Humans are shaped in such a way that a they need a separate covering for their arms and chests and their legs

I've been watching a lot of Rick and Morty. The play there is extra-dimensions. Infinite #s of dimensions with all sorts of kooky playouts.

Last night, I woke up. Shit, it's August 21, or 23. Lucy's gonna start school in 2 WEEKS! I was up for another hour, all stressed out. I think I realized what I most fear in her going to school—her safety.

Her intellect is off the charts, man. She is a smart, funny, creative, social little girl, and she really takes after her old man. She's gonna take off in school in a way I never did, cause she's a girl, man. She's a girl. She's gonna be better than me. At life.

Just sent a sloppy cover letter to a PR firm looking for people, on the hope that hey, maybe it will make me stand out. I don't know. WHo knows with these things.

You know what to do if you're awake at night with stressful things swirling in your brain and you can't get them out and you just don't know wha 2 dew?

Look at some articles online that are totally unrelated and read them. Distract your mind. I recommend hitting up Reddit. There's a Subreddit out there for you somewhere, trust me.

Beatrix and the Social Lesson & Me and My Dad and the Report Card

My BB fell down today. She is so precious. Just so flipping cute. Her curly blonde hair, the way she can't yet pronounce her Rs or Ls yet, the way she still cries about everything, the growth spurts, the way she's calm, the way she always wants to spell words and memorize letters and their patterns. Everything about her.

Even when she gives mom extra shit just for being alive it's still kind of like, 'Well, you're still a kid. Some part of this is endearing, somewhere.'

So she first fell down crossing a street to go to the park. I wasn't looking at her, scanning all four directions for cars. Had Lucy's hand in my left, BB's in my right. All of a sudden BB's hand jerks down, and I look down and she's on her face, arms raised above her head. Just laying there.

I knelt and picked her up. Put her back on the sidewalk. Lucy was kind of scared I'd be mad, but felt better once I hugged BB and said, "You fell down, huh?" BB just had this crying face on, silent but ultimately expressive, mouth wide open. She's done this since she was an infant, a face Megan and I used to call the "Nothing is OK BB Face." The one she makes now is a trifle more mature.

I said told her she can't fall in the street, that if she does, a car might not see her, run her over, and she'd die. Thinking I was gonna write that and not gloss over any details, I pictured it sounding dickish, like the thing to do there was not to scold her but to just show compassion for the way she still can't seem to get her body to work with her. But it is the reason she cannot fall in the street, right?

She's 3 and she's still growing, learning. Her older sister, at 5, kind of gets it now. She's been thru 4, even. We met a 4-year-old at the park today, a girl with curly hair in a ponytail and a grey dress with a sparse, red pattern of birdprint-ish shapes, and a red bow in her hair, who BB ended up being friends with later. Her name is ... can't remember exactly, starts with A.

So A, before her or my kids had exchanged any words, picks up this long, green, plastic, smiling spoon that BB brought with her from home. She was sitting on the swing, her spoon on the ground beside her where I told her to put it, as she's fallen off that swing several times, and I keep reminding her to hand on with both hands.

Jesus, I even got mad at her when she didn't put her shoes on today after I asked her four times. Sometimes I get mad at some dumbass shit. No wonder my kids get worried that I'm gonna snap at them. I was so mad I couldn't even articulate that I wanted her to just put something on her feet, but didn't want to confuse her because she was putting on boots and I said to put shoes on. My 'shoes' term was just ambiguous.

I even said, and this is classic, "How many times do I have to tell you?" Ah, hilarious. Kids really do make parents into monsters. It's not the kids' fault, it's not the parents' fault. We're all just kids raising kids. Thank God the scientists keep figuring stuff out, because if it were all just parents spending their formative years procreating, we'd never evolve.

Once in high school my dad kept repeating to me to bring home my report card. I didn't do it because he was there almost every day working as a counselor and psychologist, and figured he could pick it up. My grades were bad, though, and I knew it. I didn't want to face his reaction. But not doing it, not bringing home that report card, for like two weeks got under his skin something fierce, until one day at dinner when mom wasn't home, he asked me if I'd brought it home, I said no, and I remember him sitting there, at the same seat he sat at every night at dinner and any time of day when he sat at the table, and he just kind of sputters, "No!"

He yelled it, and he didn't know where it came from, but he was running with it. He told me this afterward in apology. Because after that, he got up and walked over to me. I can't remember if I was already standing, or if I had gotten up to walk away from him. I was 16 and getting really rebellious. Starting to really not care, you know? Thinking I could do this on my own and fuck my parents. So I start to walk away and he gets up and grabs my arm.

I wrestle it out of his grasp and he fucking grabs it again. And that was as physical as it got, my dad is not a fighter, though he was when he was a kid, and it still shows sometimes. He talks about times at school when he had no choice but to fight, and how he also wrestled on his school's team. Anyway, we just stared at each other at that point, for a few long seconds. I didn't try to wrestle my arm away any more, not wanting to provoke anything either. My dad and I are alike in this way. We both believe in pacifism, and that fighting, though fun if you've got the balls and the willingness to bleed, is counter-productive.

So this girl, A, takes away BB's spoon. Just runs up and grabs it and runs away, quick as day, and BB watches her. Now, mom of A has a little 1yo baby in her arms, and is saying her name over and over again, asking where she got the spoon. BB doesn't initially appear phased until I say, "She took your spoon," in a conversational tone, like, Wow, look at that thing that happened, instead of, Wow that was not cool she sux.

But BB slowly gets that Not OK face on as she gets off the swing and walks over to me. See, I was sitting on the other big kid swing next to her, tired from swinging her. I saw it all go down. By the time she gets to me she's got full crying face on, and she's whimpering a little bit. This was a really not-good surprise for her. She's not in daycare so she only has her sister to contend with, and this, I could tell, was an important social lesson. The lesson being that kids do this. Finding a way to deal with it comes later.

So mom asks me, "Is that your spoon?" I nod. She gets a glimpse of BB's face and how she's coming to me in her silent grief. "Oh, no," she says. Goes over and makes A. come back to us and give BB back her spoon. This girl was on the entire other side of the park with that spoon in no time, so it was a long, slow walk back as the girl kind of soaked up and realized what she did, and also probably had to contend with the fact that she really didn't want to give it back, it was a cool shovel.

So she gives it back. BB's better.

BB fell a second time today off the swing, a while later in the park trip. The mom and I had met before, and after the spoon business was over, we started talking and figured out who our mutual friends are. So this was about an hour or so later. We had a good 2-hr trip at the park today, our usual stay. BB must have been tired today. Probably going thru a spurt. Body getting all awkward and moving funny on her.

So I'm pushing her pretty high, right? She's loving it, but then as soon as I give her a really good one and get her going fast, she fucking loses her grip and falls, scraping her back on the new, undulled wood chips lining the park floor. Man, that must have sucked. I walk over to her and she's got that face on again, but isn't making any sound. She did whimper a few times and I tried my best to console her, but I didn't hug her because she had wood chips all stuck to her clothes and in her long, snarly curly blonde hair. That hair is a bitch to brush, by the way, and she cries every time. Gotta get it cut. Megan's worried it will lose all its beautiful curl.

After I cleaned her off, she says, "Let's do it again," and walks over to the swing. What a fucking trooper. DAMN she's awesome. So I swung her again.

Going home, Lucy wanted to go down to the pond, but I had to refuse, as we had been there two hours, and also I had to get to work. I said to her, "I know you want to, but it doesn't matter. I just don't have the time. I want to go down there too, but we can't right now." Then I threw in something thing about how wanting something doesn't mean you're going to get it.

I remember being a kid myself, in rural Michigan, and people saying simple shit to me, and thinking they were dumb, but really it was me who was dumb, and they probably felt dumb having to dumb their thoughts down to tell my dumbass what time it is.

I brought my report card home for my dad. He looked at it, sighed, and said, "OK. Thank you for bringing this home." He understood.

Job Opportunity-not for me, for you!

Hi everybody. Is it Father's Day today? Huh, that's nice. Is everyone having a good Sunday? Sitting around, drinking coffee like me? I hope so.

My kids are both still sleeping at 9:25 a.m. Time to blog it up. Got a job opportunity to broadcast.

I just turned down a position with Arbonne as a consultant. It would be up my alley as far as my skill set goes, but I feel like I'm too close to a job in social media, PR, or writing to give up my search now.

If any of you readers think you'd be good at setting up parties (call them 'classes' or 'meetings' if you want) with people (it's going to be vastly ladies), talking to them about skin care, makeup, health and wellness products, helping them find a product or two that would be right for them, and not have to sell or deliver anything yourself, you might be a great consultant.

You can work as much or as little as you want, and the only time you'd have to leave your home would be to attend the parties you'd set up.

My friend Jennifer is putting together a team of 4 or 5 people right now, and she and I went out for coffee a few days ago to talk about it. She's really nice and down-to-earth. Hit me up and I'll put you two in touch.

I met Jennifer for the first time at the Northgate Target here in Seattle. It was Lucy's birthday and I was shopping for girl clothes, as was Jennifer. It took me a good half hour at least, cause I was picking out several outfits, and I had never done that before for a little girl. Jennifer and I passed by each other several times, and I think I mentioned that I was gonna buy jeans for my Lucy, and she remarked that she can't get her daughter to wear denim.

So we keep shopping and talk a little bit more, no introduction or anything, just two strangers passing by within life's whirlwind. Fast-forward to last week, when my whole family went to Lucy's new kindergarten orientation & ice cream social. I saw Jennifer over there by the signup table, and I said to her, "So I was shopping at Target a while ago, and we were both shopping for clothes for our kids ... " and she immediately recognized me. She surprised me with the questions she asked, totally like a journalist, or someone for whom networking is their bread and butter.

Sounds familiar. This is probably why we get along so well. She told me she's a consultant, and I asked her a little about it, and then told her I'm on the job hunt. She proposed a coffee date to talk about it, to which I readily agreed, and last Friday we met at Forza by Green Lake.

She's a really nice person, church-going and a choir director. I've never heard her sing, but I bet she's a master. Her husband is a school music teacher, so they're a musical family with their three kids.

She started with Arbonne eight years ago and now she's done dabbling, as she told me.

So there you go. I was almost sold on it, but going home afterwards, talking with Megan, and then sitting on it for a day, I had to decline, but I did offer to help her find other people who want a change in employment and would be good at this.

Found my first referral this morning. Yes! I love spreading the goodness around. Job hunting is hard work, and it involves a lot of hurt feelings which one has to learn to take in stride. Especially since I'm trying to break into an industry in which I have no experience.

Next blog, I swear I'll talk about my kids more, I swear it! I had to get this notice out first.

The Working Stay-at-Home Dad

Fudge man, working till 11 p.m., having to get up at around 8 to look after the kids (not a terrible time to have to wake up, granted), and then going back in at 2 the next day,

...

Let me just say this: I want a 9 to 5. A steady schedule. I mean, I've got a steady schedule now, meaning it's the same from week to week because my boss has been cool like that, but with the kids every day, and the trying to find a job related to my communication degree, and doing this social media volunteer gig, it's tough.

Looking Back, A Critique of Self

The very title of this blog describes holding onto something that might naturally die: my ‘metalhood.’

Shame and a sort of mild disgust fill me when I look back on my posts. Though specific examples momentarily elude me, it’s happened too many times to be trifling. My reactions to my past RMTD writings can be boiled down to this: the attitude was too negative.

What is it I’m trying to retain, my overrated youth, my immaturity, my foolish anger, my weaker moments, my failures? Metal music is about raging against the system, and being a good parent requires going along with the system—that of tried and true parenting practices, evolutionarily honed and scientifically learned.

The writing was all wrong, and the concept of metal parenting is antithetical. Metal music is mostly obnoxious. I want to turn it all around. Somehow. I have some options, including changing this blog’s name, or starting over with a new one.

Let’s look at how it all started, this Retaining Metalhood Through Dadhood blog.

The year was 2009, and I had just had my first kid. She was amazing, a quite medium-mannered baby, with no health problems. Now me, I am usually a medium-mannered person, albeit a bit animated at times, but I admit now I was a quite a protective dad, treating my new child at times like a very breakable porcelain doll than the strong little skinny human she is (anyone who saw me toss her in the air to her delight may disagree). I would have dreams where I tossed her up and didn’t catch her, of her hitting the ground after a hard fall, and I’d wake up in a panic, instantly sitting up in bed. I’d constantly be worried about her hurting herself irreparably if she was out of my sight for a single minute. Maybe that was part of why it took her three years to start playing in her room by herself?

She would cry every time I went to the bathroom until she was around five months old. My choices, in my mind, were to either hurry thru it as best I could, or take her in there with me. What I did not realize is that a little infant baby can indeed be left alone for bits of time, say for parental bathroom breaks, and will learn not to cry so much eventually, and that, most importantly, I needed not stress about it as I did.

Around seven months of age, Megan and I were still getting up to get her out of the crib every time she cried at night, which was happening more and more often, which we were invariably conditioning her to think was acceptable. When we read that after six months of age a baby is capable of understanding that if the parents don’t come every time she cries it won’t erode her trust in us, we changed our behavior and within a few days she started sleeping the whole night through.

What I did not realize was how much the parents shape the child. Children learn by example. It’s really up to the parents to model behaviors they want their children to adopt. Also, I was 27 years old. I had no idea about anything, other than that you have to work to survive. Career-wise, a bachelor’s degree seemed more and more like a distant, unreachable goal the closer I got. When Megan and I conceived, I was on my third college with lots of momentum, in Bellingham, while she lived in Seattle. Naturally I quit school to raise my kid and be with my woman after quite an emotionally difficult year apart.

When Lucy was born, Megan and I lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of an old, slightly smelly apartment building in Seattle, with a living room window facing Roosevelt, a bus stop bringing buses to a noisy stop just below during the day. The black roof of the short building just outside the adjacent window reflected heat back at us during the summer months. Megan stayed home for three months, healing from her cesarean section, while I worked part-time. Then she started working again, and I was on my own with a baby forty hours per week.

Though we were poor, stressed, and had no social lives, things were happening at home, little things. When kids grow up they go through milestones and if you miss them, they’re irretrievable. I wanted a writing outlet to have these memories recorded, and also to keep my writing practice up. Hence, the idea of creating a blog seemed the way to go. At the time, I was going through a metal resurgence, playing a lot of it on guitar and writing songs in that style, inspired by early Metallica and Megadeth, my personal favorites. And I had this notion that having kids makes people lose their edge, that cool parents abandon cool stuff and start enjoying Michael Bolton, Coldplay and U2.

That’s why the name Retaining Metalhood Through Dadhood seemed right for me. I was still a metal guy, but I wasn’t angry. I just like really loud, distorted, fast guitar lines that are rhythmically complex. It’s exciting to me. Perhaps a name change is not the way to go for this blog. Perhaps it can be saved. It’s all in what you put into it, right? A person is a collection of their experiences, and a blog is a collection of writings, nothing more. Perhaps the answer is to fix it by making future writings more positive, to update more often with good posts that will eventually overshadow the rest.

It is not surprising to me that my parenting skills were at zero those five years ago, but when I look back on it, I always think I could have made better choices. But then I think of how my kids don’t have wherewithal now, that humans grow on a continuum, and that there is never a light switch flicked that signals a skip from one age to another, further down the road. There is no way to learn quickly, or to fold space and skip the embarrassing moments. Life seems to occur one lesson at a time. So can I blame myself for my less-favored choices, for my parenting failures? Were they indeed failures if they amounted to a learning experience for me? My daughter has always been stronger than I realize, and she’s okay now, as far as I know, despite my perceived missteps along the way.

As a 32-year-old father of two, I’m more experienced and mellow—not perfect, but better. I trust my children and myself more. We have daily arguments, and sometimes I think I’m a dick tater, but then I tell myself that I’m here every day with them, I make money for them, clean up their messes, and still find time to entertain them. I use positive reinforcement, and I encourage intelligence and talents over beauty. With all that in mind, my kids can stay under my yoke and do everything I tell them. It’s a pretty sweet deal, really.

I’ve decided. I’ll keep the blog. Metal rules. Parenting rules. The two concepts don’t have to be antithetical together; they can be what I make them.

GWAR's Oderus Urungus Reads 'Goodnight Moon' [Uncensored]

It's Tough Being 2 and Having to Pee at Night

I just had the cutest experience.

So I'm sitting here on the couch watching Breaking Bad. Fourth episode from the end of the series. Stuff's getting intense, right?

It's 12:40 a.m. Dark out. I'm home from a later-than-usual night at work.

Marie looks in the trash can, sees the meat, Hank calls her and she asks, "Why is there what looks like brains in the trash can?"

I hear noises from somewhere in the direction of the kitchen. Someone opening a door and shuffling around. The girls' room connects there, as does the back door, so my first thought is, 'Someone's breaking in and is in here right now.'

I pause Breaking Bad and walk over to the wall and look around into the kitchen. It's Beatrix. I've never seen her get up in the middle of the night before. Luckily it's the one night this week I'm up late. Usually I'm in bed by this time.

Why? She had to pee! She was super scared, though. Tears in her eyes. Poor thing. Turning her eyes away from light sources, all tired, probably confused.

I went in the bathroom with her and helped her pee in the little toilet on the floor, and I think she was really glad I was there to help. She might not have gone to wake either mama or I up. It looked like she was headed right for the bathroom.

Maybe she was tearing up because she was psyching herself up for a scary lone jaunt through the darkness just so she could relieve bladder tension and sleep again. Or maybe she thought she'd make one of us mad by waking us up. Hm, that makes me afraid of my own temper.

On the walk back to her room she broke into a light jog. I cuddled in bed with her for a minute, but I think it annoyed her, so I got up and left the room, dad duty accomplished. Maybe it didn't annoy her. Sometimes she moves suddenly.

Perhaps tomorrow we can talk about it and make a plan of action for future night bathroom excursions. That would be the good dad thing to do, wouldn't it? That and do the dishes.

Stills, porch: 14.02.13

As my keyboard on my laptop is sticking nd not functioning properly, it's difficult to type too much.

So tody I'll just stick to pictures.


Birthday season is upon us.
My 32nd: 2.27. Lucy's 5th: 3.11. Megan's: 4.28. BB's 3rd: 5.23.

Job news: I hve interviews with two internship coordintors (one lined up, the other lining up) with two different pR firms. Exciting times!\

I think I hve applecarae still... maybe they'll fix my dkeyborad 4 free?

Man's Next Lesson, a take on #TeamGrownAssMan

The underlying theme of #TeamGrownAssMan is not that this guy is a particularly spectacular dad, but that more guys need to cop to his level. The chauvinism of humanity's entire past lingers in men, and conversely its acceptance lingers in the women who partner with them.

Evidence of this are the headlines that appear from a search for #teamgrownassman. News outlets are trying to stay editorially unsided on the issue, while simultaneously involving themselves with the issue. They focus on the reaction the story got via internet comment forums, which, as we all know, are often where the apes hang out.

What I'd rather focus on is the big picture. I'd rather take more of a side on the issue. Why is it acceptable that dads wouldn't have to share dad duties at least 50/50 with their women?

Take a look at lions.

If Disney Cartoon Animals Were Scientifically Accurate -- powered by Cracked.com

Ew.

Now take apes. They came a little farther by learning to avoid in-breeding.

Now take man. We know how to wash our hands often and take our shoes off inside the house; we've mastered the basics! Tools to ensure our cleanliness, health and survival, in our homes and ourselves, are available in stores in every town.

Now, we're onto larger, social issues. With technology constantly advancing and replacing superstition, we can afford to see how many previously-acceptable negatives in human life and society are to be avoided, and that to ensure our long-term survival, with so many fucking people on the planet, we're all going to have to start getting along!

We've learned that slavery is wrong. Rape is wrong. Violence is wrong. War has been made economically unfeasible for those who would wage it. Guns and their glamorization are helping to make murderers out of the mentally disabled.

Man's next lesson has got to be more down-home. It goes hand-in-hand with accepting gays and their right to be married, and with marijuana being de-stigmatized.

Man's next lesson is to accept females as equal to males. This will play out in the world as fathers start jumping in and take care of more dad duties in their homes. Change has to start at home.

SWITCHING GEARS

¯˘˘¯

This is what Animaniacs just gave me, just now:
"[Narrator, smoky female voice] And now ... Dot's Poetry Corner.
[Dot] (clears throat) Requiem ... for a Lamb: Mary had a little lamb ... with mint jelly. Thank you.
[Narrator] This has been Dot's Poetry Corner."

This show is amazing. My kids are obsessed with it. The writing, the voice acting, the music, the animation—it's all top-notch.

Okay, you get my point from all that shit above, right? Humanity exists on a continuum, from where I'm positioned. It's slowly getting better, at least in the United States. The reaction to #TGAM by internet commenters is a microcosm of how the world still works, in large pockets that don't really appear in the news, because they're depressing. Or people are scared to admit it. Or they're evolutionarily disinclined to admit it. Admit what? Admit when they sit on their ass or go out to bars when their women stay home to put the kids to bed, change diapers, and basically live other lives in addition to their own. It's a tough job, and women shouldn't have to do it on their own. Parenting can feel like never being able to leave work; it makes you hate everything your kids do, and then hate yourself. It can start to suck really hard if you don't have any help, even if your partner makes the bacon all day but doesn't help with the kids and chores when they come home.

I don't care how hard their job is. You get breaks at a job. You get adult conversations. You're not arguing with people who don't understand you at all, all day long. Work with adults is a whole different thing than staying at home with kids. You feel like a goddam housecleaner sometimes, unappreciated and unnoticed. Women go thru this all the time, dudes.

So when a story like #TGAM comes out, I really gravitate to it and want to talk about it, bring it out in the open, shine the light of day on it.

Agh, I'm done now, really dun.

BB is potty-training now, going in the small toilet on the floor. She'll graduate to the big toilet soon. The point is that I'm not changing diapers anymore, which is fucking amazing. Once I started to push it, the change came in a matter of days. It's great. I probably handled it a lot better this time than with Lucy. She was my practice run. It's sad, but true: the first kid gets all your stress, and the second kid always gets off easier.

LOVE YOU GUYS

I Used to Live Here

So this is a video of a place I used to live, Michigan and Minnie's Cooperative Houses (Mich Haus & Minnie's) in Ann Arbor, MI. The two houses are an extension of the Inter-Cooperative Council of the University of Michigan.



Basically it's like this. You're a young person in Ann Arbor, and you're either a student at U of M, or if you're like me, you're a nearby community college student trying to get into U of M. You find out about the co-ops: they're a series of about 20 big-ass townhouses peppered throughout the city. Most attractively, the rent is cheap (even cheaper during summer months), and it covers both utilities, and the delivering of food to your house every week in a big truck.

Equally attractive to me is that it's a self-contained set of houses (Mich-Minnie's is the only two-house set of all the cooperative houses, unless you count Joint House, which is arguably one big, insane establishment) filled with people my age. I was a few years younger than everyone when I moved in, and I stayed there for three years.

The residents change along with U of M's academic periods. New people move in and out all the time. Some people stay on for several years and become well-known within the system, but eventually, everyone moves out. It's a constant cycle.

Sadly, it thusly leaves behind, in a way, former members like myself. I pine for those days. There was always someone around, either running in and out, going back to school to study or to their rooms, or just hanging out making food, being social. The front porch was a great time in and of itself, for both houses.

Mich Hausers were always a bit less cultured than us purple Minnie's people, but we had to mingle with them cause they had the working kitchen, so there you have that relationship struggle every day.

 I jest, Mich Hausers. You troglodytes.

So anyway, back to the video above. Everyone who lives there shares work duties, right? But once a year, they have an extra-thorough work holiday, where from 9-5, everyone pitches in and, as one co-opper says in the video, "We clean stuff that doesn't normally get cleaned."

There was a certain air about living in those two houses. You had a sense you were part of something greater than the standard bullshit living situation you see so many apartment-dwellers in. We all forsook a little bit of privacy and put in a little more of our own time working to keep us and the collective happy, but it was infinitely more fulfilling than having my own place was as soon as I moved out.

Yes, after I moved out of the co-op, my life kinda started to suck. It took me a year to pull it all together. My co-op roommate one year was Tim ... Tom Waits, and we moved into this apartment in an alley that was so dismal I don't even want to describe it. The most depressing place I ever have and ever will live. My friend Chuck Thompson visited me there once. We had a bit of an adventure, and it all didn't end so great, but he's like, the only friend of mine from Manistee that ever saw the place. Oh yeah, Jessie Hojo came there a few times, and Leah Somsel too. And my brother and Mike Casey.

Oh, and Joy Shaeffer met Emily Elert one time and that's another high school connection.

Bit of Manistee gossip mixed in with Ann Arbor gossip there. From the nineties and early 2000s. C ya.