Dear Zoey--
You know we love you and would love to give you anything your little heart desires.
Within reason.
I don't quite understand why you want those stupid things. Maybe you're proud of your family? Maybe you're just in love with your name? I don't know.
But we will never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever put those asinine family stick figures on the back of either of our cars.
Sorry, babe. How about a pony?
Hugs & Kisses,
Mommy & Daddy
Management
Yet Another Open Letter To My Daughter
An Open Letter To My Daughter
Dear Zoey--
First of all, we're both really impressed that you've recently started reading nonfiction books. While we love hearing of the trials and tribulations of Katie Kazoo, Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, Stink, and that wimpy little bastard, it's nice to hear you spouting off facts for a change. And no, we didn't know there are over 5,000 species of jumping spiders. Wow!
However, your recent love of insects has become somewhat problematic. Prior to this recent journey to the Land Of Nonfiction, if you saw a bug, your immediate reaction was, "KILL IT!" Now, you talk to the bug instead. And while it's cute seeing you on your hands and knees talking to your two-, six-, and eight-legged friends, your mother and I still operate under the premise that bugs are not friends.
While I did scoop a spider off the floor and set it down outside unharmed for you the other day, don't expect that to be a recurring event. If you have any doubts on our stance on bugs, please commit to memory the following refrain:
An outside insect can be my best friend.
An inside insect's life will come to an end.
Hugs & Kisses,
Mommy & Daddy
Management
An Open Letter To Joe Girardi
Hey Joe--
First of all, I've got to tell you I'm a lifelong Yankees fan. I also feel you've done a hell of a job managing the team and the different personalities this year. Hell, A-Rod alone must've caused more than a few gray hairs!
Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, I've got to tell you that I feel you're making a B-I-G mistake tonight by starting A.J. Burnett on three days of rest. Burnett isn't the most consistent pitcher on your team; you never know what you're going to get when he takes the mound. I have three big concerns concerning tonight's game:
- Burnett is pitching on three days of rest. Is he capable of doing that? I have my doubts.
- He is pitching away from Yankee Stadium. He has a 3.51 ERA at home this year and a 4.54 ERA away from Yankee Stadium. In the World Series, where every run is important, do you think you really need to give up an extra run?
- He'll be going against a fully-rested Cliff Lee, the guy with a microscopic 0.54 ERA this postseason.
But I'm fully expecting the Yankees to lose tonight given Burnett's away performance this year and Lee's lights-out postseason record. You're planning on pitching Andy Pettitte in Game 6, also on three days of rest. Dude is 37 years old and has never pitched on three days notice. This will not end well. Then you'll have Sabitha on the mound for the make-or-break Game 7. Is this really how you want things to go down?
I hope I'm wrong. I hope Burnett goes out there tonight and pitches a perfect game. But I wouldn't be too surprised if my scenario comes to fruition.
Good luck!
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
An Open Letter To Ashley Tisdale
Dear Ashley Tisdale--
I see you have a new movie, Aliens In The Attic, opening today. Actually, it took several viewings of the commercial before I even realized you were in the movie. You decided not to do The Suite Life On Deck so you could concentrate on dreck like this?
You should have parlayed the Sharpay role into a lucrative movie career by now. I realize your cast mate, Vaneesa Hudgens, isn't doing much better, but I do see her face CONSTANTLY in the trailer for Bandslam, in which she plays the girl with silent 5. Apparently, Gabriella not only got the guy, she got the career as well (or at the very least, the screen time).
Listen, Ash (can I call you Ash?). You need to shed the Disney image before you wake up one day to discover you signed on to play the mom in the umpteenth remake of Freaky Friday. I have a brilliant suggestion that will successfully remove those mouse ears from your noggin: take a small role in a indie movie helmed by a respected director. Make sure you appear topless in said role.
And should you foolishly decide not to follow my advice, I hope Phineas And Ferb has a nice long run.
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
An Open Letter To David Foster Wallace
Dear David Foster Wallace--
I tried.
Really, I tried.
But I just couldn't get into Infinite Jest.
Maybe I'm too stupid to get it. Maybe the sheer size of the book (1,077 pages!) got to me (but I must congratulate you on writing a book I could've used as a weapon if necessary).
But I finally had to stop on page 111.
See? I told you I tried!
Sure, there were some funny parts. Some parts that made me think. But I had no idea what the hell was going on. Was there a plot in there somewhere and I just missed it? I really thought I would've been able to figure that out by page 111.
Maybe someday when I'm smarter or have more time to myself (re: find myself on a deserted island), I'll revisit Infinite Jest. Until then, I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
An Open Letter To The Guy Holding Up The Redbox Line On Saturday Night
Dear Guy Holding Up The Redbox Line On Saturday Night--
Like you, I love me some Redbox. You can't beat $1 movie rentals! Hell, you can get a movie, a bag of chips, and a two-liter for the price of a large bag of popcorn at the movie theater.
But unlike you, I actually research Redbox's offerings before stepping up to the kiosk. Maybe I'm just a bit on the anal side or maybe I just value other people's time as much as I do my own, but I go to Redbox's website and see what movies are available beforehand. I shout out titles to my wife and we pick out three movies and hope one of them is available by the time we get to the store.
But not you, Mr. Rebel! After waiting for the person in front of you to make her selection, you strutted on up to the kiosk, hit the button to view the movies available, and then called your girlfriend/boyfriend/friend/asshole like you who doesn't seem to care about anyone else.
Did you not notice the huffing and puffing and feet shuffling behind you as you read EVERY SINGLE GODDAMNED TITLE AVAILABLE to the person on the other line? I think you were at least somewhat aware of the situation behind you because you seemed to speed up a bit as you got to the Ms and even started skipping the children's titles at that point. Good call!
However, when you actually started READING PLOT SYNOPSES? That, my friend, took some serious cojones. I really thought the lady two spots behind me was going to stab you at that point, but she just cursed and stormed off instead.
In the future, please do the rest of us a favor and research the movies online before you get to the grocery store. This will prevent you from getting killed.
And from renting stupid crap like The Love Guru.
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
Who's The Bigger Badass?
Dear Axl--
Your long-awaited album, Chinese Democracy, is set to be released tomorrow, November 23, 2008. It doesn't matter how good the album may be, everyone is going to mention the money you spent on it and how long it took you to release it. It could be The Greatest Album Ever Made and people will still harp on those points.
Given the grief you're going to receive, was it really a good idea to post such a photo iPhone thingie weird graphic (actually, I have no idea what the hell this thing is supposed to be) on your MySpace page?
Um. Yeah. That graphic looks... Lame? Strange? Way too happy?
Call it what you like, but it sure as hell ain't rock 'n' roll.
In fact, I took a picture of some bears today that look scarier than you do in that graphic:
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
Song of the day: Politically Correct by SR-71
So This Is What It's Like To Have A Vote That Matters
Dear Barack, Hillary, and John--
First of all, I'm very flattered with all the attention I've received the past two weeks. We North Carolinians aren't used to this kind of adoration; the primaries are usually decided long before we cast our ballots. Thanks for making me feel special.
That said, we get it. The three of you are each hoping to be the next President of the United States. And I realize that our 115 delegates are the greatest prize of any remaining state.
But you know what? I think we've made up our minds by now. Maybe I'm just speaking for myself, but I know who I'm voting for on Tuesday. There's no need to continue criss-crossing the state looking for photo ops while preaching to your respective choirs. There's no need to blanket the television and radio with your ads as if there's someone out there who will suddenly say, "You know, I never liked Candidate B but that thirty-second spot during Two And A Half Men changed my mind!"
Couldn't this money be spent in better ways?
Please don't call my house anymore. While I've loved hearing from you three (although it seems every time I try to speak, you just keep talking like it was a recording or something), calling my house at noon on a Sunday just reeks of desperation. If any of you drunk dials my house late Monday night looking for a booty call last second vote, I'll be hanging up.
And even though gas prices are at an all-time high and I truly appreciate the offer, I don't need a ride to the polls on Tuesday. But if any of you are game for babysitting, please let me know.
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
P.S. Um, John? What the hell are you even doing calling my house? You've got the Republican nomination wrapped up, dude. Take a vacation and just chill until you find out who your opponent is.
Song of the day: I'm In Love With A Girl by Big Star
To Foolishly Go Where Few Men Have Gone Before
Dear Chag of 1992--
I really have no idea if we will ever develop the technology needed to send messages back in time. I haven't received letters from future versions of us, so I'm kind of doubting it. But maybe the reason I haven't received any notes from the future is because we die tonight. If that's the case, what I'm about to warn you about won't really matter.
Regardless, I'm writing you this letter.
I don't want to give you too many details about your current life. Yes, you got married (hard to believe, but it really happened). And you stayed married (even harder to believe). You have two beautiful children.
But enough small talk. Here is why I'm writing you this letter: when you see the calendar nearing January 2, 2008, DO EVERYTHING IN YOUR POWER TO KEEP YOUR WIFE HEALTHY. I cannot begin to stress this point enough.
For on this morning, your wife will wake with a sore throat. By lunchtime it will be accompanied by a high fever. By late afternoon, she will be diagnosed with strep.
And by 6:30 PM, you will be the Den Mother or Scout Leader (or whatever the hell they call it) of your daughter's Girl Scout troop.
You won't have much time to prepare. You'll have your wife's general lesson plan for the evening's activities, but you won't know when, where, or how to segue from one activity to another.
Your wife will call the other Den Mother and beg her to stay with you through the meeting. But her main duty will be to calm the fears of the moms dropping off their kids. As these women file into the elementary school to drop off their daughters, they'll see you standing there. A man! At the Girl Scout Meeting! The Other Den Mother will introduce you and flash a reassuring smile that says, "Don’t worry. I'll make sure Lester Molester doesn't get too close to your kid." But after that, dude, you'll be on your own.
And it won't be pretty.
It will be your duty to teach the Girl Scouts about diversity. You'll explain that while everyone's different on the outside, we're all the same on the inside.
And then you'll start rambling.
You'll explain that everyone looks different. You'll tell them that people are from different places, like different things, and are different races. You'll tell them that just because someone doesn't look them, it doesn't make them bad. You'll tell them people have different hair colors. You'll tell them that some people dress funny. You'll tell them that some people wear bellybutton rings.
Yes, you will.
Public speaking is still not your forte.
I'm sure you now understand why I'm sending you this letter. So if you can't do anything to keep your wife healthy, at least you'll have more time to plan your lesson on diversity.
Maybe you should start now.
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag of 2008
Song Of The Day
Continuing with the guilty pleasure theme…This is the admission that will cause you to stop reading this site.
I don't know what it is about this song. Maybe I have a soft spot for torch songs. Or maybe it's because I played this damned tune in every wedding I ever performed. Or maybe it's because as a newly minted Den Mother, I'll be listening to the Easy Listening Station from here on out.
I really shouldn't be admitting this, but I like this song way too much.
Song of the day: The Rose by Bette Midler
An Open Letter To That Fat Bastard In The Red Suit
Dear Santa--
You did fairly well this year as far as my family is concerned. Zoey loves her digital camera and Zed all but sleeps with his dinosaurs.
But…
Look, I know you have a tough job. It's got to be rough gig delivering presents to a billion or so kids in one night. And I realize that in your rush to get home before sunup, a mistake or two might happen. Little Bobby, who wanted nothing but Star Wars crap, might have accidentally received a Strawberry Shortcake figure. Shit happens.
But my son did not ask for croup for Christmas.
I know he's not talking yet. And while I have no real idea of what noises he may have uttered when he sat on your lap while trying unsuccessfully to hold back his tears, I'm pretty sure he didn't ask for croup.
So in the future, even if my children tell you otherwise, we do not want any illnesses, broken bones, or any other maladies for Christmas.
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
P.S. What's up with all the aliases? Here in America, you go by five different names: Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, Saint Nick, Father Christmas, and Kris Kringle. A quick look at your Wikipedia page shows many, many other monikers. What gives?
Multiple personalities?
Too many baby mamas running around the world? Been dropping something besides toys down a few chimneys?
Have the elves been using lead paint?
Have you replaced your elves with illegal immigrants or child laborers?
Tax evasion?
It's time to come clean. What are you running from, dude?
Song of the day: Do Ya by Electric Light Orchestra
An Open Letter To The Army Of Toddlers Who Will Want To Burn Down My House On Christmas Morn
Dear Two-Year-Old Boys--
You don't know it yet, but you're probably going to be very pissed at me when you open your presents on Christmas morning. Consider this my apology.
I'm sure you were hoping to get cars and trucks, some Diego stuff, a few dinosaurs, a pimped-out tricycle, and probably a lot of other licensed character merchandise. You sat proudly on Santa's lap a few weeks ago and shyly said, "Spider-Man" when the fat man asked what you wanted for Christmas. I'm sure you've all been pestering your parents on an hourly basis, wanting to know when Christmas will come.
I can imagine your cherubic faces waking up Christmas morning, wiping the sleep from your eyes, and running to your family's Christmas tree. Your loving parents will hand you a present which you will think will be that Elmo doll you've been eyeing in the Target toy section.
I can see you wildly ripping the wrapping paper from the gift. But then your smiles fade as you discover the gift is not an Elmo doll.
Nope. It's going to be a fucking lap harp.
Sorry about that. You see, there's this thing called Google where people go to find information about everything. You can type the word poop into Google and get tons of information about poop. Even pictures! Pretty cool, huh?
Many people have used Google during the holiday season to help them search for gifts for their loved ones. People like your Mommy, Daddy, Grandma, Grandpa, friends, and other family members. People who love you.
So when they typed in best gift for a two year old boy, toys two year old boy, perfect gift for 2 year old boy, or something similar, there's a very good chance they ended up here (based on my log files, which have shown about 40 hits/day for such search terms for the past month and a half). I wrote about buying my son a lap harp for his second birthday and named the post The Perfect Gift For A Two-Year-Old Boy. Now what might be perfect for my son might not be perfect for you, but Google doesn't know that. So once again, I apologize.
If you're still pissed off at me, come over to my house and play on Christmas morning. Zed will be getting dinosaurs, cars, and other cool stuff.
Because I didn't need to ask Google what to get him for Christmas.
Hugs & Kisses,
Uncle Chag
Song of the day: Jingle Bell Rock by Hall & Oates
How Birth Control Destroyed Two Childhood Memories
Dear Bayer Healthcare Pharmaceuticals, Inc.--
I just recently saw the latest commercial for YAZ, your birth control pill that has also been "proven to treat emotional and physical premenstrual symptoms." I know you received a lot of flack for the stilted acting in your previous commercial, but your new ad is worse.
At least to our family.
I cannot believe you used Twisted Sister's We're Not Gonna Take It as the theme music for the commercial. I loved this song and this band. I spent a good portion of my final semester of 8th Grade Band getting yelled at by the teacher for trying to play the song's opening drum solo in class. Yeah, I know I was supposed to be playing the trombone instead, but that beat was too cool not to try out every now and then.
And while I'm at it, don't you want people to take your drug? Yes? Then why would you use a song that says "We're not gonna take it" over and over? Sounds like someone skipped an important lecture in Marketing 101.
And then there's my son, Zed. Your new commercial has perverted one of his childhood memories as well. Here, let him take over the keyboard:
Laks asldao0werolkn asssss woiweoiwe 3medoaslkja opsiu439u n4q9875u qoij asd;flkjlaskdjf owiweowowoslk sssswiiww laksjslkjas askljksjdlksdjfs. 0984al;wk jl293 ;alskfj laksjd-022
Allow me to decipher this for you: he's pretty pissed (you can tell by the word "asssss"). You may have thought you were using a relatively unknown actress when you hired Karla Mosley to appear in the ad, but she is not unknown in Zed's world. To Zed, Ms. Mosley is Karla from Hi-5.
For the longest time, Hi-5 was the only television show he would show any interest in. And Karla was his favorite actor. He was in love with her. When she would come on the screen, he would get this big, goofy grin on his face. And while he has since outgrown Hi-5, his love for Karla remains. You never forget your first love.
The Hi-5 girls are wholesome; they should not be hawking birth control. That would be like a former Mouseketeer being ordered by a judge to take parenting classes and undergo drug testing.
Oh wait. My bad.
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
Song of the day: We're Not Gonna Take It by Twisted Sister
A Letter To An Ex-Lover
Pssst… Hey guys? All the women are at BlogHer this weekend, so we're free to walk around the Internet in our boxer shorts while belching and scratching our balls (as necessary).
I just spent the last three hours watching two of Major League Baseball's worst teams' Single-A farm systems square off against one another. Why would I do such a thing? $1 Draft Night, baby! So I apologize in advance for any incoherent ramblings, lapses in logic, misspellings, grammatical no-nos, and all that jazz.
Anyway, I thought now would be the perfect time to write a letter to an ex-lover.
Dear ESPN--
I can't remember when our relationship first began. '85? '86? Regardless, it's been a long time and it'll be hard to imagine life without you.
But I'm gonna try.
First of all, let's talk about your website. There was a time when I refreshed the MLB trade rumors on an hourly basis. Your fantasy football section was indispensable. Now? I have no idea because you want me to pay for these services. Everything worth reading seems to be Insider Only information. Oh sure, I get a subscription to ESPN Magazine as well as access to your Insider information for my $39.95, but come on. It's 2007. Who still reads magazines? Don't you make enough money on your site from your Circuit City, Heineken, Cisco, etc. ads? And that's not counting the 10,000 other ads telling people to watch your station, which in turn earns you more revenue. Cut me some slack, guys.
And while I don't want to go to in depth on the issue, let's just nix all future attempts at original "entertainment." I don't need a miniseries about poker, the '77 Yankees, or a movie about Dale Earnhardt. Stick with what you know -- sports.
But you don't really know sports anymore. I remember when SportsCenter was my life. On average, I probably watched it at least twice a day. Now? If I want scores or information, I head to ESPNews. There's too much extra crap I don't need on SportsCenter . First of all, you've taken up valuable real estate on my tiny bedroom television with the What's Coming Up Next bar on the right side of the screen.
But the most offensive thing lately has been the whole "Who's Now?" garbage, where you pit two athletes against each other and have viewers vote who is more important, more current, more now. Who cares? But then you devote several minutes of SportsCenter to the topic. I don't really care to see Stuart Scott discuss if Alex Rodriguez or Peyton Manning is more "now."
Last week, you had Jessica Biel and Kevin James pimping I Now Pronounce You Chuck And Larry joining Stuart Scott in the "Who's Now?" discussions. While I appreciate the eye candy (that Kevin James is a major hottie), my soul dies a little every time I watch one of these segments.
I know I won't be able to completely leave you. You've got me for Monday Night Football and most MLB broadcasts. But if I want to go online for scores or insight, I'll go somewhere else.
Who's Now? Not you, babe. Not anymore.
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
P.S. I want my CDs back!
Song Of The Day
Ok. Marla from …For A Different Kind Of Girl is back for her fourth and final day as Guest DJ. I hope everyone has enjoyed hearing and reading about her selections as much as I have. If anyone else would like to DJ for a week sometime down the road, drop me a line.As much as I love music, you'd think I'd have a vast concert history to back it up. A drawer full of tattered concert t-shirts and mangled ticket stubs. Well, not so much. My first concert was Foreigner when I was in junior high. They were touring in support of the Foreigner 4 album, and I really just went because I was offered a free ticket from a friend. The experience was a bizarre one for me, for until that point, I was used to only getting tinny sounding music from my stereo. I was bit! However, where I grew up is hardly a hotbed of quality concert stops. We're a bit of a drive-through state for bands. That didn't stop me from seeing Weird Al in concert here, though. Twice! Jealous? No? Don't blame you. I don't admit that to many people. Just strangers on the internet.
The best concert I've had the opportunity to attend was U2's Zoo TV production when they stopped here. Achtung Baby is the CD that always tops my list when playing the "What would you want to have with you on a desert island" game (if the desert island was fully wired for sound and electricity. Details!), and I did all I could to be at this particular show. My seats were essentially three blocks behind my apartment, which was 40 miles away from the venue, but I didn't care. When the stadium lights went down, the stage illuminated with screens flashing "Everything You Know Is Wrong!" and "Reject Your Weakness." I went numb. Even after this long, hearing the first notes of this CD gives me pause.
And honestly, I think
"Every artist is a cannibal,
every poet is a thief.
All kill their inspiration
and sing about their grief"
is one of the best lyrics ever. Ever.
Song of the day: The Fly by U2
A Warning? A Threat? A Promise.
To the next unsupervised little bastard on roller shoes that comes whizzing around the corner and almost runs into me, my wife, one of my children, or my shopping cart:
YOU WILL BE CLOTHESLINED!
Hugs and kisses,
Chag
Song of the day: Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie
An Open Letter To The Local Pump It Up Wannabes
I'm well aware that I will effortlessly transform into a bitter old curmudgeon during my golden years, one of those guys who's always yelling at the bagger at the supermarket not to crush his loaf of bread or writing nasty letters to companies that irritate him. So I figured I better start practicing now. Plus, Mrs. Fortune made it look like so much fun.
To Whom It May Concern:
I'm sure your son or daughter has attended numerous birthday parties at our local Pump It Up facility. And I'm sure you thought to yourself, as most of us have, "This doesn't look so hard. I could just buy a couple of those $4,000 bounce houses from Sam's Club, lease a warehouse, and rent it out for birthday parties at $250 a pop. I'll retire to Cancun in ten years!"
If you build it, they will come. But it doesn't mean they'll come back.
If you're running a business that caters to children, you might want to hire employees who actually like children. I'm aware that little girl vomited all over the place, but it's not like she threw up on your teenage attendant. There was no reason for your employee to look at that little girl with so much hate and disgust in her eyes. It's just a little vomit. Hire some employees with backbone.
And would it kill your employees to be a little more hands-on? There's three of them roaming around the premises, but all they seem to be doing is bellowing "Slow down!" or "Slide feet first!" or "Oh my God! Is that kid vomiting?" at random children .Wouldn't they be better utilized actually helping our children up the ladders so we adults don't have to stop gossiping about the other adults and children who didn't show up to the party talking to each other? If we wanted to play with our children, the birthday party would've been held at a park.
And while I realize there's always some little wuss at the party who will not go down the slides or jump no matter how much his mother begs and pleads, I do not believe you should cater to, and thereby validate, this kid's trepidation by bringing out a car for him to ride. Do you have any idea what happens when you introduce one car to a roomful of three-year-olds? Words like bloodbath and melee come to mind.
And in regards to your company's slogan: we all loved the 'got milk?' ads when they started thirteen years ago. But 'got fun?' just doesn't cut it in this day and age. Create a slogan that's a little more edgy, a little more hip. Create a slogan that hasn't been co-opted by every other no-talent marketing mind for the past thirteen years. got fun? doesn't tell me anything. You could be advertising for a baseball team or vibrators for all I know.
In closing, I believe if you address all of my concerns, you will create an experience every bit as much fun as Pump It Up.
Hugs & Kisses,
Chag
