Father Of The Year

Years ago, when I was a young dad, my wife and I took my daughter to a kids birthday party. It was for one of my wife’s co-workers kids; and I knew no one there. I remember that the family was Hispanic, and the entertainment at the party was a Spanish clown. For some reason, I remember the clown’s name as Peyote The Clown… but that can’t be right. 

Anyway, the clown was just fine and dandy, doing all the things that clowns do. We had a swell time, and  I broke down the language/cultural barrier with my usual Anglo charm. When the party was breaking up,  I picked up my daughter and put her on my shoulders and started walking. I passed through a doorway and never bothered to duck down. As a result, my daughter loudly, clearly and very noticeably smacked her head into the overhang.

This of course resulted in the truly mighty howls of a 2 year old, as my little pumpkin was screaming her head off. Which brought much attention to Mr. Asshole Dad (yours truly) who then had to endure the hysteria of his wife and the death glares of a house full of total strangers, looking at old Nazz as if he were Dr. Mengele. Even Peyote The Clown started yelling at me.

After a few minutes, my daughter stopped crying and we went on our way.

When we got home, I took a frying pan out and started to crack myself on the skull with it.

To this day (16 years later), I still haven’t been quite forgiven.

PS- We were never invited back for any subsequent birthday parties.

Adventure #8675… In Which I Poison Myself.

 Here it was, a humdrum end of summer weekend and I was fighting the algae in casa de Nomad’s swimming pool.

Old Nazz had neglected the pool for a couple of weeks and the pool had become a launch pad for lily pads, mosquito's and the heavy green scum that is usually found in Louisiana Swamps. I was actually winning the battle, after throwing enough chemicals into the “water” in the previous few days to deforest most of South East Asia.

Or something.

So, as I embarked to thrust the last dagger into the Pea Soup, I threw copious amounts of calcium hypochlorite (aka Pool Shock) and Chlorine into the filter. I waited the usual 5 minutes and opened the valve to put the cartridge back in.

Bad idea.

The shit hadn’t dissolved and a noxious cloud of apparently semi toxic chemicals exploded in my face and which I breathed in. I immediately hit the ground and started gasping for air. As an added bonus, the stuff got in my eyes and I was temporarily blinded. I staggered to my bathroom and flushed out my eyes and tried to gargle/puke up what I had inhaled.

Two days later, I was still feeling dizzy and my eyes still burned so I called up Poison Control. The guy said I should have gone for medical treatment but that if I was still alive and able to breathe after two days I would slowly recover.

 I said to him… “so, I’m not gonna die?
 His answer: “we’re all gonna die”

Fuckin’ A.

It’s two days later (4 total since my mini-Bhopal) and I’m still all chemically. Eyes sting, all foggy, bad taste in my mouth. I always figured if chemicals were gonna do me in (especially powdered ones,) it woulda been recreational.

 Though I suppose a pool IS recreation.

 Irony- it’s what’s for dinner

.

 PS- Bob Mould's new lp Silver Age is fucking awesome. Here's the first single.

Does Listening To The Cure Make Me A Pussy?

I gotta admit, everytime a song that isn’t from The Cure’s first album (Three Imaginary Boys) comes on my iTunes, I feel a little less than the masculine, testosterone uber-stud that I truly am. 

Just now, I was in the midst of a Rancid/Cramps/Ray Charles/Sugar (yeah- I know all about Mr. Mould) run and on pops The Cure’s “Lullaby”. It got me thinking just how many Cure songs (OK- I’ll give ya “Primary” – besides that whole lp is electro-pop so it’s robotic) are weak ass pussy crap. “Love Cats”, “Let’s Go To Bed”,  “Friday I’m In Love”  don’t even get me started on “Caterpillar”. “Just Like Heaven” is great, but the Dinosaur jr and Goldfinger versions shred the original.

Between Robert Smith’s penchants for make-up, black clothes and really bad hair, and all the goth wannabe’s that were late to the party and queued up for The Cure, what the hell was I thinking?

(Tongue In Cheek?)

Full disclosure- back in the mid-80’s, the “old enough to know better” Nazz wore eyeliner and other questionable attire to witness The Cure in person. My only excuse is that I was trying to bang this girl who I went to the show with. Of course, she turned out to be a lesbian, so Nazz’s physical needs were “c*nt-blocked”.

Thank Satan I was able to jump to the next song on my iTunes : Queen’s “Liar”. 

Fuckin’ manly music!