NITRO VISTA

Where do they come up with this crap?

2008-07-24T23:56:00.004-05:00

The Vista Cruiser was fully loaded this morning, three bicycles strapped on the rack in preparation for a marathon day of distant trail riding. On the drive out, I was (mildly) cranking some old Pete Townsend, car rides being about the only time I get anymore to listen to music, albeit competing mightily with the nonstop jabbering of the yapmouths in the back seat.

After some ten minutes, Isaac opens his window and announces in a VERY SERIOUS voice:
"Dad, please turn that down. I want to enjoy the beauty of nature's music."

I instinctively turned and asked, "Boy, are you allright?"

Alas, he was, and so Nature Boy got to enjoy several minutes of rushing wind and thudding tires before I could stand it no longer. After the third tractor trailer had rumbled by, I made an announcement of my own.

"The beauty of nature's music is giving me a headache. Shut that damn window!"

I got no argument, which may have been due in part to the large cloud of diesel exhaust rolling around the rear compartment. Can't argue if you can't breathe.

"...enjoy the beauty of nature's music....."

That kid is a freak.

Heat Wave

2008-07-17T09:48:00.008-05:00

We're living in an open-air tandoori oven this week, temperatures and humidity dancing around 90 and forcing life to slow to a crawl.

Here at the old Vista mansion, I light votive candles and say quiet prayers to the air conditioning Gods, begging for mercy to allow the rumbling old geezer to work for another day (I refer here to the air conditioner, not me. I am the grumbling old geezer.)

(And I doubled up on the prayers after reading of poor Captain Steve's troubles....)

Air conditioning is a tricky concept in a 19th century farmhouse. It's a big old sieve for the most part, so the cool air doesn't tend to stay long, even in the few rooms it effectively reaches. I've mastered the art of closing off rooms and positioning fans to maximize it, but it still requires some hard compromises.

Last night, for instance, the boys took over my room, which was the only one on the second floor cooled below 84 degrees. Within 30 minutes, they were zonked out and sprawled asunder like happy cats, forcing me to contort my 6'4" frame into a tight fetal-ball at one side of the bed.

Rather than spend the night worrying about tumbling off to the hard floor, I moved downstairs to the living room. This is the very definition of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it sits directly above the main ventilation system, so it is as cool as a glacier.

On the other, it means sleeping on......The Iron Lady.

The Iron Lady is our less than beloved sleeper sofa, a mushy slab of foam rubber that rolls and dips like a country back road and offers roughly 1/8 of an inch of ersatz padding over its saggy wire frame.

I settled in, sinking involuntarily into the middle, for a well-cooled but otherwise damnably uncomfortable night of half-sleep.

It's going to be 91 today, and I'm facing this volcanic blast with little rest and a back only a chiropractor could love. Tonight, it'll either be slink off to a hotel, or convince the jackals that they might enjoy the novelty of sleeping downstairs ("It'll be like camping!") Their young spines are more pliable than mine at this point in our respective lifes adventures.

When it gets this hot, it's dog eat dog, and I'm ready to be a snarling pit-bull for the cool comforts of my own bed.

Here's Johnny!

2008-07-09T22:49:00.005-05:00

"Wendy? Darling? Light, of my life. I'm not gonna hurt ya. You didn't let me finish my sentence. I said, I'm not gonna hurt ya. I'm just going to bash your brains in. Gonna bash 'em right the fuck in! ha ha ha"

***

Allright, that's it. I've had enough.

We're about a month in, and already I am entirely sick of summer vacation.

I am an indentured servant-nay, a fucking SLAVE-to the world's worst bosses. Today, I was nagged, badgered, and tantrumed to within an inch of my life. No sooner was one demand met than the next three came, rapid-fire instant gratifcation orders for snacks, drinks, entertainment, dry tee shirts, more snacks, more drinks, more entertainment, a missing baseball glove, a Kleenex, more snacks, the cap for the red marker, etc etc etc.

I could not move fast enough to please the little bastards today, and by late afternoon, I was at a needle-buried-in-the-red 10 on the "Daddy's-Turning-Into-Jack-Torrance" meter. I was sweaty and squinty eyed, muttering nonsequitirs to the cat through clenched teeth. Hands starting to tremble. Wondering where I left the axe.

Bad days with your kids are as bad as bad days get. Because they never let up. They possess no filter-no inner governor-that makes them recognize when they are pushing you too far. And there is absolutely no accrued equity. As far as they are concerned, if you fetched them juice once, you should be happy to fetch them juice every 20 minutes for the remainder of the day.

Somewhere in the next 36 hours I have to complete (an as yet unstarted) 350 word piece for an online magazine that's due by noon on Friday, as well as find time to interview a very hesitant and elusive source for a local newspaper piece so I can compose that story over the weekend. I'll be needing to squeeze these in somewhere among the barnwood masks art class, the preschool pickup, the afternoon ferrying to and supervising at the local pool, and the evening introductory meeting of the local grassroots political action committee that I've gotten sucked into (yes, on top of everything else, I'm plotting to overthrow the local government.)

Oh, and I have to cut my lawn, which at present is a lovely shade of......clover. The neighbors are wondering when I plan to put the cars up on blocks out front.

But who the fuck cares about what I need to do? I don't need no stinking sleep.

I'm not looking for pity. I'm just saying.

The Wheel

2008-07-07T12:08:00.010-05:00

One of the stock cliches that invariably comes up when discussing being a parent of young children is, "Enjoy it. It goes fast."

This advice, dispensed all too regularly by meddling old crones at the grocery store checkout, my empty nest neighbors, and melancholy relatives is seemingly always heartfelt. Yet I have generally shrugged it off as misguided nostalgia, not least because it is usually presented to me while I am hip-deep in the throes of some top volume, jackal-driven crisis of faith, health or property destruction.

Last week, Isaac shed his training wheels. After a few false starts, he steadied his two-wheeler and now rides like he was born to it. Yesterday, he and I took a leisurely ride together to the municipal pool, where he cannonballed in without hesitation and began confidently swimming from one side to the other, and back again.

Add this to his nightly bedtime reading-him reading to us, that is-and in just over a month, he has made an astounding quantum-leap in his intellectual and physical capabilities. In May, this boy could barely read, could not swim, and could not ride a two-wheeled bike. Fast forward two months, and it is like having a different person in our midst.

As I studied him last night, engrossed in a "Lemony Snickett" adventure, I was struck dumb by the memory of me nervously cradling the swaddled, doe-eyed, delicate, newborn version of this same boy five minutes out of the womb, and realizing that this occured just a mercurial six-years ago.

"Life moves fast," said the noted North American philosopher Ferris Buehler. "If you don't slow down and look around you might miss it." Apparently, I'll have to stop taking those old crones so lightly.

I'm Uncle Sam, that's Who I Am

2008-07-03T09:39:00.011-05:00

Willie Nelson just came up on shuffle, and this got me to reflecting on our big national holiday tommorrow.

Yup, the 4th o' July here in the US of A is a time to light that big gaudy birthday cake with sparklers and Patriot missiles and wallow in the knowledge that we are the biggest, baddest, brainiest, brawniest kids on the block, even if we're the only ones who think so anymore.

We'll take our "thank you's" in advance for blessing the planet with rock 'n roll, the cheeseburger, and mind-boggling rampant unfettered capitalism. If you don't like it, why don't you just move to France?

I plan to celebrate in the traditional fashion, dressing up as Uncle Sam and spending the morning rolling around on a pile of money. Afterward, I'll kiss the framed copies of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence which hang next to my gun cabinet.

Then I'll probably crank up some Chuck Berry, grill up a big fat burger with a side of freedom fries, and think about kicking some terrorist ass. Which, like most of my countrymen, I'll be way too drunk to actually do by 9pm, but if those bastards try anything before that, trust me-I'll be there with my hand crafted American-made ass kicking boots on.

Wave that flag! And please, drive carefully.

The Hideous Mother at the Ballgame, and....the proof you seek

2008-07-02T11:33:00.006-05:00

Took the monsters out to a minor league baseball game in Madison on Sunday. This is great family entertainment (I'm not being facetious. It really is).

We got in for six bucks, the kids got loaded up with all sorts of gew-gaws on the way in-coloring sheets, temporary tattoos, face paint, fridge magnets with the team logo, hot dog coupons et al-and there was no line at the beer stand (daddy's gew-gaw.)

The game was lively (though the home 9 were ultimately trounced 14-2 by their unworthy opponent), and the park is very kid friendly, so there were multiple options for those frequent moments when the Dynamic Duo needed to blow off a little steam. It was, on the whole, a very good time.

Yet I found myself deeply disturbed--and itchingly perturbed--by an unusually large, badly permed and dour faced woman sitting nearby who was absolutely insistent upon boxing her poor, sad looking daughter into her seat for the duration. "Sit still and WATCH THE GAME!" she hissed repeatedly at the little girl, who looked to be no more than five.

This went on for four painful innings, during which time my own pair had gone out for cotton candy, played tag under the bleachers, roamed the aisles following the home teams giant duck mascot around, then sat a spell in my lap to check in on the score before making hats out of discarded popcorn boxes.

In the top of the fifth, they wanted me to take them to the art tent to make pennants. By the time we returned to our seat, fat angry mom had had enough and blessedly left the premesis.

Now, unless there's physical danger to a child involved, I don't make it a practice to embroil myself in other peoples parenting. I don't claim to know more than anyone--and truth be told, I probably know a lot less than most--about how to handle these insane little creatures. Your business is your business. Just try to be kind, and I promise I'll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine.

But my overridingly pleasant memories of that day at the ballgame will always include a vision of that little girls sad eyes as she watched her peers romping in the aisles. And a vision of her mother, who as time has passed has evolved into a snarling elephantine she-beast with every retelling of the tale.

* * *

On a completely unrelated note....

I'm late getting to this, but I'm sure it was worth the wait.

For those of you who so boldly demanded photographic proof of my rummage sale treasure hunting accumen, I proudly present Big Boy serving up pure beef goodness under the hypnotic glow of the disco ball.

Again: 50 cents very well spent right here:

Hot Time: Summer in the City

2008-06-26T11:15:00.011-05:00

It's in the air. You can feel it.

The dew point jumped noticeably last night, the gentle dry breezes of early summer fattening up with the first, sinister creep of humidity. I woke to find my pillow damp with sweat, and a gauzy haze shrouding the trees and gardens.

The wet cycle of another long Midwestern summer has arrived, and with it the full gamut of good, bad, and ugly. Long afternoons at the pool, hummingbird-sized mosquitos, stately but potentially lethal thunderheads drifting against a pastel evening sky.

And Summerfest.

The mere words bring a weepy jolt of joy to my calloused soul. Summerfest. Ten days of music and beer on Milwaukee's lakefront. Good beer. And for the most part, good music.

Imagine a daily street party for 100,000 of your closest friends, with dozens of music stages thundering away all day long. That's Summerfest. It bills itself as "The World's Largest Music Festival," and indeed, the acts I've seen on its stages over the years constitute a veritable Who's Who (no, not THE Who) of the last 4 decades.

Starting with a rain-drenched evening with my freaked out parents watching Procol Harum in 1972, the list includes (but is not limited to) Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, The Replacements, Roger McGuinn, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers (on a 102 degree night), The Band (the original), The Allman Brothers, Paul Simon, Brian Wilson, Spoon, Wilco, Albert King, Buckwheat Zydeco, Bo Diddley, Meatloaf, Robyn Hitchcock, Lyle Lovett & His Large Band, and Pearl Jam.

Wait, there's more. Jason & The Scorchers (my ears still ring from that one). The B-52's, when 'Love Shack' was #1 on the charts. Ziggy Marley. Bob Weir & Ratdog. Steve Miller. Maynard Ferguson. Andrew Bird. The Fabulous Thunderbirds. The Big Wu. Ringo Starr & His All Star Band. Bruce Hornsby & The Range. The Stray Cats. The Pretenders. REM, with about 100 other lucky souls when no one had heard of them in 1982.

Couple the music with a connoisseurs assortment of available microbrews, the chance to cool down by dipping your toes into always-icy Lake Michigan, and a host of nutritionally damnable but irresistibly delicious deep fried foods and this is a place I could spend two weeks without one single regret.

It started its 40th year a half hour ago. At the precise moment the gates opened, I swear I heard a jangly D chord and the sound of a giant beer bottle being cracked open.

I may not make it this year. $4 gas, the 200 mile round trip, and my slavish devotion to the cackling jackals likely will keep me grounded for the duration. But sometime over the next few days, I know I'll crank up the stereo, pull a cold Riverwest Stein from the fridge, and picture a scene like the one below. It'll transport me to the big party by the lake, and I'll be happy to be there if only in spirit.

Young Vista howls at the moon and amuses (frightens?) passerby while awaiting an audience with John Lee Hooker, July 1987. Yes, even the Pabst tasted fine at Summerfest.

If loving you is wrong, I don't wanna be right

2008-06-24T08:59:00.004-05:00

The all-powerful KITSCHMASTER has struck again! Worship at his junk-strewn altar!

I've written here before of the mysterious, powerful fascination that rummage sales hold for me. The great bazaars of the ancient Middle East could only strive to evoke the sheer giddiness I feel everytime I walk into a dark, detritus-laden garage or (better still) barn. Let's make a deal!

I haven't always felt this way. I used to view rummage sales as the equivalent of paying money to dig through people's garbage bags. Wait a day or two, and all that meticulously-priced crap was gonna end up at the curb.

This changed after realizing that, for an underemployed father of two active young boys, these sales often represent an opportunity to outfit my frequently mud-caked charges in decent clothes for pennies on the dollar; and that, if you learn the art of looking behind the standard selection of used sweatpants, cutesy knick knacks and dog-eared romance novels, you often find PURE GOLD (or pure velvet) staring back at you.

Consider this haul from last Friday: 'The Essential Waylon Jennings" on CD, a leather basketball, and a pristine-dare I say, groovy-disco ball, all for.....wait for it......50 cents. And yes, you better believe I hung that disco ball proudly in the curio-laden Vista workspace.

Add that to Velvet Elvis, the 6 inch 'Big Boy' ceramic figurine, the classic 1970's "Dad" coffee mug and the sturdy vintage pitchfork that I've already grabbed for a combined $3 this summer, and it becomes clear that I am a man who truly enjoys the finer things in life, and all at a fair price.

Fathers Day

2008-06-16T22:52:00.006-05:00

There's nothing more satisfying to me than seeing my boys grow into healthy, well-adjusted young men. Fact is, sometimes I'm so damned proud I just can't help but pick 'em up and shake 'em, I just love those little scoundrels so very much*.

Note Miles at left, cowering next to the outhouse, hoping daddy won't notice him.

(*no children were actually harmed during the making of this photograph.)

No more teachers. Dirty looks.

2008-06-11T21:13:00.010-05:00

At 3:10 tommorrow afternoon, the bells will ring across the Podunky Area School District, and the Gates of Hell will officially spring open.

Summer is upon us. Students will burst forth from their mandatory brick-and-plaster incarceration, primed and ready to be kids and nothing but kids for nearly three months under lazy, sun-drenched skies.

Teachers will exhale and look forward to a well-deserved break from a hard job well done.

I will scowl, and greet this moment with the enthusiasm one normally reserves for the onset of a throbbing, 84-day canker sore.

Until September 2--glorious, glorious September 2--I will be thoroughly immersed in the multiple roles of activity coordinator, referee, short-order cook, zookeeper, housekeeper, and nurse practitioner. I will attempt to deftly navigate the Class V rapids of hyperactivity, sibling rivalry, world class nagging, and, of course, skin-piercing abandoned Legos.

The activity calendar is laden with distractions, from soccer to swim lessons to camping trips. There will be a handful of weeks when the jackals will be blessedly spending half days in the Montessori summer program. An already-booked late August trip to Disneyworld will provide useful carrott-and-stick material for those moments when all other discipline fails; I'm calling this "The Nuclear Option" (do NOT put it past me to cancel a $3,000 trip to prove a point. This is about control. And my sanity.)

But for the most part, it'll just be me, them, and the languidly unfolding hours of a typically slow-boil Wisconsin summer.

Thank God for beer.

Bullet

2008-06-05T09:05:00.004-05:00

It's awfully unnerving to find your child holding a piece of live ammunition.

I'm sure every parent has been in this predicament at least once, right? No? Welcome to Vista World, where the unusual is the usual.

Our morning drive to the boys respective schools is generally a fun time. They are abuzz with nervous energy, chattering 90 miles-an-hour about anything and everything, wondering what the day will bring. I am abuzz with glorious anticipation, knowing that in 20 minutes, I will enter my daily four hours of childless rapture.

Yesterday, in the midst of a lengthy backseat dissertation on the ins, outs, hows, and whys of the time machine that he's planning to build, Isaac paused and asked, "Hey dad, what's this?"

I glanced in the rear view mirror to see him holding up an elongated, cylindrical, gold object. I glanced away. Glanced again, more urgently.

When what I was seeing finally registered, I stomped on the brake and jerked my body around frantically, struggling againt the seatbelt which tightened as if registering a head-on collision.

"OH MY GOD! Where did you get that?!?!?"

"It was in my backpack."

"It" was a live rifle shell. A bullet, people. A 30.06 deer load rifle shell. In the hands of my six year old, it was the ugliest, meanest looking thing I had ever laid eyes on.

I am not a fan of guns. I do not own them, I do not like being near them. Guns, and every component of guns, scare the hell out of me. That said, I have been around hunters and the tools of their trade enough to immediately recognize exactly what I was looking at.

A metal cylinder of death. In the backseat of my car. In the hands of my beautiful first born son.

In retracing the short history of Isaac's backpack in our lives, I pieced together the only plausible explanation I could come up with. I picked it up for 50 cents at a country rummage sale about a month ago, plucked (I recall now) from a pile laden with other outdoor gear, much of it hunting and fishing related. I brought the pack home, made a cursory scan of it, tossed it into the wash, and sent it off to school the following Monday without another thought.

My assumption is that it had previously belonged to a hunter (or, perhaps, a serial killer) who had forgotten to remove this unused remnant of a long ago hunt before consigning the pack to the garage sale scrap heap. So now, innocently exploring one of the many pockets inside the front pouch, Isaac had unfortunately unearthed this deadly ballistic treasure.

As calmly as I could muster, I held out my hand and told him, "Uhh, you better just give that to me."

"Why? It's cool!"

"No. It's not cool. That's a live bullet. It could hurt you."

His eyes grew wide as saucers as he quickly tossed it into my hand.

My mind raced with the implications of, if nothing else, this: for over a month, my son has been entering the kindergarten and riding the bus home each day while carrying a live, metal-jacketed round in his backpack.

(Would've been awfully hard to explain that one to the "authorities," especially on the heels of the recent "bathroom language" debacle.)

My next dilemna was how to get rid of the thing. I had visions of tossing it into the trash, and through some freakish spontaneous combustion, the thing being triggered and launching into the gas tank of one of the cars, which would then naturally erupt in a catostrophic fireball, consuming our entire block.

Which would be labelled another gun related casualty, I suppose.

I decided the right thing to do was stop by the Podunky police depo, and ask them to dispose of it. My mind was racing again, assuming I would have to explain to some dimwit cop why I happened to be in possession of this shell. I envisioned him frowing while he took my statement for the official report, excusing himself for a moment, then coming back with handcuffs to arrest me for allowing a deadly projectile to be transported onto school grounds.

I made sure I took my cell phone in with me, wondering how I would explain to LSW that she had to come bail me out; how bad the jail food would be; and how soon we should expect the social services people to appear on our doorstep.

The picture was brutally clear in my mind: the front page of the Podunky Herald-papa bear in handcuffs, dirty ballcap, unshaven and clad in a rumpled Bob Marley shirt, under the headline "Mad Dad Packs Bullets With School Lunch."

Alas, I in my madness I had lost site of the fact that, in the US of A, guns and ammunition are all-too common and all-too legal. When I stammered out to the receptionist at the PD that I'd like them to destroy this shell for me, she didn't bat an eye. No explanation needed. She just said OK, held out her hand, took it away, and turned back to filing reports.

Like this sort of thing happens every day. Which, I sadly realized, it probably does.

Some call it heavenly in it's brilliance; Others, mean and rueful of the Western dream

2008-06-04T16:35:00.007-05:00

And so, if only for a little while, the blue mist departed; gone, as if borne on a stiff breeze of pure, sweet fresh air. They were words that, at the moment they were delivered, brought an involuntary, coast-to-coast, shit-eating grin to the lately dour Vista countenance:

"Tonight, I can stand before you and say that I will be the Democratic nominee for President of the United States."

Yes. He can.

And, no. She can't. No matter what she thinks.

Oh, and you guys? Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way back out to the gutter.

He took a face from the ancient gallery and he...WALKED ON DOWN THE HALL....

2008-06-02T21:56:00.005-05:00

If you came looking for the usual happy-go-lucky Vista musings, move on. I've got nothing for you right now. I'm tired. Exhausted. Go on home. I ain't coming out to play.

I'm wracked with the kind of soul-deep, ambition crushing lethargy that creeps up out of nowhere and makes itself comfortably at home in my psyche for seemingly as long as it damn well pleases.

I never even notice it's there until it's been there a really long time; until it's left dirty dishes and stinky socks all over my emotional house. And then I feel hopelessly stuck, like it would take nothing short of an act of God to make this black pest go away.

It's personal, it's professional. It's politics. It's kids and boredom and not enough time outside the Podunky village limits in far too long. It's insomnia. It's eating poorly and writing poorly and wondering how the hell I ever ended up in this place.

It's dark and draining and leaves me in a volatile state of deep self-loathing. It sucks. Like a fucking vaccum.

Reflections on the slaughter of thousands of innocents, many at my own hand, and why I'm OK with it

2008-05-28T09:08:00.011-05:00

Like something out of a Stephen King novella, the usually innocuous dandelions that dot the Vista pasture each spring have mutated this year into a multi-headed, rapidly spreading plague of thick stemmed, snarling weed-beasts.

Though I have no hard evidence of this, I strongly suspect they are consuming the neighborhood squirrels and chipmunks, right down to the very bones of the carcasses. These dandelions appear to be that insatiable.

I have tried all manner of standard eradication procedures, to no particular avail. That which should kill them only makes them stronger. Resorting to digging them out, I have been horrified to unearth stems the circumference and length of a human thumb, rivaling those found on a well-rooted sapling.

No matter the defense, I wake each morning to a waving sea of new conscripts in their nuisance army, all standing at attention in what is clearly the floral equivalent of an upraised middle finger.

Yesterday, I boiled over. Fueled by a powerful mix of self-loathing at my inability to tame these creatures and genuine disgust for the aesthetic disaster that my "lawn" has become, I concocted a plan to, at the very least, send a message to these invaders.

A message of pain. And hate.

In a purely cathartic act of "Clockwork Orange"-style ultraviolence, I armed myself and my children with golf clubs, after which we launched a frantic assault on any and all stems in our respective paths. We felled those bastards by the hundreds, shredding their rubbery bodies into grotesque chunks of ravaged yard waste.

Notwithstanding that this activity will surely be revisited in a family therapists office one day, we all took to it with uninhibited zeal. LSW arrived home amidst the carnage and happily waded into the fray with a six iron, expanding the scope of our mission to include the evisceration of an especially egregious patch of clover and creeping chuck.

In essence, what started out as a daddy temper tantrum ended up as a raucous family bonding exercise, albeit the kind that makes our neighbors continue to believe they are living next to decsendants of the Addams family.

On the yard maintenance front, one could say that our spontaneous act of rebellion accomplished very little. As we surveyed the debris field afterward, we all knew in our hearts that the roots of evil still lurked just below the devastated visible surface. Indeed, this morning I can already report that a handful of bold insurgents have shown their faces, rigidly assuming their defiant stance just outside the kitchen window.

But I sense in them now a palpable fear. I can smell it on their oily yellow leaves. They have felt the sting of our wrath, and know that we could strike again, at any time, from any place.

They've got the numbers, but we've got the guns. This battle has just begun.

And whiskers on kittens.....

2008-05-23T09:12:00.006-05:00

In lieu of my usual rambling, half-baked essay, today I'm going to indulge in one of those random-list blogs. Why? Because, I'm feeling oh-soooo-lazy this morning. I couldn't come up with a clever metaphor to save my very soul. If in fact it needed saving in the first place. And so.....

Nitro Vista presents:
"The Things I'm Digging At The Moment List for May 23, 2008"
(in no particular order)

1. Peanut cilantro pesto from Middlebury Hills Cooperative Farm, Barneveld, WI

Available from the Thursday Farmer's Market in beautiful downtown Podunky, this stuff is more addictive than heroin; er, so they tell me, anyway. My culinary guilty pleasure of the spring. Try it over rice noodles with a little grilled chicken, fresh peas, and crumbled feta cheese. Your family will think you are a kitchen GOD (or Goddess). It's also a cheaper addiction than heroin, but just barely, at $4.50 per 4 oz. jar.

2. Lee Marvin & Burt Lancaster in "The Professionals" (1966)

I've never been a big fan of Westerns, but this one is a beaut. I took a flyer on a totally random Netflix recommendation, and thank them profusely for providing me with this gem. Great acting, great plot twists, and beautiful cinematography. Sure, there's a lot of shootin' and ridin', but there's a whole lot more. Pure old-school primal escapism. This one gets the coveted 4-1/2 Legos on the vaunted Vista rating scale.

3. The fact that the Green Bay Packers pre-training camp workouts are receiving more local sports coverage than any sport actually conducting its season at the moment. (What baseball? What Indy 500? Go Pack, Go!)

Football is year round in Wisconsin. And I don't have a problem with that.

4. Cool music in surprising places

I walked into 'World of Variety,' our local everything-but-meat general store yesterday to hear Ryan Adams' "Gold" playing from speakers that usually provide generic background muzak. I was so impressed, I bought scotch tape and a Gatorade. A simple thank you from a simple man.

Add this to the Townes Van Zandt overheard at the coffee house, and it was a good week for background music in Podunky.

5. Writing snarling, sarcastic letters-to-the-editor of the local newspaper

Papa Bear sounds off on his favorite whipping boys, the inept village board, in this week's Podunky paper. During my past incarnation as a staff writer for said rag, I was sworn to keep my opinions in check in the name of objective journalism. Now, as a mere occasional contributor, I can fire away with impunity. Reignited, and it feels so good.....

I continue to piss off the old guard, but honest-to-God: those folks are big fucking idiots.

6. Michael Perry

Wisconsin born, bred, and based, humorist Mike Perry is one damned fine (and funny) writer. If you've never read one of his books, well, it's your loss. As my local readers (all three of you) know, he's kind of a hero of mine. I figure since I'm too old to emulate astronauts or Brett Favre or the like, a real-live published writer who also revels in the joy and heartache of small town 'Sconsin living keeps me dreaming those big dreams.

7. Memorial Day Weekend

Because it's the semi-official start of summer.

Right?

Enjoy your long weekend, folks. And go, Danica.

Duped!

2008-05-21T14:05:00.007-05:00

Children are conniving beasts.

They take full advantage of their doll-like cuteness and the sympathetic, nurturing response their semingly innocent nature evokes in even the most level headed adult. They use this power to bend your will, blind you to bad decisions and twist you unfailingly to their every whim.

If you told me I'd also just described the devil, I'd be inclined to agree.

Case in point: both boys woke up "sick" today. Totally seperately. Miles came into my room about 6:30 and with big, puppy dog eyes told me he didn't "feel good. "

"OK," I said. "You haven't been sick for awhile. You can stay home today."

I set him up on the couch with a blanket and some cartoons and a glass of apple juice, then headed back upstairs to wake Isaac.

Isaac is a rock and always has been. He's the healthy one in our family. Colds can circulate among me, Miles, and LSW for weeks while Isaac never so much as sneezes. So when he sleepily told me, "I don't feel good" at 7am, I bought into it-hook, line, and sinker.

They've both caught the same bug, I thought. Nothing fishy about this. No siree. Dum-dee-dum-dum-dum.

Quickly mulling over the things I would need to reschedule with both boys in sick bay, I tucked Isaac back in, went back downstairs, and called their respective schools to let them know the boys would be absent.

I didn't bother getting dressed, figuring it would be a long, quiet morning. The witching hour-8:15, the official start of the school day-came and went with a gentle stillness gripping the house.

This, my friends, is what is also known as the calm before the storm.

Isaac came downstairs at 8:30 and took up his position in front of "Spongebob Squarepants."Announced he was "feeling a little better." Miles chimed in, "Me, too."

A shudder passed through me. I knew in an instant that I had been had.

By 9:00, Legos and pillows littered the floor. At 9:10, a flying stuffed sheep knocked over a full cup of orange juice. At 9:15, the wrestling started.

At 9:20, I got pissed.

I gathered the grinning, scheming bozos around me, their once oh-so-pale cheeks now flushed red from vigorous play. I proceeded, with lascivious detail, to tell the story of "The Boy Who Cried Wolf," adding to the standard narrative an angry father with a sharp axe.

Now, a virtuous parent would, at this point, have followed up by marching them off to the bathroom, gotten them dressed and taken them to school, having only missed an hour.

"Virtuous," however, is not on the short list of my attributes. Not to mention, I had just put on a fresh pot of coffee.

Instead, I invoked my dear mother's ancient and frequently-deployed "sick day" rule: unless you're in bed, in the bathroom, or on the couch, you are well enough to go to school.

They were back on the couch in about three seconds flat.

It's been an off-and-on battle for the rest of the day, really something of a cat-and-mouse game that we're all kind of enjoying. Being plotting creatures of the underworld, they've tried to use every possible loophole their devious little minds can conjure up: "Dad, will you run upstairs and get my slippers? I can't get off the couch."

Miles at one point asked, "What do we do if there's a fire?" I assured him that escaping a fire superceded the sick day rule. But unless I smell smoke or see flames, his ass stays on the couch.

So my overall defensive strategy-create such a boring day at home that they never pull this stunt again, or at the very least, consider its ramifications before doing so-might pay off in the long run.

Then again, it probably won't. Because children are conniving beasts. And I am their unfailing dunce of a servant.

Rejected by the Grim Reaper

2008-05-20T15:57:00.007-05:00

Apparently, rumors of my imminent demise have been greatly exaggerated.

The results of the CAT scan were negative. I am going to continue living my tiny little life. It is medically verified: my litany of aches and pains owe more to rampant middle-agedness than any malignant malfunction of the internal gearworks.

Hurrah.

Unfortunately, this means a few apologies will be in order.

Using the immunity indisputably granted to the newly dying, I took great liberty last week in airing grievances and settling scores. Frankly, it was invigorating. There was no need to hold my tongue. I was staring down mortality, and starting to blink. Why not tell my friend Brad that he's very often a lazy putz? Maybe this last riposte from the terminally ill would inspire him to give something back to the world. Join the Peace Corps, perhaps, or volunteer at the Humane Society.

Leave the requisite "because she'll serve me again when I'm in here next week and could spit in my eggs" tip for the cranky, molasses slow, forgetful waitress at the greasy breakfast joint downtown? Not me, baby. I stiffed her with gleeful pride. Maybe she'll remember when the next guy orders wheat toast that raisin toast is not the same f'ing thing JUST BECAUSE IT'S BREAD. I even considered that, among other things, as the epitaph for my tombstone.

Yes, I spread my lugubrious bad tidings from one end of town to the other. Mission control had begun the countdown, and I was ready for blastoff to the final frontier.

Today, everything changed. I have a new lease on life. A big, cosmic reprieve. A stay of execution. The sun WILL come out tommorrow-bet yer bottom dollar!

And I'm not sure I like it.

I had not only accepted my fate, but quickly learned to embrace it for my own wicked gain. I could say or do anything I damn well pleased; who was dare going to complain? I wasn't thinking right-I was DYING, dammit! Why ME? Soooooo young!

But not anymore. I no longer have any excuse. I have to start being NICE to people again.

In a lot of cases in my world, that's a fate worse than death.

Free Speech effort could bring legal action

2008-05-16T12:23:00.011-05:00

PODUNKY, WI (May 16) A local man may face charges in the wake of a disturbance this morning at the Podunky Early Learning Center.

Ray Anderson, a self-described "underemployed writer" led more than 50 kindergartners in an impromptu "Free Speech" march around school grounds-an activity not permitted under district guidelines.

Chanting "Poop, poop, butt, pee, all our speech needs to be free," Anderson marched the giggling group across the school playground three times before officers Skeeter Mayhew and Clyde DeBuskey, known collectively as the Podunky SWAT team, arrived and subdued him with tazers, pepper spray, and Snuffy, the unit's half-blind 17-year old K9 enforcement animal.

"We felt it was the only way for us to ensure the safety of those children," said Podunky Chief of Police Snuff Zuckerman. "That, and the boys have been getting itchy to try out them new tasers on someone other than each other. Whoo boy, that sucker looked like it hurt!"

While admitting that the suspect was unarmed during the incident, Zuckerman further defended the use of force by his officers, noting that Anderson has been known in the past to employ a rapier like wit and acid tongue.

"My boys mental well being was at stake right there," Zuckerman said. "That guy could've hurled a pun or epiphet at them, and how would they have defended themselves?"

Anderson was whisked away to an undisclosed Dane County Mental Health facility for evaluation. As he was being straitjacketed and placed into an ambulance, he was heard to shout, "I've got yer bathroom language right here, mother (expletives)."

A district official speculated that Anderson was responding to attempts by school staff to discipline his son, the notoriously potty-mouthed ringleader of a group of profanity-spewing "jackals" who had been, in the officials words, "burning up the ears of the innocent with their frequent use of bathroom language."

"Thou shalt not speak with thy tongue of the devil on these sacred grounds," said Phinneas Jebediah Brown, who has been the district's Dean of Standards for 28 years. "If thouest speaketh aloud of thine private bodily matters, thine tongue shall be besotten with stings as if of 1,000 wasps. It is longstanding district policy."

Zuckerman had scheduled a press conference and pot luck supper "up to the old Buechner place by the stop and go lights" later today to announce whether the village and district would pursue legal action against Anderson.

Anderson has not been a stranger to controversy since moving to Podunky in 2005. He was involved in a well-publicized scrape with a local dental office in November, has publicly disparaged God and the cable company, and took school officials to task following a cancelled field trip last fall.

"Here in Podunky we have a name for a fella like that, and that name is trouble," Zuckerman said. "I'm hoping the DA throws the book at this guy, or at least a heavy glass vase or big rock or something."

I got yer "bathroom language" RIGHT HERE....

2008-05-16T09:08:00.003-05:00

I'm surprised it took this long. I almost made it to the end of the year.

Alas, I'm finally enraged at Isaac's school, and in full, hit-the-mattresses belligerent dad mode.

Isaac is an intensely smart, hyper-sensitive 6-year old. While he has no qualms about speaking his mind, he is generally socially gracious and appropriate. Ours is an open and honest relationship. If he does something wrong, he comes clean. He has neither the inclination, nor really even the capacity, to tell lies at this point in his life.

His teacher loves him, and has had nothing but effusive praise for his intelligence and social skills.

Now I'm not so blinded with love for my firstborn that I cannot admit that he can be a wildass screaming hellion on wheels at times. But he is by no means a disciplinary problem. It is usually quite simple to correct his behaviour with a positive suggestion. He gets this.

So imagine my surprise yesterday when he came home with an unsigned form letter in his backpack, informing us in the haughtiest possible tone that he was being disciplined for using "bathroom language" in the lunchroom; and would we please discuss this with him, provide a list of 5 "appropriate topics" for lunchroom conversation, and sign and return the form.

Thus for whatever heinous filth he ostensibly spouted, he was held out of recess yesterday, and will be seated seperately from his friends at lunch today.

Problem is, Isaac has no idea what he said that was wrong. No one told him. They swooped upon him, told him he'd said "something nasty", and made him write his name on the form. And when he told me this, tears in his eyes, I instinctively knew he was telling me the truth.

I must have read the note over a half dozen times, trying to get a handle on it. In my mind, "bathroom language" runs the gamut from "washcloth" to "cocksucker". My guess is, somewhere in the middle; Isaac probably giggled and said something horrible like "poop" or "butt" and some overworked, overzealous lunchroom paraprofessional freaked out and decided to make an example of him.

But since the form is absolutely generic, and no one assumed responsibility for it, I can only assume that to be the case.

As for whose lofty standards he has officially defied, I do not know. Again, they did not tell me, and there is no documented guidance on the matter. I consulted the school district handbook, searching for some definition of "bathroom language" and the corresponding sub-section that lists the resultant mandatory minimum punishment. Alas, there was nothing there.

Did he say "shampoo," "nutsack," or "fuckwad"? Your guess is as good as mine.

After consulting with LSW, I crafted a moderately cheeky response on the back of the note, requesting a definition of "bathroom language." I also pointed out that the generic nature of the note made it difficult for me to really address the specifics of the offense.

I offered a suggestion that the lunchroom staff should really learn to lighten up, and noted that as a parent, I think the whole thing was handled very poorly on the part of mysterious, unnamed school personnel.

Additionally, I'll be joining Isaac for lunch today. And if anyone tries to tell me that we need to sit on the segregated "bad kid" side of the lunchroom, you will probably see me on the news tonight.

In handcuffs. Spouting easy-to-define "bathroom language."

"Get your motherf*cking hands off my godd*mn peanut butter sandwich before I rip off your head and sh*t down your neck, a**wipe!"

Cat Scan Fever

2008-05-14T14:19:00.009-05:00

As I lay on my back with some sort of radioactive ink pulsing through a hole in my arm, slowly advancing toward the humming, donut shaped monolith that would in seconds unleash millions of bolts of God-knows-what-exactly into the inner reaches of my delicate human shell, I suppose I should have been focusing on thoughts profound and humble.

Apparently, profound and humble are beyond my reach, even in the most extreme circumstances.

Instead--quite honestly--I found myself wondering why there are no actual cats involved in a CAT scan. Imagine how pleasant that could be! I closed my eyes and pictured lying on the table with a half dozen felines crawling over me, purring gently and eyeballing me in their curious and knowing way.

Afterward, I presume, they'd put their paws onto an ink pad and create some sort of cryptic message on rolled parchment which their mysterious human keeper would translate, passing on a simple, unimpeachable verdict: live or die. The cats have spoken.

By the time this splendiferous vision was complete, the procedure was over, and I was sent on my way to await the (humanly interpreted) results in 2 or 3 days.

Driving home, I recognized that my wildly skewed vision of the medical profession is part of my DNA. My mother--87 years old and suffering from arthritis, the aftermath of multiple debilitating strokes, serious depression, near blindness and the cruel, inexorable onset of dementia--still firmly believes that the practice of medicine is more ancient alchemy or black magic than modern science; and that it can somehow produce a single, magical elixir that will turn back the clock 40 years and ease all her many woes in one fell swoop. Toss together some bat wings and a pinch of ginger root, mutter some old Latin incantation and, presto, good as new.

"Oh, I just wish they'd just give me something," she'll say vaguely after another disappointing doctor visit, wherein, as far as she was concerned, the incompetent mortal did not accurately interpret the sacred book of spells and potions on her behalf.

So today, direct kin to her dizzying old country logic, her son lies on a metal table and considers the healing power and mystical properties of cats. In the vision, most were Siamese, as I recall-arguably the wiliest breed of them all.

I'm not sure where this will all lead, but I'm stocking up on ginger root and Latin pronounciations just to be prepared.

Floss is Boss!

2008-05-13T14:32:00.009-05:00

I am an adult. Have been for a number of years.

Yet I'm amazed at the number of times I can still be made to feel like a squirming child.

Good example this morning. I went for my 6-month checkup at the dentist. I don't much like going to the dentist, though not for the same reason that most people don't like it. I don't fear the drill, or the pick, or even the goddamn FM-lite that the hygienists invariably prefer.

No, for me, it's fear of "The Question."

I lay back back in the chair and tense up, waiting for it to come. Sometimes, we get the dance out of the way early. Other times, I have to sit and squirm and sweat until near the very end. Regardless of when it comes, it still comes, every time.

"Have you been flossing?"

The short answer is: no. I don't floss. Never cared for it. I've tried, but there's something I find really grotesque about wrapping my teeth in thread and wrestling it around until it comes out shredded and bloody.

Now, this is not to say I have bad oral hygiene. I do not. I brush several times a day, very thoroughly. If a stray bit of pulled pork or curry chicken decides to linger behind, twisted up between a couple my molars, I will mercilessly eradicate the invader with a sturdy toothpick.

I like having teeth. I have no intention of ending up as a gum-flapping, sunken-cheeked Grandpa Jones.

But I do not floss. I do not like it, Sam I am. I am the Anti-Flosser.

I don't dispute the benefits. I don't deny anyone their God given right to floss. It's just, I've tried it, and I don't like it. It doesn't work for me. It's gross and painful and I usually end up with a little strand of floss stuck in my back teeth that I have to work out with....a sturdy toothpick.

The little slice of wood that could. Note that it's a toothpick, not a strand of angel-hair, mint-flavored floss, that comes with a Swiss Army Knife.

Fine and dandy, that's my position. But can I realistically admit this-straight up-to my hygienist, or my dentist? Tell them while they're lurking over my prone body with sharp metal tools in their hand, interrogation light shining into my eyes, that I have a fundamental distaste for one of the central wellness tenets of their ancient profession?

You're damn right I can't.

Instead, my brain races, searching for a tepid excuse, a mea culpa, the right words of atonement. I can't lie, what with my receeding gums and plaque-coated teeth having ratted me out before I've even had a chance to speak. Yet I can't come clean, can't just up and say, "Christ-on-a-crutch, will you people stop asking me that goddamn question every time I come in here; don't you know by now that I do not FLOSS!?!?"

They might tut-tut me if I do that. And the only thing I like less than flossing is when someone shakes their head at me and says (more or less) "tut-tut."

Like I'm 10 goddamn years old.

So I meekly blurt out some half-truth, along the lines of, "well, I floss OCCASIONALLY..." after which I run on and keep talking myself into an embarassing corner..."I mean, I know I should do it regularly, it's the right thing to do, it is, it really is, I mean you tell everyone this, who questions it unless they're a deranged gargoyle? I should floss and cut down on my sugar but you know you get busy and...."

At which point, the hygienist sighs deeply, hastily makes a note in my file, and roughly shoves the pick and mirror back into my mouth. I slowly hyperventilate, tell myself that it's OK, the question has come, it won't come again for six months, just calm down.......

I am an adult. But sometimes, you wouldn't know it.

This Mortal Coil

2008-05-09T09:09:00.008-05:00

Here's a stark look at life after 40:

Inexorably, the Vista medicine cabinet has accumulated a host of prescription medicines, sprays, powders, and potions. Better living through chemicals. Synthetic oils for our decaying human engines. We have unwittingly become our aging parents.

I went to the doctor yesterday. I've been battling a chronic bout of sinusitis/bronchitis seemingly forever, and in an all too typically stoic male way, had pretty much resigned myself to this as a way of life. My holistic, self-prescribed treatment of ibuprofen, cold beer, and a heaping dose of denial had been good enough to keep me modestly comfortable for short stretches.

I already have allergies and asthma that require too much thought and time to manage properly, so adding an extra layer of respiratory distress was simply more than I cared to worry about. It became just another cross to bear, another annoying little blip on daily life, like a dropped cell phone call or an overripe peach.

But even I have my limits, and so, like a naughty schoolboy sent off to the guidance counselor, I broke down and sought professional help. Because, you know, I need more prescription medications in that cabinet.

To make a long story short, after receiving a stern lecture on how A MAN MY AGE needs to take my health more seriously (thanks, doc) I'm on an extended course of powerful antibiotics to hopefully clear this up once and for all.

Oh, and there was also this: my chest X-ray detected abnormally swollen lymph nodes. I'm scheduled for a CAT scan next week.

Now, this could well be a simple reaction to infection. Or, it could mean that I have one foot squarely in the grave, the other resting on a banana peel, and I better think about cleaning my hard drive post-haste.

Either way, this is why I never like going to doctors; they always seem to find something wrong with me.

Sing us out, Johnny.

("The Dirty Mac" perform at the Rolling Stones Rock 'n Roll Circus, December 1968. That's Eric Clapton, John Lennon, Keith Richards and Mitch Mitchell, children. I would argue that there has not been that kind of firepower assembled on a single stage since....)

Stolen Car

2008-05-07T08:54:00.007-05:00

I had a dream last night in big bold VistaVision. I generally don't remember my dreams, but this one left its mark.

I dreamt that my sons--who, you may recall, are 6 and 4--stole our car and went joyriding, then hit a deer, and fled on foot.

Most notable was the fact that, upon being informed of this (in the dream) LSW and I merely shrugged as if this were nothing new, and went back about our business with an "oh well, they'll turn up" attitude.

Aside from the admittedly amusing vision of the two jackals at the wheel of my Subaru, I think this reveals a lot about how I subconsciously view my children: conniving thieves who exploit the power in their number to do as they please, when they please. And I am helpless to stop them.

Wait. That doesn't sound like a dream at all. That sounds uncomfortably like real life.

* * *

With baited breath, we sat up late hoping the good folks of Indiana would complete a shocking Obama come-from-behind win and pound the final stake through the Clinton's cold, calculating hearts.

Alas, it was not to be. At least, not yet.

It was interesting watching the immediate post-mortems after Mrs. Clinton's speech to her supporters, in which the MSNBC pundits practically swooned in their attempts to call it a valedictory, and claim she was reaching out to bridge the gap with Obama and start the "healing process."

I saw the same speech, with my own eyes and ears, and saw none of that.

Apparently, Rachel Maddow and I stand alone on this point. She was the only dissenting voice on the panel (predicting "more scorched earth politics"), and while her colleagues were coldly dismissive of her opinion, I thought she was right on.

Vampires are hard to kill. And Hillary is one big, mean vampire. Our garlic necklaces aren't working. She ain't going down until we bring out the torches and good sharp sticks.

* * *

On a note loosely related to both of the above, gas prices here jumped 14 cents per gallon overnight.

Maybe I want to ENCOURAGE the jackals to run off with the Subaru. If they total it, I can spend the insurance money on a hybrid. Oh, and to pay their bail.

Old McVista Had A Farm, EIEIO.....

2008-05-05T11:17:00.006-05:00

Sometimes, I wish I were a farmer.

To be up before the dawn, toiling on the land, raising food and making an honest living. Farming is a noble calling; in essence, perhaps the most noble of them all. Being a steward of the earth, providing sustenance for the world. What could be more honorable than that?

Mine is a wholly different oeuvre. I struggle to get up by seven to get the kids out the door for school. Deep down, I'm still 16 years old-if I could get away with it, I'd pull the covers over my head and stay in bed until noon every day. I sit and stare at a computer screen all morning, trying to think of funny or insightful stuff to say and, more importantly, people who might pay me for it. I burn a lot of electricity, drink a lot of coffee and waste a lot of time. No one is getting fed from what I do.

And Willie Nelson is unlikely to host a benefit concert for writers block sufferers anytime soon.

Still, I imagine there are farmers out there who would envy my lot in life. There's little risk of my ever getting kicked by an angry cow, and I don't lose productivity during heavy rains. My lap top doesn't get jammed up, forcing me to reach inside and risk having my arm torn off.

There's more common ground between us than you might realize. Neither of us gets paid diddly squat. And, both farmers and I have to shovel a tremendous amount of shit sometimes. It's just that their's ends up fertilizing the soil, while mine ends up wrapping fish or lining a birdcage.

* * *

A couple of my loyal readers "tagged" me last week. I'm flattered. But after consulting with the Nitro Vista legal department, it's been suggested that I pass. We're still reeling from my recent semi-nude 'Vanity Fair' cover, and my handlers are putting a bit of a muzzle on me as a result.

We simply can't have the flagship of the Nitro franchise embroiled in any more controversy.

I hope you'll all understand.

* * *

We spent much of the weekend toiling in the yard (hence, I suspect, my infatuation with the farming life) and I'm here to report that it looks like we'll have a banner year for for Creeping Charlie and prickers. Dandelions are off to a slow start, but coming along nicely. I 'spect we'll be tending a bumper crop by weeks end. And those spidery vines with the sharp thorns and burrs that stick in the kids hair? Robust and plentiful.

Imagine what I could do with 40 acres!

Next on the list: Dogs Playing Poker

2008-05-02T17:04:00.004-05:00

Two dollars. Two crumpled greenbacks. Two dusty Washington's.

That, my friends, is the purchase price I paid with no hesitation this very afternoon for a piece of distinctively American art; damned near a sliver of the True Cross. The stuff of dreams.

Today, I became the proud owner of a Velvet Elvis.

Miles and I went on our usual springtime Friday afternoon treasure hunt to country rummage sales, our bargain radars spot on and homing on a target. The force was strong; our beacon was registering off the charts...and sure enough, just outside of town, there he was: The King. Tucked away in a corner of a farmhouse garage, wrapped in plastic and almost lost behind an old pair of skis and still another barely-used Bowflex.

Marked at: two dollars.

The money practically flew out of my wallet.

This piece, I believe, originates from the "Elvis As Mayan God" school of velvet artistry. Note the rich chocolate hue of his skin and the padded green cape; this is Elvis as he would have appeared in the ruins at Palenque, crooning to his ancient subjects.

It is beautiful, and it is mine.

It hangs now on the wall of honor in my den, not far from the mini-Brett Favre bobblehead, casting a warm, magic glow over my workspace.

Best two dollars I've spent in a long time.