Happy Berfday

Yesterday marked the 15th anniversary of the birth of my brother-in-law.

Now, his smile, durably distended with a pretentious post-pubescent pout, I feel it my duty to post the single most embarrassing picture of the night.

Note: His left arm is up near his head. This is because he was resting his head on it previously, and could not be bothered to put it down when he blew out the candles.

Sullen.
Very Sullen.

Country Grammar

Personally, I've always been at a weird spot.  

I was born in Connecticut.  Which, if you read one of my previous posts, you'd already know.

I spent a good third of my life in New York.  I have an accent.  It's interesting, because people from Connecticut don't really have accents either.  They're the Minnesota of the East Coast.

But I have an accent.  

I spent too much time with Aunt (I say Awwnts) and Uncles to have developed it any better.  Both of my parents have English as their second language as well, so I just picked up what I heard.

We moved here a long time ago.  Long enough ago that my brother doesn't have the accent.  I've learned, in my years here, to speak this gibberish Minnesotans call English.  

I refuse to say "pop".

Or "melk".

Or "pellow".

Or "ruff".

My coffee is said to have a "w" in it.

I pronounce things in ways that I can't even explain how they're said.  But not always.

Really.  Only when I'm tired, or crabby, or upset, or distracted, or I've been talking for too long.  After I've forgotten what I'm supposed to sound like.   

It's funny, but an accent makes people uncomfortable sometimes.  It's also funny that my accent makes me uncomfortable sometimes, too.  Because I don't feel like one of you.

I don't like football.  I sure as hell don't like basketball.  But I do love baseball.  And I don't like hockey.  You should love the teams you love unconditionally.  Not just when they win.  My favorite teams: The Patriots, The Knicks, The Yankees and the Hartford Whalers.

That's right.  The Hartford Fucking Whalers.  Don't remember them?  I'm not surprised, you're too young.  But they existed.  I still have a souvenir puck.

That's my accent.  A souvenir puck.

I don't like to bring work into it

But here it is.

Guess who isn't a manager:


I'll give you a hint. It's the guy that's peeing on the cubicle.

My wife is a collector

My wife is a musician. She likes cds.

/It's Lazy Cop-Out Picture day!

I took a picture of Jeremy without his morning coffee.

/Good Morning

An Explanation of Success

Someone finally figured out why I was so successful during my dating years.

It's about time.

Collected Childhood

Thru a whimsical gaze, my father would recite a story to me from his childhood in a tone like he was reading it from a book.  From far away he would recount a time when the only television in the neighborhood was down the street, and on a Saturday afternoon, you could, for a nickel, watch television all day, provided you brought your own chair.

He'd tell this to lead in to a story he likes to tell often.

One unlucky saturday, my father and the rest of the Gunz' young ones had set out on their saturday mid-morning trek, chairs in hand.  My father probably remembers it as 5 miles, up hill, both ways, barefoot.  Disappointment struck our travelers as the neighborhood nickelodeon had found itself packed tight.  Too tight in fact.  So the clan made the trek home.

5 Miles... Uphill... Shoeless... Glass broken and scattered... Sulfur Burning...

Or at least, probably how he remembers it.

His father, the model he took after, saw them sadly making the long arduous journey back up the street, chairs and nickels in hand, making a pact on how they would have to all get up earlier next week to secure their spots.  He saw this and decided that that type of disappointment was too much to bear, watching his children climb back up the glass tainted, sulfur burned hill.

So he ordered a television.  It was a lot of money, but it's the ultimate babysitter.

And this story, and the 200 thousand times my father has told it to me, are the only reason I can come up with that explains why he always has at least 5 televisions in the house.  So he won't have to climb that damned hill again.

Love you, Dad.