Attention beer drinkers

Green Monsta AleThe following is a Public Service Announcement from Daddy Scratches:

Beware of Wachusett Brewing Company’s Green Monsta Ale!

Why? Whaddya mean ‘why’? Because I said so, that’s why. Who are you, my kids? Jesus.

Oh, wait, the “I said so” thing never works with them either. OK, here’s the explanation:

Last Saturday night, a most rare occurrence took place: Wonder Woman and I went out. And not only did we go out, but we went out to dinner and a party.

So let’s start the tally: I had two—count ’em, two—drinks with dinner. This is nothing unusual. (Well, actually, being out for dinner and drinks with my wife is sorrowfully unusual, but the drinking-two-drinks-on-those-all-too-rare-occasions-when-we-do-go-out-for-dinner part, that’s not news.)

But the plot thickens.

After dinner, we popped into a liquor store, where I purchased a six-pack of Wachusett Brewing Company’s aforementioned Green Monsta Ale, because I felt it would be bad form to show up at a party and assume that the hosts would be providing all the booze. I’m nothing if not incredibly considerate (where “incredibly considerate” means “can’t stomach shitty beer and didn’t want to take a chance on getting stuck with nothing to choose from except some gag-reflex-inducing Anheuser Busch product”).

Now, let’s pause for a moment and talk about the efficacy of Wachusett Brewing Company’s marketing department. Had they dubbed their beer “Green Ale” or “Monsta Ale” or “Hey, Won’t You Buy Our Ale? Ale,” chances are I’d have left the store holding a six pack of something plucked from the Sam Adams family tree. Instead, however, the Massachusetts-based W.B.C. named their ale after the Green Monster (pronounced “Monsta” if you’re a Bostonian, of course), the infamous wall at Boston’s Fenway Park (home of the Boston Red Sox, and vantage point from which this photo was taken), and because I am a fan of both microbrew ales and the Sox, I took the bait like a good little consumer should.

Which, for the most part, really isn’t a bad thing, because the beer is very tasty, and I’m quite sure I’ll purchase it again—soon, in fact—except that next time, I’ll know what I didn’t know last Saturday. But let’s not jump ahead.

So a few hours and about three or four beers into the party, I had an epiphany, which I shared with Wonder Woman.

“I’m drunk.”

Not sloppy drunk. Not “I’m gonna make an ass out of myself at this party” drunk. Not even “I hope you’re not expecting me to form complete sentences during this conversation” drunk. Just drunk … happily so, in fact. Problem was, I was drinking at about the same rate I normally do when at a social function, and at that pace, I should not have been “happily drunk”; I should have been “pleasantly buzzed.”

Fortunately, we were literally a half-mile away from our house, if not less, so at least I picked the right party to fuck up at.

Now, the thing about being “pleasantly buzzed” during a party is that it allows me to be “mostly sober” by the time I go to bed, and “feeling like a champion” when I wake the following morning. “Happily drunk” throws that equation off, and I was perplexed as to why a few beers seemed to have hit me so much harder than normal, but I also was drunk and tired, so I shelved that mystery and went to bed.

And when I awoke, my head was pounding like a cartoon thumb that’s been smashed by a cartoon hammer, and my stomach was all “Dude, WTF?” and my equilibrium thingamajigs thought we were at sea.

Fortunately, I was able to curl up under the covers and spend the day sleeping it off in the peace and quiet of the spa-like setting that is my home. BWAHAHAHAHAAAHAA!

Actually, as fate would have it, Sunday is my morning to get up with the kids, who rise at 6 a.m. every single day without fail, if not earlier, and because Wonder Woman, god bless her soul, is the one who gets up with them pretty much every other day, I wasn’t really in a position to beg off. Thankfully, the Wonder Twins were kind enough to let me lay in the fetal position on the floor of our playroom while they entertained themselves, and I really should bake them a cake or something for being so good about letting their hungover Daddy lie there like a deadbeat on top of their oversized teddy bear, drifting in and out of consciousness.

By midday, and following a heaven-sent nap (thank you, honey), I still felt like 10 pounds of ass in a five-pound bag, which just didn’t add up, so I launched an investigation. Here’s how that went:

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I’m this friggin’ hungover. In fact, I can’t believe I’m hungover at all. Something is amiss here … and when something is amiss, there’s only one thing to do: Google it.”

Submitted for Wachusett Brewing Company's consideration ...

Submitted for Wachusett Brewing Company's consideration ...

On a hunch, I Googled “Green Monsta Ale” and “alcohol by volume.” And, being the digital Sherlock Holmes that I am, I soon discovered that the average beer contains about 4.5% alcohol by volume. Green Monsta Ale, it turns out, is not an average beer. No, not at all. Nothing average about it. In fact, this overachieving beverage contains 7.5% alcohol by volume. A little quick math will tell you that, based on this information, four Green Monsta Ales contain roughly as much alcohol as about 317 average beers. OK, so math was never my strong suit, but you get the point.

So the Mystery of the Killer Hangover has been solved, and you have been warned … and the next time Wonder Woman and I go to a party … well, I’ll probably be too old to drink anything other than Ensure by then, so I guess it won’t matter.

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F**K THIS!

Actually, it’s been about 33 years, so I can’t be sure that’s what I was saying here … but it sure looks like it, no?

The main thing that comes to mind when I think about going out in the snow as a child is how god-awfully cumbersome it was to try to move around in all that gear. I get exhausted just thinking about it … which is why I’m guessing this is a picture of me launching my body down a hill and over a log because I was tired of trying to actually walk through the snow with all that shit on.

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I have been to the mountaintop!

Oh, the baggage. [sigh] The baggage, the baggage. The heavy baggage. It weighs upon me. Heavily. The baggage, it does.

Occasionally, however, there comes a way to shed some of that oh-so-heavy baggage … and because one of those ways recently presented itself to me, I feel I should share it with you. It’s called: The Delete Button.

Let me show you how it works:

Say your father comes over to pick up your 5-year-old son for a pre-arranged sleepover your son cajoled your father and his wife into hosting, and your father is all stressed out because he thought his wife was going to be fetching your son, but she apparently is running late, so here he is—with his pick-up truck.

Now, let’s also say that your father just so happens to be the single worst driver you and your wife have ever been in a vehicle with, which is why you usually prefer that his wife drive any automobile containing your offspring, and that if he must be the driver, he at least be at the wheel of his or his wife’s newer-fangled automobile, preferably while she is in the car with him.

Let us further say that your son has, for his entire life, ridden in a child-safety-seat placed in the backseat of whatever vehicle it is in which he is traveling. However, as it turns out, your father’s pick-up truck is a pick-up truck (and by “pick-up truck,” I don’t mean one of those PICK-UP TRUCK pick-up trucks with the double doors on each side and full-sized backseat or any of that nonsense).

And it occurs to you that you don’t even know if it’s legal, let alone safe, for your son to ride in his child-safety seat in the front of your father’s pick-up truck, so you quickly step into your office and attempt to find that information on the Internet. The best you can come up with in the 30-or-so seconds that you have is some Massachusetts-specific, but non-state-sanctioned, info indicating that, no, your son should not be traveling in the front seat of a pick-up truck.

Matters are now complicated, because, as fate would have it, you love your son and feel somewhat responsible for keeping him safe. Unfortunately, doing so in this situation isn’t going to go over well, because your father? He laughs in the face of safety. “Ha-ha!” says he.

For example, he has told you he doesn’t wear a seatbelt because he doesn’t (and I quote) “believe in seatbelts.” (You have asked him if he believes in “inertia” and “windshields,” but to no avail.)

So it would most likely be with some concern and trepidation, then, that you would subsequently tell your father that your son can’t be transported in his pick-up truck—and your concern and trepidation would be well justified, because your now-exasperated, easily angered father would reply, “I knew this was going to be a problem.” (And at this point, you find yourself thinking, “Well, if you knew this was going to be a problem, why in the bloody fucking hell did you put yourself—and us—in this position when you could have just gone home and gotten your car?” But you don’t say that.)

Then he says, “What? What’s gonna happen? I’m going to get pulled over?” To which you respond, “Actually, I’m more concerned about my son’s safety than the threat of you getting a traffic citation.”

And your wife, she backs your play (which, incidentally, makes you want to freeze time like that dude on “Heroes” so that you can immediately whisk her away to the bedroom for a few minutes) and reasserts that your son won’t be traveling in the pick-up truck, but adds that she’d be happy to go out the door right now and drive your son to your father’s house, which is what ultimately happens.

“Yes, but Jon, what about the whole ‘how to unburden yourself of baggage’ thing you mentioned 25,000 words ago?” you ask. “Isn’t that the premise under which you sucked me into reading this novel-like post?” Indeed it is. Hang in there.

On the day following the whole Zan’s-not-going-in-your-pick-up-truck debacle, you receive from your father an email. The subject line reads: “The Way It Is.”

You open it, and the first of what appears to be many sentences contained in a single paragraph reads something like “lowercase lowercase lowercase YOU lowercase lowercase YOU.”

Over the years, you have received several maddening emails from your father—most notably the winner of the Most Obnoxious Email Of All Time award, which dates back to 2001, and whose subject line reads “RESPECT,KNOWLEDGE,SELF RIGHTEOUS POMPOUSITY[sic]” (and you still know the email’s subject line because you have saved the email in a special folder). And in the past, when you have received such emails, you have always expended copious amounts of energy dissecting, and then responding in kind, to every point your father has put forth.

During every one of those reading-and-responding-to-Dad’s-email incidents, you have felt your blood pressure soar so high that the top of your skull almost blows off—and blow off it would if not for the heavy, heavy baggage firmly holding it in place.

And it occurs to you that never in the history of these vitriolic electronic exchanges has your father ever come to you afterward and said, “Son, you are right, and I am going to begin thinking and acting differently from this day forward. Thank you for setting me straight.” And this realization makes you think that perhaps going through the whole “I know you are, but what am I?” thing this time around probably isn’t worth the effort.

And now you are standing at a crossroads.

The path to your left leads to a bile-inducing hour or so spent reading, and then drafting a response to, “The Way It Is” (which likely will only lead to a second—and perhaps third—round of email exchanges between you and your father). It is a well-worn path. The path to your right, however, is as untouched as virgin snow, and suddenly looks far more attractive than your usual route.

You note that you have already taken a step towards this virginal path on your right, because you stepped away from the computer immediately after doing nothing more than scanning the first sentence of “The Way It Is”; in fact, so cursory was your look at that first sentence that, scant moments later, you don’t have even the vaguest recollection of what it actually said.

You explain to your wife about the email, and that you haven’t read it yet, and that you don’t think you want to. She asks if she can read it for you in case there’s anything important in it, to which you respond, “By all means, knock yourself out.” So she reads it, which is a far less burdensome act for her than it would be for you, because the almost-four-decades’-worth of baggage you wish to keep from getting crushed under isn’t sitting on top of her.

Upon completion, she says, “You’re right, you don’t want to read it. All you need to know is that he won’t expect to drive Zan anywhere unless he’s driving a car that has a backseat.”

You thank her and sit back down at the computer. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a voice, and realize it is coming from that thorny path on your left. “Come on, Jon,” it says. “Don’t be a pussy. Read it and then let’s lace up those gloves, my friend. You can beat him this time.”

And for perhaps the first time in your life, you tell that voice to go fuck itself, because you’d rather have a pleasant Saturday with your family.

So, baggage be damned, you hit the “Reply” button, type “Great! Thanks! Love, Jon” and click “Send.” You then return to your Inbox, select “The Way It Is” and press (drumroll, please) … The Delete Button! Hallemotherfuckinglujah!

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Still headbanging after all these years

Self-inflicted dipshit wound

There are so many things wrong with this photo (not the least of which is the fact that I was standing in the bathroom at midnight taking a picture of myself in the mirror), or at least why this photo came to be, that I hardly know where to begin.

Every night before I go to bed, I hoof it upstairs and carry the kids to the bathroom in their sleep so that we can avoid any bed-wetting mishaps (and, boy oh boy, have there been some spectacular bed-wetting mishaps over the years … but a friend who is the father of an only child once told me that, in the interest of his child’s dignity, bed-wetting incidents were off-limits in his blogging, which seems reasonable—so, rather than tell you, for example, about the time one of the children wet the bed only a little, but after being carried to the bathroom for post-bed-wetting cleanup let loose a tsunami-sized tidal wave all over the bathroom floor with his/her pajama bottoms still on, I’m just going to leave it at that). On some of those nights, I bring upstairs with me the children’s recently laundered clothing, which Wonder Woman often leaves folded on the stairs. Carrying it up is the least I can do, since she is usually the one who humps it all down to the river, bangs it against the rocks, wrings it out, hangs it to dry, gathers it all up and folds it. (Love you, honey!)

Normally, I place Zan’s folded laundry on the floor to the side of his dresser, from where Wonder Woman can then, on the following morning, put it in the proper drawers. (I leave this for her because I, after all, was the one who had to carry it all the way up the 10-or-so miniature steps that lead to our Lilliputian-sized second floor.)

Last night, however, the area where I usually place Zan’s clothes was occupied by the front end of a fully assembled tent thing that looks like a rocket ship and basically takes up as much room as the actual Space Shuttle. Thus, there was a limited amount of space right in front of the dresser, which is where I chose to instead place the clothes. Atop the light-colored birch (*cough* veneer *cough*) dresser, I later discovered, was a piece of relatively darker-colored construction paper that just happened to be positioned directly in front of my location, and which, in the dark, managed to obscure the front edge of said dresser. (Yes, I’m making excuses for what is about to happen.) So imagine my surprise, then, when I quickly bent forward to place the clothing in its unfamiliar location (more excuses) and suddenly felt my head slam into the construction-paper-obscured (rehashed excuse) front edge of the dresser.

Because I often, at moments like this, turn into a drama queen, I hit the deck with both hands clamped over the site of the injury and lay there waiting for the angels to claim me. After a moment or two, however, the pain subsided, so I removed my hands and rubbed the spot with my fingers, at which point I felt what seemed to be not a mere bump, but an actual gash in my forehead. Yes, I had slammed my head into the dresser with enough force to cause my skin to separate upon impact.

To the bathroom I went to wash the blood off my fingers and examine the damage.

Twice during my childhood, I split the skin on my forehead, and if you’ve never had a head wound before, let me tell you from experience that they bleed like a sonovabitch; I had to get a number of stitches on both occasions. Last night’s injury was, thankfully, less catastrophic, but to get the bleeding to stop, I had to press a wad of tissues against the cut with a great deal of force for a fairly lengthy time.

And it was during my wait for the clotting to kick in that I realized this whole blogging thing is a form of mental illness, because instead of just thinking “Jesus Christ, what a fucking spectacularly moronic way to split my head open” (which, admittedly, was still the predominant train of thought) and “Holy shit, I’m glad that wasn’t an inch lower, or I’d have an eyeful of broken glass,” I quickly found myself also thinking (perhaps even with a small bit of joy?), “Well, at least I can write a blog entry about this!”

My wife woke up in bed this morning next to a 38-year-old man wearing a “Hello Kitty” Band-Aid on his forehead.

Hello Kitty Band-Aid

[Memo to self: Buy some grown-up Band-Aids.]

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When up on the roof, there arose such a clatter …

It wasn’t that I thought placing the ladder’s feet on the cement-and-flagstone walkway was necessarily a good idea … it’s just that that’s where I needed it to be in order to properly secure the Christmas lights to the gutter above the front door. I had already tried standing on the threshold of the doorway, but I couldn’t quite reach the gutter from there. A step ladder probably would have been the way to go, but it was getting darker and colder and I had already spent more time than I could afford trying to string up all of this holiday cheer, so fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen?

I should note that the item I am referring to as a “ladder” would more accurately be described as a “piece of a ladder.” It is actually the lower half of what, in its original form, was a two-piece aluminum ladder, the upper section of which most likely had mounted on the top ends of its rails some sort of rubber guards that would protect the surface on which those ends would ostensibly be placed. I would also imagine that an added bonus of placing those theoretical rubber guards against the surface of the house would be their ability to help the top end of the ladder maintain its grip on said surface. I wouldn’t know for sure, however, since the top half of my ladder is non-existent.

Because we got the house painted several months ago, I was loath to place the sharp, aluminum ends of my piece of ladder against the freshly painted wood. My hurried and improvised solution was to wrap around the top ends of the ladder a pair of hand towels held in place with packing tape. Brilliant, right?

I started on the left end of the front gutter, and all went well with the three-or-so ladder placements it took to string the lights to a point just to the left of the front steps, during which the feet of the ladder were planted firmly on the lawn moss-and-yellow-crab-grass-covered earth.

Which brings us to the point of this little tale: in my haste to finish the job, I then placed the ladder’s feet in the center of the front walkway and rested the towel-covered ends against the moulding above the front door. In my defense, I tested the stability of the ladder’s placement by, you know, stepping on the bottom rung for a split second and gently bouncing up and down once or twice.

My rigorous inspection complete, I ascended until I was able to reach the gutter and began securing the string of lights. I affixed to the gutter a couple of the plastic light-hanging-fastener-things, then attached the—

BAMTHUDCRASH!

And just that fast, I found myself lying atop the fallen ladder, the length of which had come to rest against the set of steps leading up from the walkway to the front door. It happened so quickly that I barely even realized what was going on. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure it went something like this: the feet of the ladder presumably slid backward a bit on the relatively frictionless walkway, which resulted in the top of the ladder slipping off the moulding—an occurrence that, no doubt, was aided greatly by my use of hand towels as ladder guards.

Although I have no specific recollection of this part, Wonder Woman, who was reading a book to Jayna while seated on a couch just a few feet away from the front door, assures me that she heard the top of the ladder scrape its way down the entire length of the storm door, so it is fairly miraculous that the glass didn’t shatter and no visible damage was inflicted upon the door—an occurrence that, no doubt, can be largely attributed to my use of hand towels as ladder guards … so at least I have that minor victory going for me.

You know how sometimes when you’re out in public, walking, and you suddenly trip or stumble on something, then recover your footing by breaking into a little trot for a couple of steps before resuming your regular walking pace, wondering all the while if anyone is watching and laughing at what a bumbling doofus you are? I knew right away that I must not have injured myself in the fall, because my immediate reaction was to jump right up and casually assess the position of the ladder and the placement of the lights while thinking to myself, “God, I hope none of the neighbors saw that.”

A quick personal inventory made me aware that my left thumb hurt, but it was only slightly bruised. I am guessing that I must have placed a death grip on the rapidly descending ladder, and, upon impact, my thumb briefly got squished between the ladder and the steps.

I most likely escaped further injury because I had fortuitously placed at the top of the front steps two cardboard boxes, in which I had carried out the lights and some other supplies. Somehow, those boxes ended up being positioned such that the left and right ladder rails landed squarely on top of them, crushing them in the process—and, as viewers of the Season 2 finale of “Fetch with Ruff Ruffman” well know, cardboard boxes can greatly aid in softening the impact of a falling object. (Zan is addicted to that show, and never tires of watching the same episodes over and over and over again, so WW and I have seen the cardboard-box-to-stop-a-falling-object thing a bazillion times—which is why she laughed her ass off when I told her it was one of the first things that flashed into my mind when I realized why I had barely avoided amputating my thumb with the ladder.)

Disaster averted, I managed to finish hanging the rest of the lights without incident, and the holiday season remained merry instead of tragic.

(And, yes, Mom, I promise not to do anything that moronic again—or, rather, I promise I’ll try not to; I’m guessing I’ll definitely do something that moronic again.)

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