and then wonder why Fritos™ and Doritos© cost more after we start making ethanol with corn. How on Earth did that happen? Hint: it’s a conspiracy.

I think we underestimate the connected risks of conventional wisdom and everyone acting like a member of a big flock. If we all went running to the West Coast at the same time to investigate the latest starlet’s wardrobe malfunction, well, the entire country might tip over. If you doubt me, see the sections above on tulips, the Internet, and housing. If you still doubt me, take your mouse in your right hand and beat yourself on the head with it until you don’t doubt me anymore.

No, I’m not saying that your best investments are whiskey (beer, up 50% in 8 years), ammunition (up 40%), and a concrete (up 100%) bunker, but I am saying that if you wrote down what you thought the world would look like 10 years from now you’ll say, “whoa, dude, never, ever saw that coming.”

Lesson from The Matrix: In the future you’ll probably sound just like Keanu Reeves and wear a really cool black trench coat with some really cool shades. Oh, and you’ll be able to fly. Using your mind. You’ll also be able to dodge bullets.

Disclaimer – This blog does not constitute even remotely good financial advice, and if you trade based upon the meanderings of a would-be Internet humorist, well, you’re on your own. The last trade I did lost me $1500.

" I'm half-horse, half-alligator and a little attached with snapping turtle." - Davy Crockett, Davy Crockett

2008-04-13T18:13:00.000-08:00

I’d like to meet a man brave enough to molest an alligator. I could only imagine one tough enough: Chuck Norris.

I can just see it now. “Judge, Chuck Norris is charged with molesting an alligator.”

“Really? How long can I sentence Mr. Norris to prison for before he gets out? Two years? That’s not very long. Not guilty. Mr. Norris, you are free to go. And we’re all very, very sorry to have bothered you.”

We went Cub Scout camping again this weekend. The camping I was used to when I was a kid involved deep depravation of all things civilized: by the end of the trip you were looking at chipmunks and wondering how they would taste if you fried one – or, on a longer trip, raw. The longest trips? Whole.

Our campsite? Running water. Electricity. I could have brought a hot plate, an air conditioner, and X-Wii-Station®, or whatever those rascally kids are playing these days. Heck, I could have brought a 59” plasma television to watch infomercials on prostates given by men on yachts. I hate missing those.

No, we roughed it – sleeping in sleeping bags in the tent.

In Texas, I don’t know if we could have had better weather: 74°F (342°C) in the day and 53°F (-273.14°C) at night.

We got there, set up the tent in the manner of barbarians before the final push on Rome, and settled down to a meal of charred protein and fat (hot dogs roasted over a fire). The Boy then proceeded to skewer some marshmallows and char them until they looked like puffy lumps of coal. Rather than burning tem and contributing to global warming, The Boy ate them.

He’ll take one for the team, that one.

The Boy and I had a long talk on the way to the campground. I told him that I considered it an offense worthy of being kicked out of the tent to be eaten by rabid raccoons if he yelled, “Stop it!” while I began to emit the soft, comforting noise that philistines the world ‘round seem to call “snoring.”

He said he was good with that.

We went to bed at 10PM. At 2AM, I felt a sharp jab of pain. My brain dimly tallied the number of such jabs in the previous four hours – something like twelve. It felt like The Boy had kicked me. I looked at The Boy – he looked to be an angelic being captured in the bonds of Morpheus (that means he was sleeping, not that he is Keanu Reeves in The Matrix).

I decided to check, and pretended to sleep, emitting that soft, soothing noise that occurs when I slumber. I felt The Boy’s coiled body whip, his tiny feet colliding with my midsection at about sixty miles an hour.

Strangely, I think I moved even faster in wrapping my hands about his neck.

I told him, in very calm, even terms, that I would cover him with bacon and drop him into a vegetarian conference (vegetarians love, love bacon) if he did it again. He didn’t.

I slept well. The next morning, when quizzed, The Boy indicated that he had slept well, too.

We went and saw poison ivy, ducks, alligators, and various forms of trees. I’m not sure what level of hell it puts me into when I look at a tree that’s been alive since 1832 and wonder, “How in the heck would I cut that sucker down?” Nevertheless, I thought about that, and all of the sweet, sweet heat that an oak that’s 8’ in diameter at the base would provide, and how many chipmunks there might be up there.

Next: The Next Night: Poor Food Planning, Snoring, and Saturn.

"If you're paying for cable and not watching TV, you're losing money. It's just simple economics." - Stew, Strangers With Candy

2008-04-09T20:19:00.000-08:00

A beach house down in Galveston. The Mrs. thought it might actually be a duplex, but I hope that it’s all owned by one massively rich middle-aged guy who drives his $750,000 sports car to the liquor store at noon on Thursday. Why? Economics .

All is well here at the Wilder household. I hear that for the rest of the country, not so much. Recently, reports of repressed revenue and recession are running rampant. Rut-ro.

Many of you never saw it coming. Me? I’ve predicted six of the last two recessions.

Most Americans can tell you more about Paris Hilton’s underwear and what causes them to fall off than about what a recession is and, what causes business to fall off. Part of this is because when one listens to an economist talk, they instantly fall asleep. Boringness is the natural defense mechanism of an economist – they talk, you sleep, they steal your wallet. When a recession finally shows up, they say, “See, I told you so.” You can’t dispute it because, frankly, you were sleeping.

Okay, we’ll start with money. Money is what we use to buy beer – everyone knows that. What most people miss is that money is really just pieces of paper. Where did they come from? Magic Federal Reserve fairies print it, or if they’re feeling particularly lazy, just make an entry into a spreadsheet. Magically, that act creates something you can buy beer with. Surprisingly, when you try print your own money, the authorities take a somewhat dim view of it, even though they were just in the back room smoking cigars made up of hundred dollar bills.

Now we have money, which is just made up. (this, astonishingly, is true – when they take it back, they shred it)

Banks then lend you this made-up money. Then, when you pay them back, they want even more of the stuff they just conjured up coming back to them in the form of “interest.” I’m not sure why they do this, since they can (and are) just printing loads of the stuff, but for some reason they want it back, and then some.

Who does the bank loan money to?

You. Especially if you lived in Southern California, where as a drug-addled, unemployed, professional skateboarder, you could have borrowed $16,000,000 to buy a 242 square foot house in an area with an average income of $352 a year. This is referred to as a “good credit risk.”

So, after the banks ran out of skateboarders to lend money to, all the banks began to compete to loan money to people with somewhat riskier credit, like Donald Trump. After exhausting his needs for cash to feed the weasel that lives on his scalp, the banks get desperate.

Helpful Economic Indicator: Whenever Donald Trump is famous, you can be sure that pretty much everyone dealing with money has gone entirely stupid.

At some point, the lucky homeowners who sold to skateboarders have a mound of cash, and they proceed to spend it all on I-Pods™, Pez®, and underwear from Target© to donate to Paris Hilton.

The Federal Reserve springs into action when a Pez® shortage looms, and prints more money. We ship the money to China, (sending them spreadsheets if we’re feeling particularly lazy) and pay for the Pez®.

Fun Economic Fact: People will give you real, physical things of value (like beer, guns, and gasoline) in exchange for a spreadsheet entry over at the bunker where they keep the computer at Visa©. Strangely, this is not illegal.

A recession is when the Federal Reserve runs out of ink, and we have no more money, thus no more of that sweet, sweet Pez®. Then Paris Hilton’s underwear falls off again.

Like you didn't see that coming.

"They wouldn't arrest me if we got boarded. I'm just the pilot. I could always say that I was flying the ship by accident." - Wash, Firefly

2008-04-06T21:01:00.001-08:00

Pugsley attempts to make good on his scheme to make millions by stealing sand from the beaches at Galveston, only to later discover that he can fit only so much in his pail.

I remember being ten and hearing the line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” I think I heard it on Monday Night Football®.

I felt that the author was fairly noncommittal. I mean, was it the best of times, as in all the hot chicks I could do, well, whatever it was that a ten year old would do with hot chicks? Was it the worst of times, as in your mother walking in while you tried to figure out what, exactly you were doing?

Really, you have to pick one. Best of times or worst of times. Karate yes, karate no. No karate maybe.

Last week I was driving home from work, late, uncaffeinated, tired. The road was wetter (than usual) and I looked to see if I could merge into the oncoming traffic. Looking forward, yeah, one guy sitting there, but there was a gap in traffic the size of Paris Hilton’s ego. He’d be gone. Look back, gap still there. Look forward, guy . . . . STILL THERE.

No problem. That’s why cars have brakes, right? Ooops. The rain made the concrete slippery enough that my treads could find no purchase.

Hit him. Smack. I watched my air bag (useless as a microwave popcorn bag at this point) deploy.

It’s interesting how time compresses in situations like that – it must be similar to spending time with Tom Cruise. Oh, sure it was only five minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. In this case I saw the air bag unfurl, and certainly felt the painfully hot exhaust gasses giving my forearms unneeded second-degree burns, all in the name of safety.

I got out of the car and made sure that the other guy was okay. He was. We pulled over and waited for a cop. By the time (two hours later) one arrived, he looked like Grant Imahara (the guy who’s not Adam or Jamie from Mythbusters©), and was as cool as one of the cops from the movie, “Superbad.” He looked at our cars and told me, “Alright, Mr., umm, McLovin, get on out of here.”

I drove home, and upon parking, noticed the steam emanating from the engine compartment After opening the hood, I watched as boiling hot ethylene glycol poured onto the concrete from the radiator. Great.

I got home, and told The Mrs. about my adventures in turning plastic and metal into twisted plastic and metal. I checked e-mail, primarily because I keep wondering if anyone will ever make me a millionaire through a questionable financial transaction from Nigeria or if someone will offer me inexpensive Viagra®.

I saw an e-mail for The Mrs. from a publisher. It was unopened. The Mrs. was studiously working on yet another novel not twenty feet from me. I clicked the “open” button on the e-mail.

The e-mail noted that, despite being a novel that they normally would never buy, they wanted to send The Mrs. a contract on her latest (finished, not the one she was typing on) novel. Because it was rockin’ good.

I said, “Honey come here and look at this.”

“Not now. I’m busy.”

“No, really, come here and take a look at this.”

The Mrs. grudgingly got up from her computer and wandered over to look at the e-mail on my screen.

First: disbelief.

Second: A little “happy” dance.

Third: “I need a beer.”

So, best of times and worst of times, indeed. More best than worst, though.

"You sunk a $700,000 yacht?" - Michael Bluth, Arrested Development

2008-04-02T22:23:00.004-08:00

Titanic. The Exhibition. I’m sure that this museum exhibit will be as reliably fun as a voyage on the Titanic.

I blame The Boy. The Mrs. and I put the question to him. Do you want to go to the Leonardo DaVinci Exhibit at the Natural History Museum, or go see the Titanic Exhibition at the Moody Gardens? (I was secretly rooting for the DaVinci stuff, since maybe I could crib some of his really cool designs and make a crank-powered flying computer that had the Mona Lisa on the side.)

He picked The Titanic.

We set off in typical Wilder-herd-of-turtles fashion at about 1PM. It takes about that long to caffeinate us all on a Saturday morning. An early Saturday morning trip? Oh, 11AM is pushing it for us.

We drove down to Galveston. I had taken a cursory look on Google Maps™ at the location of Moody Gardens, and guessed at the route. I thought (like the captain of the Titanic) that I could take a shortcut, with similar results. Twenty minutes later, we stopped at a grocery store to ask directions. If you’ve ever been to Galveston, you know you can drive almost all of the streets in about ten minutes, so I had probably been on several streets more than once. Oops.

We finally arrived at Moody Gardens. Moody Gardens consists of big, pyramid-shaped buildings, perhaps constructed that way to concentrate the forces of harmonic goodness so that Madonna© can sell albums. Heck, I don’t know. They’re pyramids, and we were there.

Feel the nice pyramid goodness, complete with a creamy nougat center.

We found the appropriate pyramid with Titanic: The Exhibition®. I bought the tickets ($34?), and was greeted with a sign at the entry to the exhibit that indicated no photos, videos, camcorders, or memories were allowed without the express written consent of the NFL™ and the Oakland Raiders©, unless you were a member of the New England Patriots® coaching staff. I guess they get to video anywhere. I was disappointed, since I had wanted to treat the visitors of Wilder By Far to an actual video of the exhibit.

We got into the line of people and slowly shuffled near recreations of various staterooms, glass cases that had old stuff scraped from the bottom of the ocean. Me? I had seen all this junk in my great-grandparent’s garage, except they didn’t spend millions of dollars dredging it off of the ocean floor. They were just packrats that saved aluminum foil. So, since I can’t show you pictures to indicate how dismal and depressing I thought the exhibit was, I briefly considered taking a video of the junk in my garage and posting it to Youtube©, and indicating that these were treasures made of atoms created in a nuclear fusion furnace and expelled by an actual supernova.

The Boy is considerably less jaded than I. He’s bee reading about the Titanic, and was relatively amazed. He would have love great-grandpa’s garage, too. (I did when I was seven.) The only thing he did that irritated me was when he wanted to stop and watch a Discovery Channel® video that was playing and part of the exhibition. I dragged him away.

“We can watch TV at home.” Plus, we could leave faster.

The Mrs. enjoyed the exhibit as well, despite the fact that the nearly-three (and nearly forty pound) Pugsley had attached himself to her like a baby koala, and I could hear The Mrs. vertebra (vertebra are back bones, and not really bras at all) compacting under his sluggish weight.

We left. We stopped off at the beach in Galveston (free), kicked off our shoes and waded in the surf.

We had more fun at the beach, and could even take pictures.

"You don't vote for king." - King Arthur, Monty Python and the Holy Grail

2008-03-30T19:56:00.001-08:00

The Battle of Antietam, if it were to appear on “The Simpsons” except that the people aren’t yellow. Make you wonder if they had even heard of art school back then, doesn’t it?

I made a bold admission to a friend (an actual, bona fide pillar of the community) the other day, “I’m not going to vote.” Oh, sure, this wasn’t as bold an admission as, “I’m wearing very special silky underpants today,” but it was a bold admission.

He replied, “Same here.” (Not voting, not the special silky underpants thing.)

His reasoning and mine were similar. We don’t want to play anymore. All the candidates left are serious losers that we wouldn’t have told where the kegger was in high school.

Me? I hung out with the D&D© nerds (first beer bought with fellow nerd B.W.) and the jocks (who occasionally drove me home after the kegger). Some of the best parties were when you got ‘em all together. Nerds? Jocks? They’re just people.

However, John, Hillary, and Obama were the people nobody would hang with, so they just sat at home shredding documents and being bitter. Gaze upon their faces and tell me these aren’t the most bitter people ever, except for the guy who did the “bitter beer face” commercials, and really has bitter down to a science. These were the people who were already starting their Presidential campaigns, and washing the cars of the members of the school board, so they could have a stunning application to Yale.

These candidates are hideous. I had an added epiphany: the voter’s aren’t so wonderful, either.

Thanks to the glory of Youtube, I can post a wonderful clip that shows why democracy is a bad idea (beware, this video clip contains girls in bikinis, a written word that is naughty, and some verbal references to Hillary Clinton that begin with the letter ‘b’ and rhyme with ‘snitch,’ so if that sort of stuff shocks you, don’t click on the link below):

I watched this video in stunned silence, and realized that I am totally, completely, and utterly opposed to the idea of democracy. So were the Founding Fathers. They thought democracy was about the worst form of government they could think of, except perhaps a government controlled entirely by Elvis Presley imitators, or housecats. They thought that a democracy led inevitably to a government not of ideas and principles, but one of popularity. The Athenians had a democracy, and so voted that Socrates had to commit suicide by drinking hemlock because he was known as the Paris Hilton of his day, rarely wearing anything under his toga. This led, of course, to Socrates’ famous last words:

“I drank what?”

Let me give you another example: my work often requires me to be home past dinner time at the Wilder house. If our house were a democracy, The Mrs. would suggest a well balanced meal that might include, say, broccoli, liver, and boiled cabbage. The Boy and Pugsley would caucus and suggest that carmel-filled chocolate Easter eggs would be appropriate. With an astonishing 67%-33% majority, The Boy and Pugsley would grow up into 1000 pound men with no teeth.

Does it work like that? No! It’s a constitutional monarchy at our house, with limited input from the serfs. Fair? No. But we really do know better.

I won’t be voting for Ron Paul in the election (though he’s closer to my views than the rest of the bitter-kid club), but these voters made me sure that we need a way to painfully keep people who shouldn’t vote away from the computer that tallies their votes, or else we should rig the election like The Onion suggests:

Diebold Accidentally Leaks Results Of 2008 Election Early

Really, now, should the only qualification to cast a vote be that you can fog a mirror?

So, as I watch the candidates I wonder where is our modern-day Washington, Jefferson, Jackson, or Madison? I mean, at least Madison had Dolly Madison, who at least made wonderful snack cakes.

I could vote for a president if he stood for real change, or at least good snack cakes.

"Nobody puts baby The Mrs. in a corner." - Johnny Castle, Dirty Dancing

2008-03-26T18:35:00.000-08:00

The Brandenburg Motel. Not in Germany. Not in Prussia. Not even in Brandenburg. I assume it really is a motel but the pictures of the snow-capped alpine mountains (in Oklahoma, no less) were the second clue that you cannot trust the motel owners under any circumstances.

In Houston you can find some of the best food and tastiest food on the planet, served by bright, intelligent waiters and waitresses that probably have degrees from Harvard (in economics, probably, but that’s okay – they can do less damage there than they would at the Federal Reserve Bank). In The Mrs.’ home town? Not so much.

The Mrs. went with her mother, The Boy, and Pugsley to go pick up some food at a restaurant that rhymes with “Raco Smell.” It was 11:43 AM. Apparently Raco Smell doesn’t open during this time. Lunch break?

Anyway, The Mrs. then went to a restaurant that has a name that rhymes with “Scarby’s.” The Mrs. and her entourage waited in line while the two employees and the manager were in some sort of heated discussion about the proper way to carve roast beef, or perhaps it was about economics. Whatever. They ignored The Mrs. for about five minutes while a line of customers formed behind them.

The Mrs. generally doesn’t rant, preferring to vote with her (our) dollars and not reward incompetence, poor ethics, or body odor. The Mrs. rarely complains. Often she give me a funny look when I complain.

This time was different. She let loose a tirade worthy of historical preservation. In about four years (lightspeed time) this tirade will hit Alpha Centari, and then the aliens there will cower in fear. Here is what she said when the employee at the register asked the person behind her in line, “Can I help you?”

“Listen you nosepicking freak with the IQ of a houseplant, I’ve been waiting here while you and your manager gab for five minutes about how darn hard it is to figure out how to use car keys or remember a five digit ATM code. How dare you ignore us while you embark on a journey of discovery and find out that a spork is not a phone receiver. If you don’t want people to treat you like a group of inbred mouth-breathers, don’t keep acting like a group of slack-jawed inbred mouth-breathers! You slack-jawed inbred mouth-breathers!”

Okay, I wasn’t there, and I made a bunch of the stuff above up, but The Mrs. did really call the counter employees “mouth-breathers.” I think they were rather slack-jawed at her outburst. We’re still waiting on the DNA test to see if they were really inbred.

The downside? The Mrs.’ mother lives in that town, and will never be able to order a roast beef sandwich again, unless she goes through the drive through, although it may be the case that the employees have the memory span of goldfish, and forgot the incident completely five seconds after it happened.

On Easter Saturday (happens every fourteenth year, according to the Wilderian Calendar) The Boy and Pugsley were out when the “Easter Bunny” arrived and left baskets (from Easter Wal-Mart®). The Boy pronounced it an Easter Miracle, since the baskets were left when only Grandpa was home. Somehow the fact that The Mrs. and I were also there eluded him completely, but, this was proof that the Easter Bunny does exist. He and Al Gore should get together, since they have a lot to talk about.

The Wal-Mart© toys were, well, Wal-Mart™ toys. I kept wondering how much lead was leaching into Pugsley’s system as he gummed the racing stripes on the plastic car he got. I figure he was pretty smart to start with, so getting a bit of lead into his system will just even the odds for the other kids at school.

On Easter Sunday we undertook the long drive back. The Mrs. got amusement from several signs: “Fruits for Sale Truckers Welcome” in the event that truckers felt that they were under some obligation to eat only biscuits and gravy, these people were helpful enough to let them know they could have regular roughage in their diets. Another one (this was Easter Sunday) read “He is risen, and we are closed.” I asked The Mrs. what business it was on, and she said she didn’t see that part. I was hoping it wasn’t the hospital. Maybe we were lucky and it was Scarby’s.