As noted previously, my blogging activity has been greatly diminished these past few days due to our latest visit with the in-laws here in suburban Philadelphia, which included lots of chilling by the pool—or, as shown above, in the pool (my mom-in-law took that pic with her new Nikon D60, outfitted with a new zoom lens, and let’s just say that I now have camera envy)—as well as kickin’ it with the beasts at the Philadelphia zoo.
And here we are, 5:15 p.m. on Monday. I now have 45 minutes to stow in the attic all of the toys and kiddie paraphernalia that my in-laws so graciously trot out during our visits, pack the car, eat dinner and hop back on the road for our 350-mile journey home … so a more in-depth recounting of our fun Philly excursion will have to wait until mañana.
Keep an eye on those Daddy’s Briefs over there on the right; with any luck, the return journey won’t include any photos of traffic jams.
On Saturday, Wonder Woman’s folks took us all to the Philadelphia Zoo—which, I must say, is the coolest zoo I’ve ever been to … not only because it was so huge, modernized and well kept, but also because the animals were actually, like, out and about, despite temperatures in the 80s. (Seriously, how many times have you gone to the zoo on a hot summer day and looked at empty habitat after empty habitat? Makes me wonder if some of these zoos actually have the animals they claim to.)
This shot seemed worth sharing, since, as far as I can recall, it’s the closest I’ve ever been to a savage jungle cat, and certainly the closest I’ve ever been with camera in hand.
And, yeah, the picture is a bit marred by the shapes reflected in the protective glass, but that seemed a small sacrifice to make in order to get this photo without running the risk of being, you know, mauled and eaten.
Zan has met Mr. The Green Monster at Fenway Park on a couple of occasions (I’ll have to dig up those photos when I’m back at Casa de Scratches). This most recent meeting took place last night in the field house at my old high school, where the end-of-season tee-ball banquet took place.
At last year’s banquet, Wally was a no-show. Claimed he got stuck in traffic. Personally, I’m guessing he was tying one on at a local bar. I mean, c’mon: just look at that nose and big gut; clearly, the guy’s a rummy.
I know, I know: How the hell does a so-called “daddy blogger” with a blog dubbed “Daddy Scratches” not post anything about Father’s Day?
Well, mostly, it’s because he’s been too busy BEING A FATHER!
So, better late than never.
I had fun pulling together Wonder Woman’s Mother’s Day retrospective (or, rather, I was pleased with the result; the “pulling together” part isn’t all that fun) so I figured I’d give it a whirl with Father’s Day.
Father’s Day 2003
In 2003, Father’s Day fell four days after the birth of my first child, the one and only Zan. Here, we see all of the Scratches men together for the first time: my father, brother, Zan and I.
My first Father’s Day … and it was all so shiny and new that the soon-to-appear cumulative effects of ongoing sleep deprivation and inherent accelerated aging had not yet laid the smackdown on me, so I’m mostly just dazed and happy—although the shock of parenthood does appear to have caused my hair to suddenly begin turning white (either that, or I used to go to a salon to get highlights put in my hair, which would have involved sitting in a chair for two hours while someone lovingly wrapped my locks in little foil pouches … and I can’t imagine having that kind of time, nor being that much of a douche bag, so clearly, that’s not the explanation for my appearance above).
Let’s move on.
Father’s Day 2004
Three things worth noting:
The cumulative effects of a year’s-worth of sleep deprivation and inherent accelerated aging have most definitely begun to leave their mark.
My Dad and I apparently were having a “Who Can Grow The Ugliest Facial Hair?” competition … and I clearly was winning.
Zan and I are sporting our Red Sox duds; four months later, the Red Sox would win the World Series for the first time in 86 years after humiliating the New York Yankees. (I just like finding reasons to bring it up.)
Father’s Day 2005
I rest my case about the accelerated aging.
On a happier note: Zan presented me with these shirts for Father’s Day that year, and, for as long as he still fit into his, I loved loved loved wearing them together. He got a huge kick out of, I got a huge kick out of it and everyone who saw us together got a huge kick out of it.
He outgrew the shirt. I didn’t. So I still wear mine—exclusively at home, or, if in public, hidden underneath another garment. Walking around with a “Big Guy” shirt on while accompanied by your two-year-old, “Little Guy”-shirt-wearing son? Cute. Walking around with a “Big Guy” shirt on by yourself? Douchey.
Father’s Day 2006
Please imagine that you see here a picture of the Scratches family on Father’s Day in 2006.
Yeah, not sure what happened here. My iPhoto library jumps from shots of Zan’s third birthday to my and Wonder Woman’s Cabo Wabo adventure. Father’s Day was in between, and apparently not worth documenting.
I figured out what happened to Father’s Day 2006! Jayna ate it:
And it must have been pretty filling, because by that point in time, the bags underneath my eyes were more than a mouthful:
Actually, this was a lot more enjoyable than Coco Key, despite the two-hour roundtrip drive and temperatures hovering in the mid-90s. And not only did it yield this almost-unbearably cute picture of Jayna giving her big brother a spontaneous kiss …
… but I also got to meet Sir Topham Hatt (yes, two Ts; I just looked it up) …
… so, you know, if nothing else, I had that going for me. (P.S.: How the person inside that costume didn’t immediately die of heatstroke, I’ll never know.)
Father’s Day 2008
Now THAT’S what I’m talkin’ about! This ain’t no Coco Key, and this ain’t no Thomas the Train; this is Daddy Scratches chillin’ like a muthafucka!
Sorry; my inner Samuel L. Jackson wanted to come out and play for a moment.
This is me floating in my in-laws’ pool. I remember this day vividly. Rarely am I ever this relaxed. No phone, no computer, no BlackBerry; just me, some floaty things and a couple Coronas, followed by a couple margaritas.
Of course, it wouldn’t have been Father’s Day without my kiddos, who by then were old enough to swim around in the pool unassisted. (Having my mother-in-law standing right there with them didn’t hurt, either.)
Which brings us to another reason why Father’s Day 2008 is the most relaxing one on record thus far: my kids had finally reached an age at which they no longer required constant, hands-on supervision during their every waking moment. On the Great Parenthood Timeline, that is a bitchin’ milestone to reach. (Hang in there, oh ye parents with babies; it gets better.)
Father’s Day 2009
Wanna see something mind-blowing? Scroll back up to the first two pictures in this entry, and then come back here to this one. Go ahead; I’ll wait.
Holy freakin’ wow, right?
Six years into it, I can honestly say that I have never experienced anything more challenging or more difficult than being a father. Fortunately, I also can say that I have never experienced anything more rewarding. Nothing in this world means more to me than my children, and nothing is more important to me than being a good father to them. Hopefully, I’m succeeding.
That right there is my sister and her husband, who are standing in the living room of their house, and are holding in front of their faces a painting by artist Bren Bataclan.
I took this picture back in March, and really liked the way it came out. I knew at the time that I would end up using it for my Photo of the Day feature … but I didn’t know when.
And then, last night, CBS Evening News ran a story about Bren Bataclan, so I says to myself, “Self: the time has come.”
My Dad’s wife, who is an art enthusiast, gave the above painting to my sis and bro-in-law for Christmas, and also gave one each to Zan and Jayna, both of which currently hang in our playroom.
Yes, we have hanging in our home artwork created by an artist who last night was featured on the national news … which had me feeling all hoity-toity … until I remembered that said artwork hangs just a few feet away from a doll that craps its pants.
A refrigerator. Indy hid in a refrigerator. In order to survive a nuclear blast. A refrigerator. A refrigerator that got tossed through the air, end over end, for miles. By the blast. The blast from the atomic bomb. The atomic bomb that instantly vaporized everything in a five-mile radius. Everything, that is, except for the refrigerator—which the blast from the atomic bomb instead launched through the air, for miles and miles, until it hit the ground. Hard. Miles away from the blast site. With Indiana Jones inside of it.
And he popped open the door and got out and coughed a couple times. And was fine.
And that was in the first 15 minutes.
Which brings me to the real point here, and that is:
Someone needs to cut off George Lucas’s hands and force feed them to him in order to ensure that he never again attempts to write a movie.
My expectations for “Indiana Jones 4″ (I’m not typing out all that “Crystal Skull” bullshit again) were low. Like, really, really low. And I said as much to my Dad as we sat down on the couch to watch the DVD.
“How bad could it be?” he asked.
“Trust me,” I answered. “You didn’t see what he did with that ‘Star Wars’ prequel.”
But I still held out a little hope that all might not be lost. After all, Lucas both wrote and directed the “Star Wars” prequel … and, while the story and plot for those three flicks were convoluted as all hell, it was the horrifically bad acting that really sank the ship. Maybe, just maybe, in the hands of a more capable director, Lucas’s “Indiana Jones 4″ would work.
Now, here I must ask: does Steven Spielberg know that he is listed in the credits as the director of “Indiana Jones 4″? Because, clearly, that can’t be true. There is no way that Spielberg would have risked his reputation by allowing this clunker to see the light of day.
“Hi, George? It’s Steven.”
“Hey hey! Steve-o-rino! Sorry, I was busy counting all this money that Burger King just dropped off. Do you have any idea how much cash they gave me so that they could plaster Harrison’s wrinkled mug on the side of a soda cup? God, I love this business!”
“Yeah, well, actually, Harrison’s here with me, and we’re calling about the script. We were shooting the warehouse scene today? The one with the magnetic skull? And we were noticing that the script calls for every piece of metal in the known universe to suddenly be drawn to the skull—every piece of metal, that is, except for the rifles carried by the dozen or so Russian soldiers standing right next to it.”
“And …? C’mon, Steve-o, time is money. What’s the problem?”
“Well, George, it just doesn’t seem very plausible.”
“Plausible? It doesn’t seem plausible? I take it you haven’t shot the refrigerator scene yet?”
And while we’re on the subject of George Lucas exploiting the good feelings you had about an epic childhood trilogy, be sure to also check out this abridged version of the script for “Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace.”
UPDATED 06.26.09: No, I totally wasn’t kidding about the refrigerator:
This hurts, but: I'm selling my #Dad2Summit ticket for $205. Current full-price cost: $350. So, yeah: It's a good deal. For you, that is.about 19 hours agofrom web
If the new #VanHalen album kicked any more ass, it'd be wanted for assault. Full-body goosebumps. Dear @EddieVanHalen: Sorry I doubted you.about 5 days agofrom web
A refrigerator. Indy hid in a refrigerator. In order to survive a nuclear blast. A refrigerator. A refrigerator that got tossed through the air, end over end, for miles. By the blast. The blast from the atomic bomb. The atomic bomb that instantly vaporized everything in a five-mile radius. Everything, that is, except for the refrigerator—which the blast from the atomic bomb instead launched through the air, for miles and miles, until it hit the ground. Hard. Miles away from the blast site. With Indiana Jones inside of it.
M.I.A. in PA
As noted previously, my blogging activity has been greatly diminished these past few days due to our latest visit with the in-laws here in suburban Philadelphia, which included lots of chilling by the pool—or, as shown above, in the pool (my mom-in-law took that pic with her new Nikon D60, outfitted with a new zoom lens, and let’s just say that I now have camera envy)—as well as kickin’ it with the beasts at the Philadelphia zoo.
And here we are, 5:15 p.m. on Monday. I now have 45 minutes to stow in the attic all of the toys and kiddie paraphernalia that my in-laws so graciously trot out during our visits, pack the car, eat dinner and hop back on the road for our 350-mile journey home … so a more in-depth recounting of our fun Philly excursion will have to wait until mañana.
Keep an eye on those Daddy’s Briefs over there on the right; with any luck, the return journey won’t include any photos of traffic jams.
Peace out.