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.  

Me Too Dave

Mrs. Noisewater and I just got back from a trip to Ireland for a wedding. Her parents came all the way out from California to stay at our place in Chicago with Baby Noisewater while we were gone. We are so lucky to have family to do things like that for us, but truth be told, they cannot get enough of the little guy and were sad to go back. He is a charmer.

Baby Noisewater Cheerios Head

The 500th book Baby Noiseater made grandpa read to him.

We learned something right away on our travels, and that is this: Traveling without a kid is really damn easy. All we had to do was get ourselves on the plane on time. No strollers, no putting all kinds of baby stuff through security, no security opening our bags because formula looks like coke, and no chasing crawling baby around while waiting for the flight. We even had a few drinks. Why in the hell did I bitch about traveling back when I had no kids? Also, what in the hell did I do with all that free time before we made a baby? If you said blog a heck of a lot more, you wouldn't be wrong. I'm doing the best I can, my friends.

So it rains a lot in Ireland. Did you know that? I have been there twice now, and I think that I enjoyed about 30 minutes of sunshine. Total. I ran twice while out there this time, and I did document some beautiful blue skies while they came out so briefly, plus a fantastic rainbow. I don't think the photo truly does it justice. That was the happiest I was. Except for when I was laughing about the guy I would meet later that day . . .

And if you said I should have kept running towards it to find a pot of gold, you're not the only one.

Mrs. Noisewater, her friend McDonald, and myself went to The Little Museum of Dublin, which we thought was a bunch of miniatures on display. In reality, it is a small building with tiny rooms with various exhibits of human-sized items. Very quaint. On our way out a local told us that we should go around the corner to see the smallest bar in Ireland (and some claim the world's smallest bar). They aren't lying - It is a cramped, little bar, and there is no way it is a approved by any fire marshal worth his salt. You go down a narrow staircase into a shoebox of a tavern with extremely low ceilings. And with what can only be a cruel joke, a 6 foot 4 man tends bar, literally ducking his head under beams to pour the drinks. He had to have banged his noggin a few dozen times before conditioning himself to bow under each time he steps forward.

The moment we set foot in there, four men in ties swarmed Mrs. Noisewater. I asked one of them to take our picture, and the man who called himself Dave put his arm around her and said, "sure" . . . waiting for me to take a picture. He knew damn well that I didn't want a picture with his stupid ass in it.

I said, "No, sir. I mean can you take a picture of me, my wife, and my friend?"

"Oh this is your wife?" He replied. "Sure, all take your picture." But then as he was taking the shot, one of his other pervert friends jumped in front to photo bomb and flicked the bird.

Running along this bridge on either side was good fun. I should have took a picture of the bridge going across that looked like a giant harp.

If Mrs. Noiswater was at all flattered by the attention these business men were showing her, that quickly faded when she would see those boys stand at the bottom of the staircase pouncing on every female who set foot in there. These lads certainly fished with a big net. We sat and laughed with our pints as we watched Dave crash and burn with two lovely ladies. When they walked away to sit at a table, undeterred, he followed them there and joined them. They pretty much politely told him that they would rather he go away so that they could talk to one another about something, but he did not abandon ship just yet. Dave sat and waited for a moment to interject something and get back into the conversation, and when one of them talked about someone they know, perhaps one of their boyfriends, Dave blurted out loudly, "He sounds like a dick!" I laughed so hard that I nearly spit  Guiness all over that little place.

As funny as it was to watch, it also grew a little uncomfortable to watch these guys harass lady after lady. So we decided to leave. Later, McDonald and I were saying how anyone who came in contact with Dave and his merry band of perverts would instantly have one of those "#me too" stories that have been going around the internet. For this reason, we dubbed the man Me Too Dave, or #MeTooDave, if you prefer. Now, I don't at all intend to make light of anyone who has experienced harassment of any kind. It's truly an awful thing. But what we saw Dave doing was more along the lines of hitting on everything that moves and not taking no for an answer . . . Okay, fine. It was straight up harassment and pretty much wrong. But it was hard not to keep laughing any time one of us, during a quiet moment, would say Me Too Dave.

And with this last picture of an Irish sunrise, I wish you good day or goodnight.  

"If only I had one of grandpa's swords . . ."

My wife's grandfather told an interesting story over breakfast the morning after Thanksgiving. I go out to northern California to be with her family ever year, and it's always good to see grandpa. He is well into his 80's, fought in World War II, and he is one of the only guys still around who can say they were at Normandy. He is also the proud owner of one of the most impressive antique weapons collections known to man. As a matter of fact, Charlie Watts once came over to his house to buy one of his swords. Grandpa isn't a fan of rock music so he wasn't as excited about that visit as I would have been. All he remembers about Charlie is how dirty his fingernails were.


Anyway, grandpa is offered bacon and said that he better not after he had bacon with the family a year ago and drove home. Apparently the bacon was causing a serious need to get to the bathroom for the last few miles of his ride (he still drives!), and in his rush to get to the toilet upon opening the door, he accidentally kicked the trip wire he had set up and released tear gas all over him and all through out the house. Grandpa is big on keeping his home and the weapons collection tightly secured and evidently engineered the whole trip wire tear gas thing. He said that he couldn't leave the house because he still had that urgent call from nature, and he then had to sit there and finish his business, just enduring the pain with his eyes burning. He truly is from the "Greatest Generation." I would have cried and screamed loud enough for all my neighbors to hear, and they would all step outside to see what the commotion was all about just in time to see me pooping the bushes. And still crying.

What is funny is that Mrs. Noisewater's dad, grandpa's step-son, was quick to point out that this wasn't the first time that grandpa had set off his own tear gas bomb upon himself. Maybe he has an immunity built up so that he can fight off a would be intruder through the haze and eye burning? Who knows.

In any event, here's hoping your next "movement" is in a cozy and comfortable spot free of any chemical weaponry.

4 Granparents. One Chocolate Factory

At the bar tonight, somehow we got talking about Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971), and of course we talked about the oompa loompas, the everlasting gobstopper, and how they killed kids off like whacking goons on "The Sopranos." However, the new information that was revealed by my good friend, Douglas Morrison, was that all FOUR of Charlie's grandparents slept in the same bed.

This begs some questions . . .

1. How did this come about? Who really owned the house, and how are you going to let both sets of in laws live there?

2. Was anyone fuckin', and how much lube were they using? Did Charlie have to come in there once a week with a fresh bucket of Astro Glide? We need to know these things!

3. Does anyone remember this, as I can find no facts about this on the internet. Well, I probably could, but I'm all full and drunk on Belgian beer and ready for bed. With my grandparents.

4. Huh?