There is a waterslide park not too terribly far from my house. It’s a profanely unhygienic place that charges you sickening amounts of money for the very seasonal privilege of contracting a staph infection from their brightly colored inner-tubes. The prodigious entry fee also affords you access to a plethora of other areas where the various tasks of parting with huge wads money, exercising your immune system, and testing your fortitude (both physical and mental) are transformed into a methodical, almost scientific process. Take the family to a water park one time and you’ll never bitch about the lawn damage caused by a Slip 'N Slide again.

Hygienic Nightmare

Summer is officially upon us – well, those of us in the northern hemisphere, anyway – and that means that we will soon be seeing the frenetic, seizure-inducing television ads for this local waterslide park of which I speak. This is a serious problem when you have young children. The practiced parent comes to loathe the water park commercials every bit as much as political ads and previews for the next episode of JAG. We hate the water park commercials because once the little urchins see the shiny inflatable swim-toys, colorful rides, and faux nautical scenery, the only way to stop the relentless pleading and badgering that ensues without giving in to their demands is to kill them.

I am fortunate and infinitely thankful that both my kids are finally at an age where they have better things to do than stand in line on damp cement with a thousand strangers who may or may not have recently wet themselves just to enjoy thirteen seconds of sloshing down a slope of running bleach-water. But for those who have kids at the age where taking them to a water park is going to be better than the grisly alternative, I have the following bits of hard-collected knowledge to pass along, if you care to read on.

1. Get Yourself Swim Trunks with Deep Pockets

Look, a day at the waterslides is going to cost you. Prepare for this by avoiding the movie theater and eating only ramen for a few weeks. This strategy has the dual effect of both saving money and making you capable of actually appreciating a water park chilidog. And believe me, when you wait a half-hour for the opportunity to pay seven dollars for a hotdog with congealed Sloppy Joe sauce slathered on it, the last thing you want to do is lose your appetite. It’s complicated, I know. Just trust me on this. Take a lot of money, and in order to maximize it, be very hungry.

2. A Locker is Not a Safe

You may be tempted to rent a locker so you don’t have to carry your towel, sunscreen and car keys with you everywhere you go. And that’s fine, as long as you’re able to stop there. Do not, under any circumstances, become convinced that leaving your massive cash reserves in a water park locker is an intelligent, viable option. It is not. One look at the key itself should be your first clue. Any thinking person will note there’s nothing that key can do that couldn’t also be accomplished using a 3/8” standard screwdriver. Well, I guess the screwdriver would be harder to hide up inside a body cavity for smuggling purposes, but then, who the hell smuggles 3/8” standard screwdrivers?

Do not worry about getting your money wet. When you decide that corn chips covered in vulcanized American cheese are starting to sound good, go ahead and slap your sopping sawbuck on the counter with confidence. If anyone gives you a hard time over its dampness, just wait until they pick it up and then smile and coolly reply, “Yeah, sorry about that. I stood up after taking a dump and all my money fell in the toilet.” If they instinctively drop the bill in disgust, then you can safely assume they’re so slow they probably don’t even realize they work in a water park. Take your paper tray of “Neptune’s Nachos” and walk away because, at that point, it’s really not worth waiting for the fifty cents change.

Now, obviously, if you’re wearing a swimsuit without pockets, you may find carrying your money around problematic. That brings us too...

3. Invest in a Pair of Water-Socks

The reasons for covering your feet at a public water park are numerous, but if you want to enjoy the better rides and slides, you can’t have shoes with laces or hard soles on them. I’m not sure why this is and every time I ask a water park official about it, all they ever say is, “Because laces and hard soles are fruity and stupid.” I don’t think that’s a very reasonable answer, but maybe that’s why I never built a massive water park empire.

Anyway, besides making a great place to keep your money when you are pocketless, water socks also protect the bottoms of your feet from that stabby texturing they put in the walkways to keep hyperactive children and drunken people from slipping. And if the pointy pavement isn’t assaulting your feet, then neither are the legions of malicious and aggressive microbes that typically abound wherever large groups of wet, half-naked humans congregate.

Water socks also hide your hideous toenail fungus.

4. Suggest the River Rapids or Wave Pool

The most important thing to keep in mind is that children possess nearly limitless energy. If you want to get out of that wretched place before sundown, you’ll need to take an active roll in wearing them out. Allowing them to spend most of their time standing in lines for rides that last no time at all is going to get you nowhere fast. It is advantageous to do your best to steer them toward longer rides that require a bit more physical exertion.

Generally, any ride that requires an inner tube will suit this purpose, as these will be the rides that offer the participant an active roll in increasing the fun factor by thrashing about like a lunatic and paddling to beat hell. The giant wave pool is also a good choice because constant movement is absolutely necessary at all times in order to stay afloat and once they're in the middle of that undulating mass of bodies and water, it’s practically impossible for them to get back out. When they do finally make it back to “shore”, offer them some chilidogs and nachos, then suggest they take a nice soak in the jacuzzi. With the right combination of suggestions perfectly timed, you can get them to drain their batteries long before you start thinking you should’ve gone with the filicide option.

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150 years ago today, the theory of natural selection was first presented to the public.

It is most interesting to note that not one but two scientists had discovered natural selection completely independently of one another. Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace did not know one another beyond professional reputation and Darwin only became aware of Wallace’s theory on species transmutation after he received a letter from an ailing Wallace, requesting his theory be handed over to Charles Lyell, a highly respected scientist at the time, for possible publication in a scientific journal.

Natural Selection - Nautilus vs. Crab

Darwin, who had already conceived his theories on natural selection years prior, was nonplussed as to what to do with this new paper from Wallace. He asked Lyell and another friend, Joseph Hooker, what to do. It was decided that Wallace’s paper would be presented along with a couple of Darwin’s writings on the same subject to the Linnean Society of London.

On July 1, 1858, the presentation was made and while Wallace later complained of the manner in which the information was presented, a major event had occurred in the world of science that paved the way for mankind to begin truly understanding its origins.

So, as you cut your steak away from the bone tonight*, consider the notion that there was a time when your ancestors ate a lot more vegetation than meat. Then think about that worm-like organ called the appendix and how today it is totally useless. Finally, consider the lizards of Pod Mrcaru and how, in just 30 years, they developed completely different digestive systems to accommodate a higher abundance of plants as food.

I don’t know about you, but when I think about the implications of all those things, it makes me wanna shout: HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATURAL SELECTION!!! You’re still as smart and sexy as you’ve always been!

*I ask my vegetarian peeps to bear with me; I’m making a point.

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Like so many people, I absolutely love the Discovery Channel. Even their ads are brilliant. The current one, in particular, really touches me. Trouble is, we seldom get to see the full-length version. Amanda found it at YouTube yesterday and sent me the link. Thought I'd share. Do watch it. It really is quite something and a great way to spend 60 seconds.

Here, go ahead and sing along!

NEW Discovery Channel Commericial - Boom De Yada!

I love the mountains.
I love the clear blue skies.
I love big bridges.
I love when great whites fly.
I love the whole world.
And all its sights and sounds.

Boom de yada! (x4)

I love the oceans.
I love real dirty things.
I love to go fast.
I love Egyptian kings.
I love the whole world.
And all its craziness.

Boom de yada! (x4)

I love tornadoes.
I love arachnids.
I love hot magma.
I love the giant squids.
I love the whole world.
It's such a brilliant place.

Boom de yada!

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Kids, if you’ve ever wondered why there are so many goddamn clowns even though most people are terrified of them and despise the very thought of them, well, now you have your answer. They appear to have a rigorous recruitment stratagem.

Clown Recruiter

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Have you heard? Devo is suing McDonald’s over an American Idol themed Happy Meal toy unimaginatively named “New Wave Nigel”.

And, boy, I hope Ronald is subjected to a legal corn-holing that turns his red wig pale.

Just look at this toy. It’s a plagiaristic travesty. The figure sports an orange jumpsuit and Devo’s trademark "energy dome" hat which, in my opinion, is enough to damn McDonald’s as full-on rip-off artists.

New Wave Nigel

But the clincher is the unquestionably Devo-esque music the toy plays when its arm is moved. (Hit play on the video at right to hear just how blatantly McDonald’s has mimicked Devo's sound.)

Sounds Like Devo

Big companies like McDonald’s pull this sort of shit all the time. They think that because they have bottomless pockets, they can just step all over other peoples’ copyrights. Of course, let me post an illustration of Grimace shoving his bloated, purple dick in Ronald McDonald’s ear and see how fast I receive a cease and desist letter.

What I love most about the story is Devo bassist Gerald Casale’s statement about the level to which the band is insulted:

"This New Wave Nigel doll that they've created is just a complete Devo rip-off and the red hat is exactly the red hat that I designed... Plus, we don't like McDonald's, and we don't like 'American Idol', so we're doubly offended."

Awesome. I didn’t think it was possible, but I actually like Devo even more now.

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We recently acquired a new couch. It’s huge. There’s room between the giant, poofy arms for me to fully stretch out. No more napping with my feet elevated like a traumatic shock victim! Yay! Of course, accommodating a sofa of this magnitude requires a bit of rearranging and by the time it was over, we had successfully confounded the cats.

See, as anyone who serves a feline overlord knows, cats really don’t care much for touching the floor. They wish to be able to relocate to any part of the living area proper by way of tables, chairs, couches, ottomans, television sets, specially designed ramps, peoples’ heads, etc. Needless to say, when furnishings were moved around such that it was no longer an easy hop from the secondary couch to the television, all our cats (with the exception of Stripe who is perpetually asleep) were perplexed and supremely annoyed. The Deej missed the jump the first time, falling a healthy distance to the hardwood floor. Shortly after that, I noticed some of my laundry had gone from white to yellow.

On a completely unrelated note…

Been getting into Nerf guns lately. Should really come as no surprise to those who know me. I’m a 41 year old adolescent. A man who refuses to grow up. I’m basically Peter Pan except that I don’t wear glittery tights (anymore) and have considerably more back-hair. Oh, and the only things I’ve ever fed a crocodile are an electric egg beater and several hits of windowpane LSD.

The problem with being a middle-aged child is that we adults like some "meat" to our gaming and it’s been decades since danger was a toy’s best asset. These days, Nerf guns are next to useless right out of the box and require extensive modifications before they can be considered acceptable sources of enjoyment. Fearing lawsuits from angry parents of recently cyclopean children, toy companies have castrated any products that feature projectiles by either attaching the missile to a string or adding air-restrictors to limit flight. Nerf guns fit into the latter category and as a result, without overhauling, are only effective at point-blank range – perfect for indulging in mock gang-style executions, but not very useful for firefight simulations or tactical indoor warfare (though I must admit the Nerf Maverick lends itself well to faux games of Russian Roulette).

So, after reading up a little on pimping out Nerf guns, Zach and I got right to work. We modified both Nite Finders and Mavericks, the latter being a bitch of a job that got me frothing at the mouth more than once. It was worth it, though, because not only can I hit a target from great distances but the darts can now inflict a small amount of pain. Zachary is 23 and I made him yelp. Bonus! (Click here to witness the potential power of a modified Nerf gun.)

Of course, with such unrestrained power now in our hands, we had to adopt a few rules. Fortunately, the groundwork was laid by others years ago.

Penny Arcade Official NERF Rules of Engagement

The women get involved, too. Some of the most memorable scenarios have arisen between Amanda and me.

One time last week, during a heated gun battle, Amanda and I found ourselves stalking one another around the circuit comprised of the living room, dinning room, and kitchen. I was armed with a single-shot Nite Finder and Amanda had her six-shooter. We’ve all gotten pretty accurate, so none of us feels like we can afford to just up and charge at our adversaries, guns-a-blazin’. A bit of patience and strategy is required if you don’t want two-inches of foam buried in your ear. The shooting had raged hard a few moments before, leaving me with only a single round left, but I was pretty sure Panda was running low on ammo as well. I stood still as I could in the living room, my back against the DVD shelves, listening intently for any indication of Amanda’s position and ammunition status. All I could hear was my own breathing and the moist sound of Diblet cleaning out Edgar’s ears over on the couch.

And then Amanda made a fatal error. From the dining room, just around the corner from where I stood, came the sound of a Nerf Maverick’s cylinder clicking open for reload. Instantly, I knew exactly where she was and that she was temporarily vulnerable. I stepped out from around the DVDs, leveled my gun, and shot Panda square in the side of the head as she futilely fumbled to load her weapon. The victory was so, so sweet.

Flash forward to yesterday afternoon. Amanda was in the middle of making cookies when I arrived home from work and about an hour or so later, when I saw the racks of cookies cooling, I walked over to them saying, “Wow, lookit all the yummy cookies!”

I reached for one…

…and suddenly felt the cold plastic barrel of a Nerf Maverick pressed against the back of my head.

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I tried to write an adequate eulogy this morning and failed. I simply haven't the words. I would want my homage to delineate all all the laughter he inspired in his 71 years, all the great things he said and did, all the ideas he put into so many of our minds, all the forms of commentary he was capable of, and all the intelligence and conviction and courage he possessed.

Moreover, in tribute to his comic genius, I'd want it to be funny. But I'm simply too sad to even think about humor.

Goodbye, George Carlin.

And thanks.

George Carlin

[STORY]

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So, what are the odds this piece of pointless crap was manufactured in a Chinese sweatshop? Wal*Mart's website lists the origin of the parts and manufacturing as "US and/or Imported". I'm thinking that description is only half right, and not the good half.

Are They Fucking Serious?

White kid. Giant fucking house. Perfect lawn. Expensive and unnecessary yard lighting. Hey, at least Wal*Mart understands their poor-little-rich demographic*. Too bad they're too damn cheap to pay a good Photoshop artist to mock up the ad. Lord. Captain Crew-Cut looks like he's glowing and levitating over a puddle of oil.

I swear, sometimes I have to wonder about the mentality of the average American. I'm headed over the the Wal*Mart near here to see if they have any of these ridiculous things in stock because I just gotta know if they are indeed made outside the United States. I'll let you know what I find out.

UPDATE: The Wal*Mart near my work doesn't carry them. I will have to check the Wal*Mart Superstore by my house.

*Seriously, isn't it amazing how many SUVs and Lexuses you see in Wal*Mart parking lots?

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Maybe you’ve seen this already; maybe you haven’t. It’s over a week old, but I feel the need to record it here because my high regard for outstanding women (not to mention my undying fetish for high heel pumps) dictates that I openly show my appreciation for such events, even when they don’t directly affect me.

What am I on about? Have a look at this awesome photograph taken by Rich-Joseph Facun for The Virginian-Pilot.

Pretty and Pink

Now, let me just say that there would be nothing more appealing to me after a seven-month absence than to see Karin waiting for me in a pair of hot pink stiletto pumps. Ms. Knilans is a woman who knows how to make her man feel like the luckiest snuvabitch alive and this photograph proves that fact. It allows any man gazing at it to vicariously enjoy that feeling of being missed, loved, wanted.

Interestingly, many comments I’ve read regarding this photograph take negative note of the fact the shoes appear to be brand new (judging by the pristine heel tips and the price tag that can be seen on the bottom of the right pump).

To me, the notion that Ms. Knilans purchased a new pair of sexy shoes solely for the homecoming event only serves to make the scenario even more transcendent. She wanted to look hot for her husband and nothing in her closet was good enough to convey how much she’d missed him, how much she needed him near her. So she went out and bought the brightest, sexiest shoes she could find. I’m willing to bet P.O. Knilans more than appreciated his wife’s effort.

Other commenters seemed to think the photograph was outright sexist. One woman even went so far as to write to the paper to let them know she felt the photo “conveys a message that military wives are cheap and trashy”. A silly generalization if ever there was one. By that logic, a photo of Stephen Hawking in his wheelchair conveys a message that all quantum physicists are genetically inferior. Bah. I suspect women who find this image sexist have deeper issues than a general aversion to stereotypical gender roles. The day a woman wanting to look sexy for her husband is universally considered sexist is the day human sexual liberty swallows itself whole and the universe becomes a dark place indeed.

So ladies, go ahead and wear those fuck me pumps if the mood grabs you. I, for one, will not call you sexist nor will I chastise you for trying too hard. Hell, it’ll be all I can do to keep from applauding you.

For more details on this story, click here and here to get SmartBitch’s take on it.*

*No, I don’t read trashy romance novels. This is, in fact, the first time I’ve encountered SmartBitch’s blog. Sorry to disappoint.

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Saturday evening Karin and I accompanied Amanda to the Paramount Theater to see rock performance by a young group of lads calling themselves Panic at the Disco. If you’ve never heard of them, that’s probably because you are 1) no longer a teenager and 2) have no teenage children of your own. That’s a good thing in the sense that you don’t have to admit to your friends that you’ve actually paid for and sat through a Panic at the Disco show; it’s not so good in that you’re missing out on some rather lovely music that is probably wasted on wet-behind-the-ears teeny-boppers.

Panic at the Disco Ticket Stub

Before I get into relaying the electrifying events of our evening, I want to mention that I’ve been there done that with the hard-core concert scene. I’ve witnessed the awesome spectacle that was pre-suck Metallica more times than I can remember. I’ve earned black eyes and broken bones in the whirling mosh pits of Slayer and Anthrax respectively. I’ve had a stiletto heel pierce the top of my foot whist working my way up to the stage at both Kiss and Lords of Acid. My metal mettle has been long since earned, and in spades. I have nothing more to prove.

So when Amanda and Karin asked me if I wanted to see Panic and told me we’d be enjoying the show from reserved balcony seats, I didn’t even have to think about it. A rock concert sans the sweat and bruises? Count me in!

I Write Sins Not Tragedies

Panic! At the Disco

We arrived about a half hour early, but the line was already moving inside, so we spent minimal time waiting about in the cold Seattle drizzle. After we were adequately felt up and scrutinized by the surly event staff, we left Amanda to the task of acquiring her t-shirt(s) because, as I mentioned earlier, my moshing days are quite over. I will mosh no more forever – especially not for an overpriced poly-blend with half-assed silk-screening.

We found our seats and commenced to cramming our bodies into the eighteen square inches of space allotted to each of us. Removing my legs and placing them under my chair would have been easier than trying to get them into any position other than jammed up against my chest, so I resigned myself to smelling my kneecaps for the duration of the evening and set to thumbing through my “Complimentary Souvenir Program” (more accurately described as a twelve-page Honda* advertisement).

No sooner had I been informed by my free reading material that “The Fit” was indeed “Go”, than my peripheral vision caught sight of someone thin and blonde trying to get my attention. I looked up. The woman was insultingly pale and appeared to have a body fat percentage in the negatives. It was obvious by everything from her outfit to her hair and makeup that she was trying desperately to convince herself and everyone around her that middle age was just an annoying myth. 40 going on 21. Behind her stood two smaller, identical versions of herself – her daughters, I assumed. She pointed to the seats right next to mine and gave me a forced half-smile that made clear two important points: 1) she and her daughters were going to be occupying the seats directly to my left and 2) they were all three quite unhappy about the fact. I guess to living Barbie dolls, average guys like me appear as lumpy, malformed atrocities.

We stood up to let them past us and when they arrived at their seats, a muffled discussion ensued between them. I assume it was about who was going to be stuck spending several hours sitting next to my hideous, soul-scarring form, but really, it could have just as easily been about how their allotted seating space was barely enough to accommodate their abundant hair. They eventually sat down, the mother taking the seat next to mine, and I found it adorable that she would sacrifice herself so.

Something for Everyone

There were four bands in all and even though there could be no doubt that it was a Panic at the Disco concert, it was quite clear that the other groups each had respectable followings in their own right.

The first group to take the stage, Phantom Planet, ended up being my favorite of the three openers. The songs were upbeat with very catchy hooks and only a couple of times did they remind me of their teenage demographic. When the first few notes of their final song, California, sounded, the entire theater went inexplicably insane. I later came to learn California is the theme song to the pubescent schlock-drama The OC. So that explained that.

The second performance was by an interesting quartet calling themselves The Hush Sound. They were also very good, though their sound is a bit difficult to pigeonhole. They definitely fit into the “alternative” category, though you won’t hear hints of Blink 182 or The Killers in their music. They were the one band that I thought seemed out of place, as their melodies and rhythms were more mature and polished. They looked to be a band more suited to people my age who still enjoy good rock and roll.

The third band, in a word, sucked. Everything about them sucked. First, they were called Motion City Soundtrack, which is a name that just plain sucks balls. What was their manager thinking letting them go with a name like that? Hell, The Ball-Suckers is a better name than Motion City Soundtrack! Then, as they walked onto the stage, Eddie Van Halen’s six-string masterpiece Eruption was pumped over the loudspeakers and into the ears of kids who weren’t even imagined prospects when it was released in 1978 and who probably assumed it was a Motion City Soundtrack original. Next, the frontman (whom I care so little about I’m not even going to Google up his name for you) had some friend-of-a-friend in the audience named Mia and was steadfastly determined to make sure we never forgot her name as long as we lived. After every other song (their songs sucked, by the way), the spotlight would shine out on her in the crowd and he’d ask this Mia chick things like how she was enjoying the show, if she was having a good time, if she ever got her third nipple removed, stuff like that. Finally, to complete this high-voltage circuit of suck, MCS were allowed an extra fifteen minutes of stage time which they used to mention Mia some more and to see if they couldn’t perform so badly as to finally convince a few of us to hopelessly throw ourselves off the mezzanine.

Tick-Tock, People!

Throughout the opening acts, a very strict time schedule was adhered to. The lights went down and the show started precisely at 7:00. Phantom Planet left the stage at 7:30 sharp, the roadies did their thing in fifteen minutes flat, and The Hush Sound started right at 7:45. Due to their cursed forty-five minute set, Motion City Soundtrack was done at 8:45. And that’s when the previously concrete schedule fell all apart. Based on what had transpired thus far, Panic at the Disco should have taken the stage at 9:00. Being the headlining band, they would have a more intricate stage show, though, so I was prepared to wait up to a half hour.

Over forty-five minutes we waited! Fortunately, there was no shortage of interesting ridiculous individuals to entertain us. I didn’t spend much time looking over at Barbie Mom and her twin homunculi because, for all their comical pretension, they really weren’t a whole lot of fun to watch. There’s only so much coif-checking and mascara touch-up you can stand to witness before your attention is diverted to more interesting things like the Mohawked ten-year-old angrily picking his nose** or the thirteen-year-old girl in a wedding dress.

Now, up until this point, everyone had remained seated. It was a nice, relaxing time, even when MC Sucktrack was playing, because I could just sit there with my chin resting on my knees and watch the show. But the moment Panic at the Disco came out, 2300 people suddenly felt compelled to stand up and become spastic. The compulsion was so overwhelming, in fact, that they didn’t sit back down the entire fucking rest of the show!

My old knees eventually started begging to be moved a bit, so I strolled out to the lobby and was surprised to find that the view of the stage on the closed-circuit televisions was better than the view from my seat. The sound didn’t compare, however, so after my knees were adequately exercised, I rejoined Karin and Panda.

Panic at the Disco Tour Bus

The Main Attraction

OK, so, Panic at the Disco. (PatD if I’m being lazy†.) Up until Saturday night, I knew only two of their songs and I knew of those only because Amanda adores PatD and plays them incessantly. But to be completely honest, I quite liked the songs I’d heard – they’re sort of infectious – and was more than happy to accompany the two women in my life to see PatD perform live. Due to the fact PatD is seen by many as only a couple steps above Hannah Montana, the notion did occur to me that I stood a chance of being killed by headbangers and/or Radiohead fans, but I decided I’d risk it.

I have to say that for a group of guys with an average age of 21, PatD certainly have an expertly crafted sound. There’s a hell of a lot of talent there. You don’t have to like their style of music to see that these young men know something about music. I personally prefer some grit to my rock and roll, but there are still several of their songs I’ll be adding to my iPod.

The proof of real musical ability is in the live performance, of course. What PatD lacked (seriously lacked) in stage presence, they easily made up for with precision playing. It’s difficult to hear the more nuanced harmonies over the shrill cries of a thousand teenage girls, granted, but I can say without fear of contradiction that PatD gave a far better performance than The Cult gave when I saw them in ’89.

So, in summary:

Phantom Planet was a delightful surprise.
The Hush Sound was polished.
Motion City Soundtrack sucked.
Panic at the Disco, despite a reputation as teen-pop pussies, puts on a better show than grunge bad-asses The Cult.

*Honda being, oddly enough, the sponsor of this particular music tour.
**Seriously, he seemed downright pissed off at that elusive booger!
† Which I fully intend to be for the duration of this already stupid-long post.

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