They Trashed My B-ROY Cup!

At the Blazer Game with Ike (4 years old mind you) I brought my Brandon Roy REFILL cup for the first time this season (because I keep freakin' forgettin' the motha). And as the Rose Garden battle-ax is scannin' our tickets she tells me I can't come in with the CUP! What's up with this?! It's a refill cup that I practically had to sell my car for it was so damned expensive! (But I thought hell man if I can get refills, fine.) So I said "I have to throw it away?" She didn't say nothin' but the line's backin' up so in front of my son I had to throw away the Brandon Roy cup! And Ike starts CRYIN'. He loves Brandon Roy man, loves the guy. I do too. Don't get me started. Total man crush.

So I go to season ticket services and I lay it on these people. "You made my son throw away his Brandon Roy cup! You liars told me I could do refills, what's up wit' dis!?" The suit says they changed the policy because it was unsanitary. "Well your rule change made this sweet little boy cry man, come on, who can I talk to here?" (Ike's layin' it on too, green snot runnin' out of his nose, eyes all red.) They hurriedly got the kid another cup, quick man let me tell ya. They don't want to be hearin' in the paper they made no kids cry. Their tryin' like hell to shed the ol' "jail blazer" crap ya know. 

So games over and we're leavin' and Ike starts cryin' again, and I say "What's up man?" He says "I'm scared that lady's gonna take my cup again."

Scarred, man. Scarred for life! You hear that Paul Allen?! B-Roy, you better put a fricken' splint on Oden's leg and win a championship or I'm gonna have a Laker fan for a son. 

Ew. Good God! Nails on a chalk board brother. Don't even want to think about it.

So okay, the Spokane Story

1/25/09. So before we leave for Spokane to go see my in-laws I check my tires. I know my tires are bad. But they still got tread. And we're broke. Tax Return's in the mail. Let's just do it. 

We get there fine. Comin' back though past Tri-Cities my wife's drivin' and she's swervin' like crazy. Uh-oh. But maybe she's just a bad driver. (Which she is.) But goddamnit I can't keep the car on the road either! And I hear on the radio it's 18 degrees. 18! So I'm drivin' about 35 miles per hour just to keep from sliding into the Columbia. Finally, thank god there's an accident ahead. I pull over and put on the chains. I get out and fall on my ass. The freeway is an inch thick of ice. 

As I'm puttin' on the chains though, my hands start bleeding. They're getting cut by something. Oh yeah. The steel belts are coming through the tires. Wow. So I guess they were balder than I thought. Whatever you do Claus, that's right, do not tell the wife: First thing through my head.

So I figure we'll get to The Dallas, stay the night, in the morning it's Les Schwab on the VISA and some free beef. Right? Well, son of bitch, it clears up and it's dry right at the exit. My wife's already pissed at me now, she knows the tires are bad (not how bad), Ike's watchin' a DVD, screw it Forge ON! Going 30 miles per hour it takes us 11 hours total to get home from Spokane, my wife didn't speak to me the whole way. But I saved us money! We just got our tax return and I didn't have to pay interest on no stoopid tires. Huh? I wish I could tell my penny pinchin' Irish mom about this one. But she'd kill me.

"Getouttahea"

Last night I had gas. Bad gas.Kat made Boston baked beans. Mmm. So as I'm singing Ike some bedtime songs he begins whining quietly under the covers. I say "What's wrong bud, are you sad about something?" He says, "No. You smell bad, and I just want you to get out of here." Insult to injury as I'm leaving he commands "And tell mom to bring up a candle."

The Spaghetti Factory

So Ike likes to sing and so I let him sing a lot of crap off the radio because I don't want to listen to no "Comin' 'Round the Mountain" on CD 17 times. So he's singin' away some 70's while we're on the way to see Gramma Joan, my 82-year-old Irish mother at the Spaghetti Factory (her favorite joint, ugh, but it's free, so whadaya gonna do?). And during the meal what pops out of the kids mouth but Carly Simon's "You're so Vain" at the top of his lungs. 

"Is he saying I'm vain?" scowls my mother. (Because she is.) 

I said, no mom, it's an old Carly Simon song.

 She don't know who that is, so I get, "Why are you teaching him songs like that?" 

"I'm not mom! Eat your spaghetti."

"...and when you're not your wit' some underworl' spy or da wife of a close friend, wife of a close friend!"

"What's he saying?!"

"He's saying your vain mom! You're vain!"

"You probly tink dis song is about you, don't you, DON'T YOU!"

Couldn't have timed it better buddy. Couldn't have timed it better.

Aristocats

While Ike's watching Aristocats for the 17th time this morning I thought I'd pop out this blog goddamnit. I need to do this. Struggling playwright, stay at home dad... yeah screw you. That's what I do. yeah, my son's eating sweethearts for breakfast, call the cops why don't ya. Forget this, I gotta do laundry. The name for this blog by the freakin' way comes from my son after I drove back from Spokane with bald tires. Yeah, I'm bad. But I'm the only Dad you got now get in your babyseat and quit spilling your sippy cup! Out.