More Halloween Goodness...

Just to let you know, there's a heapin' helpin' of Frankenstein's Monster over at Second Star to the Right!

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Look Over There!

Just wanted to let you know that the second of my Halloween Offerings is up at Second Star to the Right.

Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Meanwhile, back at Second Star to the Right...

I just wanted to let you know that the first of my "Halloween Offerings" is up at Second Star to the Right, and I hope you'll take a look at my "Wake-up Call".

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Your Attention Please...

*Ahem ahem*

I hope you'll join me for a very special announcement at Second Star to the Right.

Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Where Mashed Potatoes Come From...

We talk about food a lot in my house.

It's something that's very important to us, considering that Blake's first word to me after I pick him up from school is "Eat."

"You can have a snack as soon as we get home, buddy."

"Eat."

You can see what I mean.

This evening on the way to scouts, we discussed something else near and dear to us, also related to food: teeth.

Hunter informed me that people have sharp teeth to eat meat, and flat teeth to eat plants, like corn, broccoli, and peas.

This is where Blake entered the conversation, and those of you who regularly read my blog know that this almost always leads to something amusing.

"Don't forget mashed potatoes," he said. "But we don't have to chew mashed potatoes. 'Cause they're already chewed. By God.

And God doesn't have any germs."

What do you say to this?

The only thing I could think of was "You're right...God doesn't have any germs."

Of course, Hunter wondered why I was laughing so hard and reminded me to "watch the road, Man! Stop laughing and drive before we die!"

I hope to someday understand where Blake's ideas come from, because it's certainly more entertaining than the facts.

I truly love my kids, and cherish the smiles they bring me.

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Cheese, George Washington, And Not Much In Between...

You know from previous posts that my children say and do some pretty strange things. I don't mind; it gives me great amusement, something to post about, and it also gives me great fodder--along with pictures of Blake riding his scooter through the house buck naked on his way to take a bath--that I will use in the future to mortify them in front of girls they bring home.

The other night we were on our way home from church, and the topic of conversation turned, as it usually does, to cheese.

Despite the fact that cheese is basically milk that sat around so long it turned solid, we like cheese a great deal, and talk about it often.

Yes, now that you mention it, I do lead a very sad existence. But anywho...

From the back seat of the car, Blake asks me, "Daddy, is cheese good for you?"

"Well," says I, "It can be, but like everything else, if you eat too much of it, it can be bad for you."

Blake, ever one to apply his new knowledge to everyday life, says "So if George Washington ate ten thousand pounds of cheese, he'd be really sick."

It took a moment for me to process this statement, but I eventually replied, "George Washington is dead."

"Oh," says Blake. "How much cheese did he eat?"

I have to admit that I'm stumped by this one.

I am mystified (and more than a little entertained) by how a child's mind can come up with the notion that cheese is almost certainly what killed our first president.

You can see why I remain consistently and constantly amused.

And perplexed.

Now I'm wondering when I'll have to field a similar question about yogurt...
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Double-Digits...

Today is a very special day, for me, for the world in general, and for one very outstanding young man in particular:

Today, Hunter turns 10.

Yeah, he knows he's cool...

I could joke about how the time flies. I could make cracks about how I'm not old enough to have a 10-yr-old son.

But I think instead that I'll just talk about him.

Ten years ago today, he brought a joy and love into my life that I never even knew I was missing.

I can't begin to describe how proud I am of him, of his gentleness, his intelligence, his creativity...his just in general coolness.

Since he came into the world, he's been my inspiration. My inspiration to do better. To be better.

I nearly lost him once, and honestly don't think I could have made it without him.

I love both of my children very much. I love them both differently, but equally.

But Hunter will always be my firstborn.

Ten years doesn't seem like a very long time, and yet I can't remember a time without him.

Truthfully, I don't really want to.

Happy birthday, Hunter.

I love you.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Praying for October...

Let me begin by making one thing perfectly clear:

I hate summer.

To paraphrase Frankenstein's Monster, "Summer BAD!!!!"

When it's cooler to stand in the blistering sunlight than it is to drive a car, it's too hot.

When you pop into a sweat when reaching for the TV remote, despite the fact that you're sitting inside, right under the A/C vent (to quote an old friend of mine, "I don't remember signing up for that"), it's too hot.

When opening the front door causes you to a.) lose the will to live, and b.) not care that you've lost the will to live, it's too hot.

It has come to my attention that there are a lot of people who like this kind of weather. I would like to say (and I really do say this with the utmost respect) that you are all crazy.

I realize that being slightly overweight (read: fat) and hairy (ironically, the only place I can't grow hair is the top of my head) has something to do with this, but even without the extra insulation (blubber) and fur coat (I sometimes look in the mirror and think my brain has been transplanted into the body of a silverback gorilla...or possibly a Sasquatch), I just plain don't like heat.

My own personal temperature comfort zone is something like this:

0-35: A bit chilly. Probably ought to wear a jacket.
36-75: Perfect. Break out the shorts and Hawaiian shirts.
76 and up: Unholy.

Yes, the temp zone where I'm most comfortable is rather large, but it should be pointed out that we spend relatively little time in that comfort zone.  Where I live, we seem to go from "so cold that Titanic-killing icebergs are in the front yard" to "quite honestly, the surface of the sun would be more comfortable" overnight.

That being said, it doesn't help matters any that I am constantly accosted by people who, while seeing by the redness of my face that I am clearly about to explode, feel the need to ask "Is it hot enough for ya?"

This is not amusing.

I usually manage a weak chuckle (it's too hot to fake laughter) and say something like "Yeah, pretty hot, ain't it?" when what I really want to say is "Well, no, I really like it when my face begins to melt and slide away from my skull. I really wish it were about a hundred degrees hotter, with ten thousand percent humidity, so I can really start enjoying the great outdoors! Now, give me your phone number, because during the winter, I'm going to call you every single day and ask 'Is it cold enough for you, you heat-loving weirdo? I have all the windows open at home so I can bask in this lovely breeze...'".

Clearly, I'll survive. I have every year so far, and usually without bursting into flames.

I just feel the need to rant a bit, because I'm so darn miserable during this time of year that I do in fact spend a great deal of time praying for October to get here (by the way, I think that "Praying For October" would be a great name for a band).

In closing, I'd just like to ask that if any of you find me passed out from heat exhaustion after the effort of taking the trash out to the curb, please roll me over so I can at least get an even tan.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Real Men Wear Pink

A couple of weeks ago, we had our annual Vacation Bible School (VBS) at my church.

Every year, I issue a challenge to the kids: get a certain number of kids registered, and I'll do something that most grown-ups really wouldn't consider doing.

You see, I was born without the ability to feel embarrassment when it comes to entertaining children. If it makes kids laugh, I'm good with it. If it challenges them to achieve something worthwhile in the process, all the better.

Usually, I shave my head. That's always worked well (and hey, it's summer--too hot for hair anyway), but it's become a bit...expected. The novelty wears off when it becomes institution.

Last year, I did something a little different: I got a green mohawk.

This year, we kept with the mohawk theme, but decided to up the ante: if the kids met the goal we set for them, I'd get a pink mohawk.

The kids stepped up, over-shot the goal by about forty, and so I present my documentation of the what-would-be-mortifying-for-most-other-people-but-not-me process of the Pink 'Hawk.

We learned last year that my hair is too dark for most color to show up, so this year, we did it right, and I became a blonde first.  The darker part of my beard shows you what color most of my hair was:

Silver and Gold...

Wow!  I'm already havin' more fun!!!

Then out came the razor, followed by the cheapest, gaudiest pink hair spray I could find:

I pity da foo...you know, in a pink, cotton candy way...

Yes, Blake.  Daddy's a weirdo...

A thorough washing led to:

Bringing the "Popples" look back from the 80's...

Which of course led to the final phase of the project (remember, I never promised I'd keep the pink mohawk):

Insert "Three Stooges" joke here...

So there you have it. I debased myself, the kids laughed themselves silly, and now my head is smooth and refreshingly cool.

I have no idea how to top this next year.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go tan my head...
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Thanks for reading my ranting,
Brad

Second Star, Dragon-y Goodness

For those of you who don't follow Second Star to the Right, please check it out. I've got a new post up, with a pic of a wood-burning project I'm doing for my son, Hunter.

And check back here later for a post about my journey from "salt-and-pepper, receding hairline guy" to "pink mohawk guy" (yes, you read that right), to "bald guy".

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Pondering Life's Mysteries...

I ponder things.

Sometimes I tackle the big ones, like "Why are we here?" or to get deep about it, "Where is here, really?".

Sometimes I get really intense, focusing on things like "If a tree falls on a mime, does he make a sound, or, more importantly, does anyone care?"

If you're a mime, go ahead and yell at me from inside your little invisible box; I won't hear you.

But there is one issue that I have pondered since I was a child, one to which I have never received a satisfactory answer, and one that was brought back to the front of my mind (such as it is) this evening as I gave the boys their dessert:

Just what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks flavor of ice cream is Superman?!?

I mean, I understand the coloring: red, blue, and yellow, same as Superman's costume. That makes sense, and the colors are very obvious.

But what flavor is it????

What flavor is it??????

The name "Superman" is uselessly non-descriptive flavor-wise! I mean, yes, the word conjures up heart-warming images of truth, justice and the American way, but it doesn't say "tasty".

And tasting it to determine the flavor doesn't help in the least; it's totally unidentifiable. As a matter of fact, the only description I can come up with for it is "not chocolate".

Or maybe "not vanilla".

I don't know; one of those two.

Asking the clerk serving the brightly-colored concoction at the local Dapper Dan's does no good either. All I've ever gotten in response to this question, which I've been asking since I was five years old, is a glassy-eyed stare along with "Did you want one or two scoops?"

When I get to Heaven, I think this will be the second thing I ask God, right behind "What's up with the platypus?"

This is why I don't eat Superman ice cream that often anymore.

It angries up the blood...
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Thanks for reading my ranting,
Brad

Monty Python, Where Are You When I Need You?

Monday evening, Blake and I were waiting for Hunter to get done with his karate class.

Normally, we go and play on the playground, or watch one of the Little League games going on behind the school, but we've had about two days this past month that it hasn't rained.  Monday wasn't one of them, so we sat in the car.

Blake was looking at one of Hunter's books, a rather largish text-book-sized tome about building things with macaroni and straws and stuff.

Then he said (and those of you who know Blake can probably hear the exact tone of voice he used), "I'm gonna hit myself in the head."

"Buddy," I said. "That's probably not a very good idea; that's a very big book."

Well, that's what I was going to say. Actually, what I said was, "Buddy..."

THWACK!!!!

"Ooo," said Blake. "This is a big book."

THWACK!!!!

"Hee-hee-hee!"

THWACK!!!!

Then he says ( I swear I'm not making this up):

"Mmmm...wordy..."

The only thing keeping this from being a Python movie is that there was no Gregorian chant preceding the "THWACK".

You can imagine how proud I am.

Also, how mystified.

But hey, at least he's enjoying books...

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Hunter-isms...

Just the other day I was going around the house, gathering up clothes for the wash (the clothes hamper apparently has ninja-like invisibility; that's the only way I can account for the boys never seeming to find it). I noticed that Hunter had already taken off his socks, so I asked about them.

"Hunter, where did you put your socks when you took them off?"

Hunter looked at me for a moment, then looked thoughtfully into the distance, then looked back to me and said, "Dad, I regret to inform you that I don't remember where I put my socks."

At least he regretted it.

This reminded me of once when Hunter was just a little bit over three years old.

We were at my mother's house, and Hunter was doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing (I can't remember what it was), and his mother told him several times to stop. Being three, and master of his own destiny, Hunter just kept doing whatever it was.

"Hunter," I said. "What did your mother just tell you to do?"

Hunter looked at me. Looked at his mother. Looked at my mother.

Then he looked away, closed his eyes, crossed his arms and said, "I'm not taking any questions right now."

These two statements, made years apart, tell me that Hunter is a natural-born wordsmith, whose gift will one day bring joy to many people, which will bring tears of joy to my eyes.

Or, he's a natural-born politician, which would bring tears of a completely different kind.

Either way, I think the world is in for something.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Open Wide...

I picked up the boys from their mother this morning to take them to school.

Nothing special there; I do it every day.

This morning, after we got into the line of cars waiting for the doors to open and shut the car off (greenhouse gasses bad, continuing to live good), Hunter dropped down the sunvisor, opened the mirror, and began to stare into his mouth.

"Hunter," I asked, as any responsible and confused parent would. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, Dad. I just like to stare at my uvula."

I'm continually impressed by the randomness of my son's fascinations.

Plus, since I still think of the uvula as "the hangy-down thing in the back of your throat", he's already proven that he's smarter than me.

At least he wasn't staring up his own nose.

Or mine.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Superstars!

Welcome to a very special edition of Bradley's Brain!

This past Friday, both of my sons participated in the talent show at their school.

Of course I recorded it (some day when they're both rich and famous, everyone can say "This is where it all started"), and have now gotten around my technological incompatibilities and figured out how to get the videos on this "You-tube" thing all the kids are so crazy about these days.

Without further ado, may I present the talented youth of Clan Leslie:

First up is Blake, who performed in a Mexican Hat Dance with a few other kids from his kindergarten class. Blake is the one that starts out in the very back on the left:



Next up is Hunter, who sang "Weird Al" Yankovic's Since You've Been Gone.
I have to admit that when he said he wanted to sing in the talent show, I said, "Okay, Buddy, that sounds cool." When he told me he wanted to sing a "Weird Al" song, I got a little teary-eyed and said, "That's my boy..."

Keep in mind, he's nine, this was his first ever solo act on stage, and he was very nervous. Even though it can sometimes be a bit difficult to hear him over Al's vocals, I think he did a fantastic job.



So there you have it; the first stop on Hunter and Blake's journey to stardom.

Just in case you can't tell, I'm insanely proud of both of them.

They have always been, and always will be, my Superstars.

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Thanks for reading my ranting,
Brad

The "F" Word...

No, not fahrfegnugen.

Today, I arrive at the "f" word. The big four-oh.

Yep, that's right: today, I'm forty years old.

Holy.

Freakin'.

Crow.

When did this happen?!? How?!?

I mean, one day, I'm eighteen, graduating high school, and the future is laid out in front of me, a wide-open buffet of years and experiences, and then all of a sudden, I'm a forty-year-old single dad whose buffet has shrunk down to a plate of that blue jell-o they serve in senior cafeterias.

I hate blue jell-o!

All day, folks have been reminding me that forty is just a number. That forty is the new thirty. That you're only as old as you feel.

Well that's all fine and good, but there's one bit of crucial information that makes this a bit different:

This is ME we're talkin' about here!

Forty is just another number when it's someone else. When I turn forty, it's a bit more cataclysmic.

Forty is the new thirty? A rose by any other name...

As old as I feel?

I'm doomed.

Then again, on the other hand, turning forty isn't so bad.

When you get right down to it, the number forty, when applied to birthdays, means "not dead".

I'm ok with this.

I've had forty years worth of experiences--some good, some not so much--that make me who I am today.

And who I am is a man who wants another forty years or more.

Who I am is a man who loves his children more than anything else in the world, and wants to be around long enough to see them have kids.

So, happy birthday to me, and I'll take many more, if I can get 'em.

Plus, as long as I can get my aging fingers around a fork, I get to eat carrot cake today, which is...precious...to me.

My Precious...

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Forty-year-old Brad

The Day Spidey Moved In...

This past Saturday was a chilly, rainy, dreary day here in Louisville.

I had the boys for the weekend, and since our trip to the park didn't happen, we were pretty much inside all day.

In the early afternoon, while the kids were being themselves---which of course means fighting, arguing, yelling and screaming at each other and goading the dog into barking as loudly as she can---I decided that it was time to get the dishes done.

Washing dishes is so much fun that I became lost in the bubbly joy of a sinkful of dirty dishes and water hot enough to dissolve my fingerprints away.

Yes.

Yes, there is sarcasm in the above sentence.

At any rate, I lost track of time while doing this most mindless and menial of tasks, and worked away a good forty-five minutes before I realized that I could no longer hear the boys.

Lest you fail to understand the depths of my fear, let me stress: the boys--my boys--were quiet.

Silence from them means cooperation, and this never bodes well for me.

Then, so quietly that I almost couldn't hear them at all, there came...whispering.

This bodes even worse than the silence.

"Boys," I called out, trying not to show my fear through the cracking of my voice (you must never let my boys see your fear--they know fear, and thrive on it). "What are you guys doing in there?"

"Nothing. C'mere, Dad."

"Why?"

"No reason. Just c'mere."

Well, this just keeps getting better and better.

Against my better judgement (I am a dad, and left most of my better judgement by the roadside long ago), I decided to play along and see what they had been getting into.

I left the kitchen, and though I tread lightly, I did not tread lightly enough to prevent falling over the tripwire of thread which now ran along the floor of the dining room.

I had time to realize "Hey, I'm falling..." before I fell into, and snapped through (yes, there was pain involved in this), the five-foot-high web of thread that they had spent the last forty-five minutes weaving, with ninja-like silence, across the open spaces of the dining room.

I found myself lying on the floor, quite entangled in the threads that had wrapped around me as I fell through them.

As I lay there, Blake knelt down and whispered in my ear.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Blake?"

"We set a Spider-Man trap for you."

"Oh. Ow."

The boys found this quite hilarious, and cackled away like the criminally insane fiends they are.

Once I had disentangled myself and managed to get up, I had a talk with the boys about how I'm sure they had fun, and I was certainly happy that they had spent so much time working together, but that this was not necessarily the best way to showcase their creativity.

After all was said and done, we all laughed (it really was funny in retrospect), and went on to enjoy the rest of our Saturday.

You see, I couldn't really be angry at them, because when I was a kid, I did the exact same thing to my dad. In the same room, even.

The only difference being that my dad wasn't doing dishes at the time, he was outside doing something manly like ripping up tree trunks or building a motorcycle or something like that.

And I remember his response being a bit different when I told him I had set the trap. His response was more along the lines of "So you have. And now, you will die."

I'm not going to lie; it hurt. But at the end of the day, it didn't hurt all that much, and gave me some good time with my boys, while triggering memories of the same kinds of fun with my dad, thirty years ago.

It seems I've come full circle.

If nothing else, my boys are learning what they can accomplish if they work together.

And yes, that part scares me.

A lot.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Another Trip to the Circus...

I took my kids to the circus again recently.

For info on last year's trip, look here.

I know, I know, Bozophobics like me shouldn't go to the circus. It's kinda like someone who's afraid of spiders hanging out at that spider exhibit at the zoo.

Which I avoid at all costs, 'cause I'm afraid of spiders even more than clowns.

However, the kids really enjoy our annual trip to the circus, and every year, I have the same thought: "Clowns have those big, floppy shoes, right? I can outrun someone wearing those things easy. Those painted messengers of death won't even get near me!"

Which is normally correct.

This year, however, one particular clown outsmarted me.

He was on roller skates.

That's right, every time I thought I was safe from that pancake makeup-encrusted servant of darkness, ZOOM!!! There he was. Circling me no matter where we were, awaiting me at every turn, a constant blur of polka-dotted motion, wheeling his way through the crowds, yelling "Welcome to the Circus!" and "Enjoy the show!"

At least that's what the kids told me he was saying. What I heard was more like "I will feast on your eyes" and "More souls for the Master...".

We did manage to escape Wheelie the wereclown long enough to get this really cool pic of the boys with Spider-Man:

*sniff* I didn't get my picture taken...

Then I spent a small fortune on cotton candy and lemonade, and we made our way to the bleachers, where roller skates can't go.

Then the fun began.

The lady sitting next to us was about five years older than me, and yelled and screamed and laughed more than any five-year-old in the crowd.

As the elephant came out and did his tricks, she proclaimed at the top of her lungs, "OH, HOW BEAUTIFUL, JESUS!!! I LOOOOVE ANIMALS, JESUS!!!!"

When the motorcyclists came out and did their admittedly amazing jumps and flips, she let out, "OOOOOOHHHHHH, NOOOOOOOOOOOO-----OH, LOOK,HE MADE IT, JESUS!!!!"

"I LOVE THE CIRCUS, JESUS!!!!"

"I'M HAVING SO MUCH FUN, JESUS!!!!"

Perhaps she was praying throughout the entire circus. Perhaps her boyfriend, the patient-looking man she was with, is named Jesus.

I honestly don't know.

But as the kids watched the show, I found myself watching her. I found her outbursts, enthusiasm, and sheer joy to be rather infectious.

I enjoyed myself more because of her.

I think sometimes that if I could be that excited about something, be the kind of person who doesn't care what others think, the kind of person who just can't sit still or stop laughing because of the plain joy of being alive---

Well, that'd be something, wouldn't it?

I hope she's still having fun, wherever she may be right now.

I suspect she is, and I would certainly love to see her at the circus again next year.

Of course I'll go again next year. I hate clowns, but my boys are worth me having the heebie-jeebies for a while so that they can say "Wasn't that fun?".

Also, next year, I'll be wearing roller skates.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,
Brad

Monster Maker

Until I get up a larger readership at Second Star to the Right, I'll let you know here when there's something new there.

*Ahem,ahem*

There's something new there.

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Second Star Reborn...

Well, hello there.

I just wanted to call your attention to my other blog, Second Star to the Right, which is undergoing a bit of a re-purposing.

Please join me and help me to make it an interesting place to visit.

And don't worry; the insanity that you've come to expect from Bradley's Brain will continue.

After all, Blake's only six, so I've got a lot more years of interesting stuff to write about.

And just to be completely random (and because she craves the attention), here's my wonderful, psychotic, if-you-even-look-away-from-your-food-it's-mine dog, Starbuck:

Look how fast I can move my tail!

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Fev'rary Tempf

 

 

Can you tell he's excited?

Blake's birthday was yesterday. He is now six.

If you live anywhere in Kentucky, you're already aware of this fact, as he has been telling everyone about it since last October.

"Trick or Treat!"

"My, aren't you cute?"

"Yep, and I'll be six on Fev'rary tempf!"

On his last birthday, I posted about one of the reasons that he and his brother are so precious to me. I won't go into that again, but if you want to read about it, or re-read it, it's right HERE.

This year, I thought I'd share one of the reasons that living with Blake is such a grand adventure.

Just a couple of weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, I took Starbuck out back for her...business.

On the way in through the back door, I noticed a police cruiser sitting on the street in front of my house.

The kid that lives next door has been in and out of trouble with the police for quite a while, and I just assumed that they were there for him again.

No, that just wouldn't be fun enough.

As I came in through the back door, Hunter yelled "Hey, Dad! There's a cop at the front door!"

I thought that perhaps they were there to ask some questions about the neighbors, even though we've personally never had any real trouble with them.

"Yes, Officer? What can I do for you?"

"Is everything okay here, Sir? We're checking up because we received a 911 hang-up from this address."

"...Oh. Blake?"

"Yeah, Daddy?"

"Did you call the police?"

"Yep."

"Oh. Why?"

"I wanted them to take Hunter to jail 'cause he took some of my toys."

"Ah. I see."

I apologized profusely to the officer, who said that this kind of thing actually happens far more than you would think. She had a little talk with Blake about responsibility, and it was chalked up to one of those "lesson learned" kind of things.

Now he only pretends to call the police on his toy phone:

"Hello, police? Come and take my brother to jail. I'll give you cookies."

This is just one of the many things that Blake does on a regular basis that keeps my life so interesting.

With both of my kids, and Blake in particular, I never know what kind of adventure the day is going to bring or what kinds of tricks they're going to pull.

With Hunter's devious intelligence, and Blake's "Why not, that seems fun" attitude, I'm growing older by the minute.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I love you, Blake, and I look forward to many more years of being sometimes amused and sometimes terrified by the things you do.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Fun Things My Children Say...

Me: Blake, stop running in the house!

Blake: Wheeeeee!!!! Zoom!!! Zoom!!!

Starbuck: WOOF!! (I like you! You are the Small Human who drops food often!)

*CRASH!!!!*

Me: Blake, I said stop running around in the house with the dog!

Blake: *makes puppy dog eyes* But Dad, this is fun, and you like me to have fun because you love me, don't you?

Starbuck: BARK!! WOOF!!! (This is true, Big Human Who Takes Me Outside. It is fun because sometimes he has candy in his pockets that falls out, and then it is mine!)

Me: Yes, Blake, I love you, and I like for you to have fun. But there is not enough room in this house for you to run around like that, especially when a big dog like Starbuck is going to run around with you. I need for you to NOT run around the house.

Blake: But I have to, Dad. It's my destiny.

Me: Ah. Well. Carry on, then.

Blake: WHEEEEE!!!! ZOOOOOOMMMMM!!! ZOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!!

Starbuck: WOOF!!! ROWR!!! (CANDY!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Me: *Sigh*
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Me: *taking hat off after being out in snow* Ok, boys! Who wants some cereal?

Blake: ME!!! ME!!!!

Me: Hunter, what about you? You want a bowl of cereal?

Hunter: Wow, Dad. You're getting bald.

Me: *happy feelings draining, smile eroding* Hunter, I've been getting bald for a long time now.

Hunter: Yeah, I know. But you're really getting balder. Why are you crying?

Me: I'm not crying, Son. I'm weeping. There's a difference.

Hunter: Oh. Can I have some cereal now?

Starbuck: *running in from other room* WOOF!!!! (Cereal?)

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Update...

I haven't been around much lately.

This time, it's not because I've been too busy (although I have been busy just trying to keep up with life).

I've had a serious case of the "blahs" lately, and to be honest, it's been kinda difficult to drum up the motivation to do much of anything.

I'm usually a pretty happy guy, but sometimes things get to me. It's been one of those times lately.

I'll get better; I always do.

I just wanted to let everyone out there know that I'm not dead.

That I know of.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad