Friday, January 18, 2019

To Bird-Dog a Russian

I have to admit that in the past a lot of the stories I would tell on this blog took place at a bar. Since becoming a parent my nights of carousing are a lot more rare, but I did step out with some buddies recently for my birthday. We ended up at a place in my neighborhood with one of the biggest beer lists in the city, and although it is a classy joint with an excellent menu, they surprisingly have a no kids policy. So, I thought it was a great chance to get in there since I didn't have Erik Noisewater as a dining companion for a night.

I came in there to find my good friends Night Train and 312 bellied up to the bar. We ordered clams and some tray of fancy cheeses, you know, man shit, right? There were playoff football games on, but believe it or not this place and their clientele are way more into their beer than they are into sports. 312 flipped his phone up on the bar so we could watch, and a manager actually came over to us to say that he had to turn the sound off. We didn't put up a fight, flipped the sound off, went back to our hors d'oervres, sipping Belgian beers we couldn't pronounce, and telling lies. 

Just to give you the lay of the land to set up the situation I want to share with you, if you were there and facing the bar, the order of us was 312, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater, and Nigh Train. Our relationship status for the three of us is that I'm happily married, Night Train is in a newly committed thing, but 312 is single and ready to mingle with Kris Kringle. No idea if that spin on the expression is a thing or makes any sense whatsoever, but there you have it. 312 had a young lady to his left who was all alone at the bar, and when he started chatting her up he ascertained that she was waiting for a date (I believe their second date), and the guy was considerably late. Bad form. The late guy not only screwed up by breaking the important rule that he should have learned long ago about never keeping a lady waiting, but by doing so he allowed 312 to start working his charm. 

When Late Guy finally showed up all three of us noticed that he wasn't at all apologetic about making her sit there all alone on a Friday night waiting for him. You'll notice that our attention to the NFL had disappeared completely. Our chief concern was this Russian (did I mention she was Russia?) gal and if there was any possiblity at all that 312, in an unprecedented move, could steal her away from him. When the date went off to pee, 312 casually asked how it was going. She said he had already told a story about taking too many weed edibles and getting lost in a grocery store. Not sure how that scores a guy any points. She said at this rate she would be home very soon.

312 asked Night Train and myself for input about how he could find a way to see this woman again without looking like an alpha male jerk or something. I first suggested that when she went to the bathroom, he could intercept her around the corner so Late Guy couldn't see it and exchange numbers then, but that window closed when she sat back down. I asked if he had a business card so he could discreetly get it to her. I mean, Late Guy did seem like a turd, but that kind of puts her in an awkward spot to be on a date with one guy and get hit on by another one - so discretion was key. Believe it or not, my friends, he did have a business card in his possession and was able to do a slight of hand drop off before we made our way out. We high fived him and forgot all about it. 

Then later in the night as we are in the cab on the way to the next spot, 312 got a text from Russian Girl. By god, he pulled it off. She was interested in him. 

We had a helluva fun time that night, and the from Russia with love switcheroo gave me a chance to live vicariously through a single friend. All us married people do that with our single friends a little, don't we? 

Okay, I'm off. Got a fun weekend ahead of me, but more of a family oriented one than the other one where I was giving bird-dogging advice on the fly to a buddy. No, this weekend the family will be in a resort with a pool and spa and stuff, swimming and enjoying that beautiful memory-making time. Hope all of you also have a fun-filled weekend ahead of you. Farewell, Blog Buddies. 

Thursday, January 03, 2019

Dangerously Low On Friends With Kids

Hey, friends. Sorry for the long delay. I haven't folded up the tent yet.

I hope everyone had a good holiday season. I listen to a lot of Christmas music. One day my son and I are sitting around the house and he goes, "We need some Christmas music." I think I get this from my dad. He's that guy that turns the tunes on Thanksgiving and keeps kicking out the jams nonstop all through New Year's Eve.

You know what I have noticed about Christmas music? Not as much Christ in it. It seems like the secular songs are edging out the religious ones as the years go on. When I watched the Charlie Brown Christmas special the other day I noticed that the kids are wondering what the true meaning of Christmas is, Linus launches into a bible passage about the birth of Jesus. I don't think you would see that happen in today's world if Daniel Tiger or the dogs on Paw Patrol were presented with the same question. This is actually a good thing because it is showing more acceptance of other religions and that America is not just a white Christian nation.

"May your days be crispy and greasy"
But, the Jesus songs are usually better, right? I have a theory about this. If you got two songwriters, one an atheist given the task of writing the best possible song about his Christmas tree, he may very well write a catchy number. However, if the second guy is a devout Christian who actually deeply believes all that malarkey about Jesus being is his savior and he could go to Hell if he doesn't praise Him, well he's likely to write one hell of a song, right? His ass depends on it. Those old classical Christmas songs are God damn intense for a reason! Then again, Christian rock sucks compared to godless rock so there goes that theory. Fuck it. What the hell do I know.

Mrs. Noisewater and I have very few friends with kids who still live in the city. Many of them have moved out to the burbs, one moved out of state, and another left the country. The Noisewaters need a Fred and Ethel in a bad way. We do come across folks with kids, but we find ourselves finding reasons to justify not making friends with them:

"I have enough friends."
"I'm not going to be friends with somebody just so my kid has someone to play with."
"I like the mom, but the dad sucks (or the other way around)."

Don't they look happy? And Complete?
But lately we are starting to think that maybe we are being picky and elitists about the whole thing. You're not going to find the perfect couple to hang out with with the greatest kid ever. So as our latest round of Erik's swim class was coming to a close I suggested that we invite the other 3 sets of parents out for a breakfast afterwords. Mrs. Noisewater said that may have been nice, but we would have had to do that the week before to give a little notice. We would probably be left alone at the diner, which was cool with me; more pancakes for me. I just figured I should take a shot. But as the class was wrapping up and we were heading to the showers to wash off our kids, one of the mommies started asking us loads of questions. Was she trying to be our friend? Erik gave their daughter, Jane, a hug goodbye, which was weird because the kids were mostly naked.

While in the changing room, Mrs. Noisewater and I were discussing the conversation and thinking that we just chickened out, and we should probably go find them to exchange information before they left. I think Erik did not want it to be their last goodbye either because he kept crying, "I want to go see naked Jane!" That's my boy! We were able to exchange information and talked about a play date soon. Mrs. Noisewater drummed up some liquid courage when she was out with a friend and texted a date and time and . . . Boom! They're coming over Saturday morning to hang out for a couple of hours.

It should be a lot of fun. Erik Noisewater loves visitors. But he already said something about not wanting her to play with his trains, so maybe we will hide all of those first so he doesn't pistol whip her with Thomas or Percy, or a left-right combo with both. That would likely be an abrupt end to their friendship. I will also have to extinguish him calling her Naked Jane. She will need a new moniker like Swimming Jane, or something else less creepy. Also the dad is taller than me. I don't like when that happens, but I'll make do. Maybe throw on some Gene Simmons platform boots . . .

Okay, friends. Sorry again for the long delay. I hope to be a better blogger, and I'm off to do the blogroll rounds to see what you all have been up to.

Any tips that you guys have for how to make friends that we can discuss in the comments?

Saturday, December 01, 2018

Oh The Stupid Songs You'll Teach Your Kid

I knew that part of the fun of having a kid would be teaching them about things that you're interested in, but I had no idea how fun it would be - or that some of those things would be built into daily routines. And of course like most every other aspect of my life, a lot of these daily sayings are references to songs that his daddy likes.

Whenever there is thunder outside I got Erik Noisewater saying "Thunder!" to the tune of "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC. We can cue each other, actually, because one of us can say thunder and the other will say "oh-woah-woah-oh-wo-oah" and vice versa. Because he is so into vehicles like a lot of two-year-old boys, he has evolved it into "you've been . . . Thunder Truck," which is actually pretty damn awesome. Then if I say "Dirty Deeds!" he will respond with "done dirt cheap, and that one has evolved into "Thunder Jeep," which needs to the band name of a doom metal band coming to a town near you. 


Then we have a couple go-to songs during bath time. The other day I was in the next room while his mom was giving him his nightly bath, and I heard him saying, "And here comes the water!" I was laughing my ass off because that's something I say to him when I dump water on him to rinse off the suds and it's from "Fembot In a Wet T-Shirt" by Frank Zappa. Then when it is time to pull the drain up and get out of the tub I say, "Why don't you . . . pull the plug?" It is fricking adorable to hear your son sing death metal. 



He also likes to sing "Strange Magic" by Electric Light Orchestra. Another good one for him is "Werewolves of London" by Warren Zevon, where he can hit the "Aaaaooooo" when I sing the end of a verse thusly:

Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again
Aaaaaoooooooooo Werewolves of London. 


I swear I don't even realize I'm singing these things with them, which is perhaps why the songs span across all sorts of genres. Recently I overheard Mrs. Noisewater turning to the page of Dragons Love Tacos where the dragons get into the spicy salsa and spit fire everywhere, burning the house down, and I hear "hell fire!. Mrs. Noisewater knew something was up. "Why is our son saying "hell fire?" She asked, but she knew it had to be his insane father. That's from Arthur Brown, a a goofball who was singing with a mask and spitting fire (long before KISS) with sometimes high pitched metal style vocals (long before Judas Priest). While the wide range of artists he would influence is nothing short of incredible, the end result of what he sounded like was at times comical, as it is with this song. This is why I laughed my ass off when I heard young Erik singing it. 


Arthur Brown's "Fire" is just about the perfect jukebox sabotage song. Any of you ever put a song on the jukebox that you know is super goofy and obnoxious just to see the reaction of the patrons? Or maybe it's one that you can't even stand yourself so you play it 10 times in a row and leave? I actually texted my good friend Haircut who recently moved away to give him the ammunition of using "The Crazy World of Arthur Brown" for the next time he strikes. What haircut does could actually be referred to as remote jukebox sabotage because he will be bored at home and with the Touchtunes application on his phone he will cue up a string of particularly shitty songs to play at a nearby bar. He scares me because this is the type of man who could become a computer hacker, someone who F's with people without even seeing the reactions of his targets. 

But I digress. 

Hey, sorry for the long break between postings. As far as what has been going on since anyone last heard from me:
1. I completed my second marathon, falling short of my goal of under 4 hours, but beating my time from when I was 9 years younger
2. We are still trying to skate one past the goalie for our second child and continuing to come up short. Tests for both of us look normal, so we just have to keep at it and hope for the best.
3. Tomorrow we are having a party where guests come in Christmas pajamas that will be loads of fun. When I was buying the caramel flavored Baily's that I want to slip in my coffee at said event, a dude slips two big bottles of booze down his inside coat pockets, looks right in my eyes and snarls, "Don't say nuthin!" I got my son riding in my cart and you're going to rob the place and threaten me? So I don't go to that store anymore. 

Okay, sorry to go out on that note. Didn't know I was going to talk about that. See you next time. 

Saturday, October 20, 2018

It seems like everywhere Erik Noisewater goes he charms the pants off of people. Well, when he's a little older it will be the pants; right now he's charming the food right out of folks.

When his grandmother was in town from California watching him during the day while the nanny was out of town, she was taking him out for ice cream just about every day. I thought it was an impromptu thing, like they were just passing by an ice cream parlor so they popped in. But one night we were putting him to bed and his grandma says, "Goodnight, Erik. Tomorrow we'll get ice cream!" Premeditated!

getting after it at the Fro Yo spot with his grandma

I stopped into Dunkin' Donuts with him to pick out his birthday cake and the gal at the counter gave him a free donut whole. He got so excited about it that I had to stop her when she tried to give him a second. He knows what he is doing. He is a cute kid and all, but he turns it up a notch to get a little more sugar. 
Beating up his 2nd b-day cake last month
Then there is a an eastern European bakery around the corner that I stopped into (maybe I have the sugar addiction here), and the nice old lady there said she had a grandson around his age. She gave us mad free donuts. I think I left the place with three donuts for a dollar. When I compared notes with his grandmother, Erik weaseled free stuff from that joint with her as well. He bats a thousand at getting him some donut freebies.

dominating a donut at the bakery
So just last night I had to cook my weekly meal, something I have been slacking on. My lazy ass bought already marinated stuff and picked up some sides behind the counter. The lady there was clowning with Erik, he was working his magic with her, and then she offered a free cookie. It was a pretty bomb chocolate chip cookie, I have to admit. We split it. His mother has been telling me to stop giving him treats everywhere we go, and she is right. But I like free donuts and cookies as much as him, so it's tough for both of us to turn it down. So this time I said those dreaded words that I pray are never about anything more serious or sinister: "Don't tell your mother."

When his mom came home she was greeting him while I was in the next room. When I came through she asked where he got a chocolate chip cookie because Erik told her about it. I said, looking over at my loose-lipped adorable son, "That's impossible. Erik could not have told you that because Erik had a direct order to not tell anyone, especially his mother, about that very cookie." He couldn't help it. Eating is his favorite thing, and he loves to tell his mom all about the awesome stuff he does all day when she gets home.

Have a good day, friends. Thanks for coming by. If I could give you a free donut, I would. Cuz you deserve it.  

Friday, October 05, 2018

Clearing Out the Phone Notepad

When I haven't blogged in a while, I like to just go through the phone and see all the random blog topic notes I have and type up those ideas right quick. Here goes.

1. I drive young Erik Noisewater to daycare every morning in his rear-facing car seat on my way to work, and the other day when I was pulled through the drive through to order a coffee and a muffin I heard him say, "Want some muffin! Want some muffin!" It is easy to forget that he is always listening. He reminds me of the alien on The Simpsons who is in the soundproof thing backstage of the Jerry Springer Show but you hear him bellowing, "I Hear All!" That's Erik Noisewater.

So I tried to outsmart him by ordering a bagel with my coffee, because while I'm sure he would like it if he tried it, I don't think he is familiar with the word bagel. But then as they're handing me my order he says, "I want a bite!" He remembered where he was and knew I was getting grub. Dang it. So with the muffin and the bagel alike, I reached back there and plopped bites into his mouth without turning around. We got it down pat, him and I.

2. Did I tell you that Erik likes to drop little color capsules into his tub to turn the water funny colors? While he is finishing up his dinner he says, "I want blue bath!" for example. You can also do things like throw a red and blue one in there and make purple, so it's science and art lessons and shit. Some nights he wants a yellow bath and it looks like he's soaking in 15 to 20 two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew. Then when we take him out to dry him off he gets pissed off because he wants the drying off to be over and the running around naked to begin. He says, "Go see mommy!" or "Go see Da-Da!" It's funny because when his mom was out of town he had no problem staying in the bathroom for teeth brushing, lotion, or anything else. He knew he had no audience waiting outside.

But when the other parent is outside the bathroom he comes out with a big smile and says, "Naked baby! Woo-Woo-Woo!" And if I'm sitting on the couch he wants to climb up there and go from a standing position to an immediate hard drop down onto his butt. He goes up and down saying, "boing-boing!" And then the other night he says, "Naked boing-boings?" I told him naked boing-boings is how would be attempting to make his baby sister later that evening. That got an annoyed smile and sigh out of the wife, which is way better than a laugh when you're married.

3. Today is Friday and my 2nd marathon is Sunday. 26.2 miles all over the city from China Town to Boys Town (the gay neighborhood). I picked up some thrift store clothes to throw away the day of the race. A lot of people do it, just fling their 4 dollar shirts and pants over a fence to be collected later for donations. I got some definite great scores, and what I really wanted, I found: break-away snap up pants like the professional basketball players wear so I can rip them off and throw them like a total hardass. It will look like I'm ready to put on an impressive display of athleticism, but I will be trotting through some pretty slow-ass miles in reality.

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That's all I got today, folks. Sorry for such a short one and for no pictures, but I'm on a crummy computer. What you all got on tap for this fine weekend? What kind of "marathon" sounds a lot better in your minds?

Saturday, September 22, 2018

Ozzy, the Bus, the Rockstar On the Bus, and the Sad Bodybuilder Woman On the Bus



Ozzy at last!
I went to see Ozzy Osbourne live for the first time. I have seen him play in Black Sabbath (his band based out of Birmingham, England before going solo, in case any of you don't know of the band who created heavy metal) twice, but I had never seen just Ozzy before. Now that I have, the only remaining and surviving huge bucket list guy is Sir Paul McCartney (a guy from Liverpool, another working class England town, called The Beatles, in case you know absolute jack squat about rock music). It's a little frustrating that 9 out of 10 times when I told people that I was off to see Ozzy their first response was a statement something like this:

  1. "Can he still sing?"
  2. "Will you be able to understand what the hell he is saying?"
  3. "Do they have to drag his old bones out and prop up his mortal remains?"
When in reality:

  1. Yes. He sounded just fine to me.
  2. Ozzy is actually far more coherent when he sings. It is kind of like if you have ever known someone who stutters but does not do so at all when he or she sings. Ozzy has always seemed more comfortable on stage being Ozzy than when he is walking about being John Osbourne. It is like a lot of comedians who are so confident and quick witted on stage but then do not know what in the heck to say at a cocktail party. Also, the Ozzy most people know was from a reality show called "The Osbournes" where he was stumbling about and had a hard time forming sentences. This is because he was falling back into his drug addictions and was at a pretty much all time low during that period. Pull up just about any other video of him, and he is very charming and downright hilarious. Intentionally funny, that is. Not a caricature of himself that he was marketed as after that damn show. But to be honest I could not understand him very well last night, but I think it was the echoing sound of the shitty suburban venue. And okay fine, maybe a little bit because he is Ozzy.
  3. No. I saw no one propping him up. Yes, he looks a little old when he paces back and forth a little hunched over, but for the most part you see that exuberance and that way an audience is never quite loud enough for him and see that youthful excitement in his eyes. "I can't fucking hear you!" he says over-and-over. Mrs. Noisewater joked, "Maybe he really can't hear them anymore." Okay, that's pretty funny. I'll admit.
Wow, that was a much longer rant than I intended it to be, but I just get defensive about Ozzy because he has been a part of my life for so long. It was similar with Harry Caray when he was calling games for the Cubs into his twilight years after a major stroke with splashes of dementia and Budweiser. When people made fun of him I would tell them that he was not always this old and he is an institution of the Cubs and baseball as a whole. He is a God damn Hall of Famer. He called games from a fan's perspective, which was innovative in its own right. I honest to god do not think people separate the man himself from Will Ferrell's intentionally over exaggerated impression. When people picked on him, they might as well have been hurling insults at my grandfather and it's the same with my grandpa Ozzy. Shit, another rant. Let's move forward with the actual tale I wanted to tell here.


One of my oldest and dearest friends who has been popping up in this blog since its inception, Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP), and I took a free party bus running out of a heavy metal Chicago bar to get to the pain in the ass venue deep into the suburbs. The giant yellow school bus finally pulled up to the bar very late with all of us standing outside with no explanation from staff. Checking our wristbands as we climbed aboard was an extremely muscular and powerfully drunk woman in a tight-fitting shirt showing all her hard work at the gym. She for sure was twice as strong as me physically and had muscles in her face that I'm not sure how to get, but there was a sadness and vulnerability about her. She was stumbling up and down the aisles trying to remember people's orders and then stumbling back to the front of the bus to fetch the beers out of the cooler. Swaying back and forth leafing through change in her fanny pack, she told us that it was her dog's birthday. Without any of us asking any follow up questions she lowered her head and revealed, "She died in my arms today" and started weeping uncontrollably. A woman said something to the effect of, "I'm so sorry" and muscular bus bartender dove into her for a well developed upper body strength, vice grip hug. Whoever was next to that customer must have said "me too" because our mourning libations distributor burrowed into that customer for yet another deep hug.

This is not an actual picture of bus bartender. This is, in fact, Nicole Bass , an unfortunately deceased regular on The Howard Stern Show.
This was why the pour woman was so schnockered-drunk. She was in a state mourning. HLP and I were shocked that she showed up to work in her mental state. Luckily for her she has a job with a very lax policy on drinking. And weed smoking. She was offering free hits off her bowl. "Anyone need anymore beer? Or weed?" she would say. When the bus pulled up to the amphitheater she said, "The show doesn't start for a little while so you're free to stay aboard for a while. There's still plenty of beer and weed." She seemed like she needed some friends, but HLP and I had a date with Ozzy. When I wasn't sure if my sister was going to make it do to some severe back pain she was experiencing, HLP suggested we could sell or even give the extra ticket to the bus bartender, but then we realized she would be standing next to us all night crying. We had already checked the setlist and "Bark At the Moon" would be the very first song. Those canine related words were bound to send her into more crying or perhaps even suicide watch. She was best left on the bus looking after our beer and weed. 

This is the album cover that prompted a handy man my parents hired when I was a teenager to say, "Did you know your son is listening to Satanic music?" My mom, always the devout atheist, nodded politely and then laughed her ass of when she shut the door.
Oh, as it turns out joining us on the fun bus was the lead singer and songwriter of a fairly popular Chicago area band that enjoyed some national exposure in the late nineties and beyond. I will not say who it was to protect his anonymity, but HLP, being one of his biggest fans, was gushing a little over him. We were tickled that despite being a fairly successful rocker, he was riding the free bar bus like the rest of us. The rock star was very kind on the ride in like in a "I'll be nice enough to you where you don't tell people I was a big dick when you tell the story" kind of way." Then on the ride home he was nice in a "We should totally hang out sometime. Shit, I love everyone!" kind of way. He and his much younger and quite striking blond rocker-chick girlfriend were very well buzzed. She told us that right at the end of the show she was rather politely thrown out of the venue for peeing in the men's room. This has to be done sometimes when the line in the men's room is long. Someone must have snitched, but who? That has never bothered me. We are all God's creatures (if you believe in that sort of thing) doing what naturally has to occur when you pour way too much beer down your throat. Why should the female species have to wait longer to do so? It's an unfair and potentially harmful policy. 

This album cover used to scare and gross me out as a kid. What in the hell did he just take a bloody bite out of?
Rock star guy and I bonded slightly (in my mind) over hating Bruce Springsteen and hating the fact that Ozzy played nothing off of his second album, "Diary of a Madman," the final of two masterpiece records with Randy Rhoads, the late guitar prodigy taken from the world far too young by a coked up bus driver who fancied himself a single engine plane pilot who crashed the plane into the damn bus. Little known fact, I wanted to name my son Rhoads until I learned that Tom Morello, lead guitarist of Rage Against the Machine had stolen my idea, and I stay stolen regardless of the fact that he thought of it first. In any event, rock star guy and I were singing a number of those songs we had wished we heard on the ride home. And we sang all the songs that came on the radio as if they were all the best things on earth even though they were very similar songs to the ones we heard on the way in when we were far less buzzed and were engaging in polite and much more quiet conversations. 

Rock star guy and his girlfriend were talking about making a trip to the Liars Club (the spot where HLP called home and our favorite place on earth for so many years in our late 20's and roughly all of our 30's) later that evening, but HLP and I now have wives and kids at home who would prefer us to not be like the walking dead the following day. Rock star guy is a little older than us, to be honest, but he can get away with acting like a rock star because his job is actually: rock star. Plus it is probably best that we stopped glomming onto him and his girlfriend and allowed them to enjoy one another. Their relationship looked very fresh and exciting for them and the added company of two drunk-daddy fans would likely have worn thin for them after the bus ride was over if it hadn't already. 

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Okay, rock stars. Hope you have enjoyed this story. I do realize it was an extremely lengthy post with many a digression, but I think when the writer and storyteller in me lies dormant for so long, a stored up monster ejaculate of words is bound to be the result. Keep rocking and barking at the moon, my deer blog buddies. 

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Just some random updates, some funny things and things that are going on with with Dr. Kenneth Noisewater . . .



1. Mrs. Noisewater, Erik Noisewater, and myself just got back from Pittsburgh. We like to visit cities that we feel might be misunderstood and/or underrated. Cleveland really surprised us not too long ago, and Pittsburgh is similar. I'm a big Cubs fan, so we caught a Pirates versus Cubs game at PNC Park. The view from our seats with the backdrop of the skyline was breathtaking. I bought myself one of those old school Pirates hats with the yellow stripes going around because I have always dug that look, perhaps more due to Rocky George from Suicidal Tendencies than because of Willie Stargell and the like.

That's Rocky on the far right, obviously
Willie wore it well too.


















We also took Baby Noisewater to a children's museum with a Thomas the Train exhibit, and he just about lost his mind. We don't let him watch all that much television, but when you're you're stuck on an airplane or need to get some stuff done around the house, you got to put Thomas on for the kid. He only has a handful of toy Thomas trains, and one of them is a random white train that has magnets to connect to Thomas but does not seem to be officially affiliated with the franchise. I felt bad that he didn't have a name on his underbelly like the other guys, so I started calling him Steve. Now Baby Noisewater refers to him as "Steve" or "Big Steve," and it's hilarious. I keep telling him that it's bullshit that Big Steve is never featured on the cartoon show. Maybe we had best pen a letter to the network upon Steve's behalf to get him some damn air time. 



2. Sometimes when I come home late at night with too many beers in my belly and need to stay up drinking some water before heading to bed so I don't have a 3 day old man hangover I will watch a bunch of Youtube videos. Sometimes it will be a comedian I like and a million of his/her routines or talk show appearances. Sometimes it will be guitar solos from a band I like, especially when there is very limited footage of them and I have to do detective missions. And most recently it is two Black guys who are self-proclaimed hip hop fans with very limited knowledge of heavy metal music having live reactions to metal music for the first time. 

They blow me away because I have heard some of these songs a million times and don't even think of an observation that occurs to them the first time they hear it. They are very likable dudes, they listen to everything with an open mind, and they really seems to know about and appreciate all kinds of music. Below are a couple of good examples. I like the Megadeth one because the one guy says the song kicks like a porno with zero dialogue or foreplay, just smashing, and then he does a graphic sex noise with his hands. 


Then I like the Mercyful Fate one because of their reaction to King Diamond's high pitched otherworldly voice. It's not a sound you would expect someone to love the first time, so I like how they keep it real, admit it's weird and funny for them, but still give the song a chance.



3. So the other day Mrs. Noisewater are driving home from a BBQ, and I hear a not quite 2-year-old Erik Noisewater in the backseat saying "vagina, vagina, vagina" like 10 times in a row. I asked the Mrs, "Is he saying vagina?" She said that he came in while she was changing the other day and started pointing at her and asking questions. She thought it best to just tell him the real terms, but what we didn't know is that he would be obsessed with all the naughty parts. Every time I lay him down to change him, without fail, he says "wiener and butt," pointing to the correct places. Then one day I take my shirt off in front of him and he says "boobies." That was a blow to my confidence for sure. So anyway, he's in the backseat saying vagina 19 times, and then he says pizza around 12 times. I said to Mrs. Noisewater, "Vagina and pizza? He's planning one hell of a weekend back there." Mrs. Noisewater laughed and said that should go in the blog, so there it is.

Fare thee well, Blog Buddies.