cocktails with kevin

33, rue de Poissy, 75005 Paris FRANCE

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 04:13:00 +0000

Has anyone else booked here? Has anyone stayed here before? If so, kindly shoot me an email to 4kevinblack@gmail.com.

Thanks

Retour à l'expéditeur

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 20:42:00 +0000

A family member found this letter while going through some old items. While my French has become a bit rusty over the years, I believe this is a letter written to an unknown penpal.

Briefly the letter describes a technical school in Voiron, France. Worth noting is the author's description of the cafeteria and the dormitories. He says that the cafeteria is very very [his emhasis; not mine]well organized with approximately 60 marble tables arranged in two rows with a 150-meter aisle going down the middle of them. The dormitories he describes as having between 50 and 55 beds a piece.

Now check out the archival photos I found on the net of the very thing he was describing by clicking here and cyber-visiting the Lycee scientifique at technologique.

Wild.

Anyone know who Leon Berus is?

Margaritas made simple

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 18:30:00 +0000

Many apologies to those who ventured over to my new and free spot on the innerwebs hoping to find flashy banner ads, free giveaways and material worth reading. Worry not kind reader because as soon as my schedule opens up and I am allotted more time to blog, I will happily do so. As far as the free giveaways, don't hold your breath. Anyone is welcome to venture through my trash though.

I also offer sincere apologies to those who came looking to find nekkid photos of yours truly. For that, you'll simply have to check out my pay site at www.brad-pitt-only-wishes-he-could-look-like-this.com.

Just kidding. I don't really have a pay site, and if I did, I don't know that it would generate much money. Alas.

How about I just share with you a simple margarita recipe that I'm using today to serve to guests? Sound good? Okay, here goes:

1 750 ml bottle of tequila (how much you spend here depends on how much you like the guests)
1 1/2 cups bottled lime juice such as Angostura or Rose's
2 cups triple sec or Cointreau
1 cup of water
several dashes of bitters, some simple syrup and fresh squeezed lime juice to taste

If you didn't figure it out yet this makes a pitcher of boozy goodness, a little heavy on the booze. LaineyB had the brilliant idea of blending together some sugar, lime zest and Kosher salt (our Hasidic Mexican friends love this!) to use to coat the rims of our glasses. Isn't she something else?

I'll let you know how these go over.

cocktailswithkevin is closing its doors . . . kinda

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 18:21:00 +0000

Well, not exactly.

Basically I've just come to the conclusion that forking out $80 a year to have my own domain name just ain't worth it when I only use the site for blogging, which frankly I could do for the everyday-low-price of free. For that reason, beginning Friday, July 18, 2008 the blog will be coming to you live from www.cocktailswithkevin.blogspot.com

Mark your calendars, wake the kids, and phone the neighbors. The next rendition of the blog promises to be new and exciting and fun for the whole family. Until then, I'm gonna cash out my bar tab for this domain.

I look forward to seeing y'all on the flip side.

Dad's Bars recipe

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 17:19:00 +0000

Because it's been a while since I posted a recipe, and I know you people are waiting on pins an needles for me to do so, I've decided to post my famous Dad's Bars recipe. These are so called because I make them and I'm a dad. Should you make them, you can refer to them however you like. Regardless you'll find them to be a yummy substitute for store-bought cereal slash breakfast slash MSG preservative bars.

In a large mixing bowl, blend together:

2 cups oats (quick or instant or whatever)
1 cup flaked coconut
1/4 cup peanuts
1/4 cup puffed wheat cereal (or puffed rice but don't splurge on a cartoon variety; get the big-ass bag of generic for a dollar)

In a saucepan melt one stick of butter with 1/4 cup of brown sugar and 1/4 cup of honey and at least 1/4 cup of raisins. Just melt it. Don't let it simmer.

Pour the gooey sweetness into the bowl with the dry ingredients and mix throughly. I cheat and use the mixer with the batter paddle attachment but your hands work just as well.

Dump this into a 9"x9" baking dish and cover it with wax paper or aluminum foil. Now press it down good and firm as hard as you can. If necessary, ask a portly person to step on it, being sure to keep the wax paper intact of course.

Put it in the freezer for two hours to set. Then pull it out and cut it into bars. I find this is most easily accomplished with one of those rocking style pizza cutters but do what you like. Alternatively we sometimes cut these into small cubes and call them Dad's Petits Fours.

Good for constipated toddlers. And daddies too!

Y2K+ Parenting

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 12:53:00 +0000

This morning Meryl was sitting in my lap rolling a toy car around my shoulders and over my head.

Meryl: (bringing the car to a stop) Here we are at the library.

Me: Who works at the library?

Meryl: Mommy.

Me: What does Mommy do at the library?

Meryl: Pick out books.

Me: What else does she do?

Meryl: Type on the computer.

Me: What does she type?

Meryl: Dot org.

What had happened was . . .

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 05:39:00 +0000

There are those who like to apologize for their absence from the innerwebs by prefacing their buhterial with some long diatribe as to why they haven't blogged in so long. Then there's me.

Movin' on.

I have recently begun taking the local movie theater up on their offer of a free kids' movie once a week. At two years of age, Meryl is limited in the amount of time she can successfully spend in a dark room crowded with half-eaten tubs of popcorn and sugar-laden daycare kids, so we've yet to make it through an entire film. Fine with me. Somehow neither Evan Almighty nor Doogal really managed to keep me on the edge of my seat for very long.

You see, the movie is free but pickings are slim. On our most recent trip, we could have seen Shrek 3, but since I haven't seen the first two episodes in the Shrek trilogy, I'm sure I'd be lost. The other option was a Veggie Tales flick.

I'm sorry, but I just don't understand the allure of proselytizing legumes that want me to accept them as my personal lord an savior. That's wrong an that's ig'nant. Don't get me started.

Another new local diversion for us has been the Goodwill store. I have written about the Goodwill before. Readers can learn more about my experiences with this charity-driven bargain barn by clicking here. But remember! Kevin is a monkey so he can do things you can't do.

Goodwill is nice because I don't have to worry about Meryl breaking things anymore than they're already broken. Plus the store's not that big so I can usually find a comfy spot on a dusty couch while she runs around or tries out the circa-1984 treadmill. The thing's not turned on so for some reason she likes to jump on it like a trampoline. Sure, we get a few stares from fellow shoppers, but who cares? They're not the boss of me.

One granola looking grandma in a pink tanktop and faded camo pants (both of which looked like she had bought them on a previous visit to the store I might add) did rub me the wrong way by asking if I was "babysitting today." God, how I hate that. I responded with my usual No, I'm parenting. I do it everyday to which she replied Let me get back there and check out that sewing machine, wouldya? I think she was one of those ebay people.

Anyway, parenting is good, marriage is good, and life is good.

It's all good.

Help Laverne Help Cory's Closet!

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 18:55:00 +0000

Sometimes a guest blogger is better than an extended hiatus, especially when the guest blogger supports a worthy cause. Without further ado, here's the scoop from my sizza-in-law:

. . . My nephew Cory B. Fleming passed away in April, just shy of his 16th birthday.

Laverne is a 1972 Porsche 914 that is taking up space in my garage. Cory was my shinning hope of Laverne leaving my garage. I entered our beat up 1972 Porsche in a Cumulus‎ -Radio Cincinnati - WRRM, WGRR and WFTK radio contest . . .and she made it to the not so sweet 16.

I would like nothing more than to win the 96.5 Rock Your Ride 10,000 make over, get the Porsche sold and donate the sale proceeds to his Memorial Fund - - Cory's Closet. The fund was set up in connection with King's High school to help King's High School students afford to play LaCrosse, not a school-funded sport.

I was SURPRISED to see Laverne made it to the not so sweet 16, so now I'm BLEGGING (that's a cross between begging and blogging) for help.

VOTE 1972 Porsche NOW!!! The only draw back to voting is you must be a "ROCKHEAD" which you can do at the time of voting and then unsubscribe once we've won!
It only takes a few minutes
http://www.supertalkfm965.com/96ROCKYOURRIDENotSoSweet16/tabid/222/Default.aspx

I hope that makes sense! Thank you in advance for your time & your VOTE
If anyone wants to learn a little more about Cory here's a link to his MySpace Memorial Page .

Caroline Fleming

Atlanta Rollergirls

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Tue, 13 May 2008 03:09:00 +0000

Now y'all who read my blog more often than you clean your baseboards know that I seldom if ever ask you to give to any charities or anything like that. I don't ask people to jump rope for the cure or any other such nonsense. Just not my bag. But please hear me out. There are people who need your help.

I'm talking of course about the Atlanta Rollergirls. They kick ass and everyone who's anyone should run out and buy tickets to their next gig. I don't know when it is. Check their site by clicking hither.

Oh wait. That's wrong. Don't click there.

No, really. Don't. Please.

Here's their site: www.atlantarollergirls.com I knew I had it somewhere in my favorites.

The missus and I went to see them do their thing a couple of days ago and -- let me tell you -- you haven't lived until you've seen live roller derby. Remember Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling? This is even better.

I'm talking sexy chicks on wheels! Mean women. The kind your mother warned you about and the kind your father secretly hoped you'd bring home so she could help build a new back deck or change a carburetor. I'm talking about chicks pushing other chicks off the track so they go sailing into the audience.

And whatever your taste in roller derby queens, there's something here for everyone. From what I could gather after watching the Apocalypstix take on the Sake Tuyas, roller derby is kinda like tug-of-war. You want people of all shapes and sizes.

Hey, remember what Freddy Mercury said? They make the rockin' world go round, right? Well, when it comes to roller derby those girls make the rockin' world go

round and round,
oh round and round
The meanest hunk o woman
That anybody ever seen
Down in the arena

I'm trying to come up with a way to express to you the fun Elaine and I had on our latest mystery date but frankly words elude me at this point. How can one accurately describe an atmosphere where tailgaters are welcome to imbibe in the parking lot (and bring in their own bubbly for a couple dollars) while those with preschoolers are welcome to bring their progeny in to see the show? We didn't bring Meryl on this go-around, but there were little ones there, and I dare say they enjoyed watching the game. Some of the little ones in the audience even had moms on the rink!

I'm not making this up, people.

So please. Operators are standing by and the Atlanta Rollergirls need your help. Sure, they perform at the Yaarab Shrine temple on East Ponce, but those shriners are too busy helping needy children to donate money to the bloodbath that is Atlanta roller derby. The future of roller derby is in your hands.

You simply have to see it to believe it, folks.

Trust me on this one.

Godfather who art in Kevin

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Sat, 10 May 2008 14:10:00 +0000

Dear friends of ours have asked if I would be their child's godparent which, in and of itself, really should come as no surprise because I've been a parenting expert for a little over two years now, and if thinking you know everything equals all-knowing I've had a god complex for longer than that. If you put those two qualities together, surely you get the makings for a good godfather. Right?

Well, that's what I'm telling myself anyway.

Fully agreeing to this was something I did only after a healthy amount of self-debate. My understanding of godparents was that in the unfortunate event of the death of a child's actual parents, godparents step in and see to a child's spiritual wellbeing. My idea of spiritual wellbeing is usually limited to not drinking the grape before the grain, and even though I think that's good advice, it's not something I'd likely bestow upon a newly orphaned kid. Moreover I feel a certain amount of pressure just making sure my own daughter grows up in a healthy nurturing environment. God forbid my lack of godparenting skills should lead to my godchild growing up in a dysfunctional godfamily.

When I asked the friend what she hoped for from her new daughter's godfather, she expressed that she simply wanted someone to be there for her. Upon seeking advice from others, it's been suggested that I throw in a gift once a year or maybe a well thought out letter. This much I can certainly do, and in fact I think I'll look forward to it.

Even still gentle reader, I'm not without a few questions, namely: 1) Are you or do you have a godparent? and b) What all does godparenting entail?

Show your work.

Bloodborne pathogens: friend or foe

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Wed, 07 May 2008 17:44:00 +0000

Just yesterday my wife returned home from work to find me eyeball-deep in an online training session on bloodborne pathogens.

I know what you people are wondering. You're wondering what type of job I have that I need to engross myself with the spreading of bloodborne pathogens. Go ahead. Say it.

You're wondering this very thing.

I don't generally discuss work here for a number of reasons, the main one being that I want to be able to secure a job in the future without my potential employer being concerned that I'm going to blather all the corporate secrets and dirty laundry on my blog. I'm honestly not about that, but you never know what a ~~paranoid~~ potential boss is going to think. I also like to use my corner of the innerwebs as a place to excape from work, which means when it comes to worky worky the rule on my blog is no talky talky.

Me love work long time.

That being said, I teach English to people who speak their own kinda talk at home. I only bring it up because I want to point out I'm not in a job where I generally encounter bloodborne pathogens during my day. I work contractually for very few hours and we just don't practice surgery in my class. We don't tattoo. We don't inject. And none of us are blood brothers.

I do work out of a state agency though, so I'm guessing this mandate was a hand-me-down from some higher ups at the state level in case one of my students decides to self-amputate during the final exam. At least now I know how to handle the situation.

Note to self: Buy Laytex gloves.

No glove; no abstract non-count noun expressing like or emotion.

101 interesting things about me

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Sun, 04 May 2008 02:24:00 +0000

Occasionally when bloggers find themselves with little to write on, they post a list of things about them a reader might be interested to know. Here is mine:

1. I hate making lists.
2. That is all.

On a more uplifting note, here's a copy of a movie review for the film Evening that I just submitted to Netflix:

How such a stellar cast can come together and produce such insipid drivel as this is beyond me. The entire film takes place across two time periods and a dreamscape, all three of which are poorly transitioned from one to another. Something tells me this movie plays in one of the circles of Dante's Inferno. Just poor.

Seven windows to my soul

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 18:18:00 +0000

Though dates had little meaning to me then it must have been September of 1977 that my mother registered me for kindergarten class. As I recall the teacher ran it like an open house where moms sat down and filled out the necessary paperwork while kids got to try out the standard array of classroom toys: blocks, cars, dolls, etc. Light refreshments were served in the form of animal crackers on napkins and orange juice in Dixie cups

These were the real animal crackers too and not the more economical bootleg Animalitos that I pick up in the ethnic foods aisle for my kid now. The cups were those standard run-of-the-mill pattern everyone had in their kitchen at the time. You know the one I mean? Harvest gold flowers with a fold-out handle on the cup for easy holdage. Speaking of which, be sure and check out this video for Dixie Cups in honor of Earth Day.

Anyway, I remember not caring for the orange juice because it had pulp floating on top. Now I prefer extra pulp while my toddler whines about it the extra fruity goodness and makes a point of dramatically spitting it out when I try and pass it off on her hoping she won't notice.

Another early school memory is from when I was at the listening center with Kristie in first grade. We each had those gynormous headphones on and were listening to some audio cassette that I'm sure told us to circle the red balloon or write the letter A or some other equally engaging task. At one point in the exercise, Kristie leaned down into the speaker of the tape recorder to tell me she thought it was almost time to line up for lunch. She thought somehow that by talking into the speaker of the tape recorder that the sound would electronically be transferred into my ears.

Stupid Kristie.

At 13 I took piano lessons. I had played the trumpet in band so I wasn't totally ignorant when it came to reading music and I had practiced my piano recital piece ad nauseum I'm sure much to my family's delight. It was I Just Called to Say I Love You by Stevie Wonder.

When the time came I chose to play the song without sheet music because I had been told that would leave a bigger impression on the audience. I made it through almost the entire song, including a major key change, without so much as a single flub, but for whatever reason when I got back to the refrain on the last verse I missed my fingering and quickly broke tempo in order to try and correct the mistake. Scott, a fellow student, claimed he couldn't tell that I had goofed. He no doubt lied, but he was kind that way.

Nice Scott.

Not long after my seventeenth birthday I was living as an exchange student in Seyssinet, France. I took classes with several other American highschoolers during the morning, and we were all left to our own devices for the rest of each afternoon. There was this one chick who always wanted to scribble defaming remarks about me in my workbook. She was cute and a year older than I, but because I was a late bloomer, I didn't know at the time that workbook scribbling was some highschool girl pre-dating ritual.

One day she proposed getting together to hang out in the park after school. She wanted champagne to commemorate the event and indeed it was easily attainable at the local grocery store so I bought a bottle. Several giggles and quaint remarks later the bottle was empty but I wasn't feeling particularly intoxicated nor had the courtship progressed beyond sideways glances and flips of the hair, so I proposed going back to the grocery store for a bottle, only this time for a bottle of rum and a bottle of Coca Light.

I'm sure some of the more pessimistic among you can see where this is going. You would be right in your assessment. I've got family who reads my blog, so I'll spare y'all the sordid details, only some of which I even remember to this day.

There was the expected first shared kiss, another shared kiss, feeling up, being felt up, vomiting, foggy memories, having to move to a vomit-free bench, regaining consciousness with a semi-circle of nosey locals watching the show, getting on the wrong tram and having to eventually take a taxi back home. The brief courtship didn't last long after that. OK, not at all. The paramour did suggest weeks later that we stay in touch once we got back to the other side of the pond, but I think my ego had been damaged by the whole thing, so I never tried to contact her after that.

Some chicks you just gotta stay away from.

While going to college I still lived at home. One morning when I was in my early twenties I woke up at oh dark thirty to the sound of a ringing phone. Still asleep I instinctively picked up the receiver but said nothing. I could hear my father on another extension talking with some other man whose name I recognized but had never met. Without even needing to eavesdrop any further to determine what was going on, I hung up the phone and whispered My grandmother just died. She had been my last living grandparent.

By the time I hit thirty I had been married a couple of years to my wife whose grandmothers were both still living. One day one of them called, and again I answered the phone. When I learned who was calling I was quick to tell her that my wife wasn't home but would be back within the hour to which the elderly woman replied That's okay. I called to talk to you.

I had agreed to help her with some shopping the day before and apparently something made it into her grocery bag that wasn't hers. She was calling to see if instead maybe it was mine. When I asked what it was in the bag she explained that it was a toy car -- not a matchbox sized car but a model replica sized car -- and she thought maybe I collected them and was therefore the rightful owner. Incidentally I don't collect model cars and never have, but I liked that she had thought of me in this way. After years of being grandparent-less, on that day I felt like I was a grandson again.

Only last week my wife and I were talking about the television shows my daughter has, much to my dismay, taken a liking too. One of these god-awful shows is Big Big World which is hosted by a huge Plushy who talks like a washed-out stoner who hails from the West Coast. I told my wife that Meryl and I don't watch that show very often because, as I put it, the show comes on at the buttcrack of dawn. Meryl, who being not yet two years old and therefore at the stage where she parrots back everything she hears, responded simply yeh . . . uh huh . . . butt crackers.

Like sands through the hourglass, so are the seven windows to my soul.

I'll teach you

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 13:01:00 +0000

I am 35 years old. I have yet to learn the Electric Slide.

Truth be told

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 19:07:00 +0000

Time is a precious thing when I've a kid who's sleeping and I've doubled my teaching schedule on top of that, but I'll make this brief. In response to which of my previous claims listed here was not 100% true, I'll preclude with this:

In Steve Martin's book, Shopgirl, the main character whose name is Mirabelle has a theory on lying that for whatever reason I think has merit. She says that in order for a lie to be effective it must have at least a certain minutiae of truth to it and it must also be embarrassing to tell. Each prerequisite serves its own purpose. A lie that has a certain element of truth to is easier to tell convincingly, and a lie that was somewhat embarrasing for the teller to tell is less likely to lead to having to answer further questions that, if answered wrong, might uncover the lie being told.

It is true that I do not wear underwear, but it is not true that I don't own a pair of button fly jeans. I do in fact own a single pair of button flies which makes the last statement untrue. Such is the beauty of the coordinating conjunction. Sneaky little devil.

In response to the few family members and lone googler who responded, the statements about driving the police car and chatting with the priest in the confessional were in fact true. My sister was quick to point out a typo on my part about the police car already running and the cop tossing me the keys. I'll be honest. I don't remember which part of that was true. Was the police cruiser already running when I jumped in, or did the cop toss me the keys to crank it? I can't remember. I would have corrected the discrepancy in my writing were I to have detected it first, but since it was already pointed out, I thought shame on me; I'll just leave it.

As to chatting with the priest, again that was 100% true. My wife and I were in Prague on vacation. He caught me snapping flash photography in the cathedral which is one of the no-no's though he didn't say so and I admired him for indirectly correcting my errant behavior by instead simply engaging me in conversation. He asked me what my religious background was, and I told him I was not Catholic but that my wife was. Apparently, wven as a non-native English speaker, he saw through this non-answer and asked me again what my religion was. When I confessed that I was without religion, Father Petr was quick to share that he felt the message of Jesus Christ was intended for all people because Jesus was the Prince of Peace. When i returned from Prague, I sent Father Petr and email stating that I had cancer and that my wife was in the cathedral that day lighting a candle for me to which he responded:

Thanks !

Praying for your healing.

Fr. Peter

Five months later after undergoing chemotherapy I wrote to Father Petr again updating him on my condition and thanking him for his prayers and kind words. He replied with these kind words. Now, I don't normally make personal emails public, but I think his message is one that would benefit others and therefore should be shared.

Dear Kevin,   I wish you a strong health, all the best for your common life, and the great gift to have a grateful heart in all moments of your life, even those less nice ones.   May the Little Jesus, the Prince of Peace, bless and protect you all!

Father Petr
Monastery of the Infant Jesus of Prague

Even four years later rereading his email makes me a little teary-eyed. I was a stranger he didn't know from Adam. Being the head abbot at what many vacationers see as a common tourist attraction and many Catholics see as a miracle site, he likely encounters thousands of people each day. Surely his in-box is overflowing, but he took the time and energy to write back to me, someone who lives a third of the way around the planet, and in a foreign language no less. I think that says a lot about him and his vocation.

Father Petr's commander-in-chief faces much criticism as he pays his first papal visit to the United States, one of which is that he hasn't done enough to evangelize and bring more sheep to the flock. I'm not Catholic so it's not really my place to make that criticism, but I would dare say that if he's trying to up his numbers, he should consider putting Father Petr in charge of the Programming and Outreach Department. Not only that but Father Petr gets my vote for sainthood.

No lie.

Will the real Kevin please stand up?

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 03:14:00 +0000

There are things about me you people wouldn't understand. Things you couldn't understand. Things you . . . shouldn't . . . understand, but in the interest of public interest I feel it's time I came clean. If confession is good for the soul, then I'm about to do my spiritual body good. I'm going to share with you five things about me, one of which is a bold-faced lie. Cause that's how I roll. Oh yeh, and I'll elaborate a little on each one so's y'all can get some idea as to which one's made up.

Kinda like on Wait Wait . . . Don't Tell Me!, only without that smarmy Peter Sagal and those pesky intermittent requests for contributions from listeners like you.

1. I once spoke with a Catholic priest in a confessional.

Well, I wasn't in the confessional but he was. I don't confess to priests, because I have you people to tell my dirty little secrets to. Anyway, it was at the Church of Our Lady Victorius where it's locally known as Kostel Panny Marie Vítězné. The cathedral is home to the Infant Jesus of Prague. As it happened I was merely walking around the church snapping flash photographs when Father Petr stepped out and asked me where I was from. Not scoldingly either. He just struck up a conversation with me. His English was good and before we parted ways he wrote down his email address on my palm pilot.

2. I am a former smoker.

A pack a day, and sometimes if I was out late or working on a paper I probably stretched it into a pack and a half. I started smoking Kent, then went on to whatever brand was cheapest, and finished off with Carlton before finally quitting after six years. On the evening I decided to quit I threw all my cigarettes out my car window along with empty packets, lighters, matches, even old butts while driving home. Sure, I may have pissed off Woodsy Owl, but I was determined to snuff out Joe Camel.

3. I once drove a police car.

Well, not for a living or anything, but I did hop in the driver's seat of one once and back it up so as to unblock the parking space my car was in. The engine was already running and the door was even open. The cop was standing there, and when he asked me if he was blocking my way and I said yes, he tossed me the keys and told me to back it up. I did. Those cars are plush on the inside. Our tax dollars at work, I suppose.

4. I have appeared in newspapers, radio and even television.

While I don't have the time to get up on the community theater stage as much as I used to, I've performed in a number of local shows and have therefore had my name and mug in the paper a few times. I've been on the radio twice, once as part of a scout tour when I was eight, and then later I was a caller on the David Paul show.back when he was on WSB. As far as television appearances go, mine aren't that glamorous. Once I was lurking in the background of a televised town meeting and another time viewers could see me waving to the camera along with everyone else at a children's program at my local public library.

5. Because I think relieving oneself should be done as quickly and easily as possible, I do not wear underwear and I don't own any button-fly jeans.

Two things I fail to understand when it comes to this are: 1) why more guys don't go the commando route; and B) why people are ooked out when I say that I do. Does underwear really serve any vital role these days? Is it just a hand-me-down from the Victorian era? And as far as button flies go, unless you're Amish (and if you are shame on you for being at a computer terminal!) why would anyone opt for this type of closure? A guy who wears them has to stand at the urinal an extra thirty seconds trying to get the damn things buttoned back up. And if the second to top button comes undone while he's buttoning the top one, that's another ten seconds added on right there. Sheesh!

OK, enough confession. Though while I'm at it I should probably let you know that this post is in response to a meme sent to me by Blog Antagonist who as it happens is offering a prize to a random correct guesser of her own little untruth. If you can successfully guess mine, your prize is nothing more than the joy of winning which basically equals suckitude. I guess I could offer you something from the "gift drawer" but who in their right mind would want some thrice re-gifted Ikea napkin holders? Besides we might actually use those some day.

Tell you what, if you guess correctly, you can have my voice on your home answering machine.

Uncovering the ultra high price of a Subway sandwich

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 19:42:00 +0000

Dear Guy at Subway,

Thank you for the prompt and efficient service you provided to me and my daughter during what was for you I imagine a rather busy lunch hour. You took my order, grabbed the necessary fixings and prepared my sandwich and hers with aplomb. When I asked about the seemingly exorbitant price for a child's mini-sub, you were kind enough to point out that it also came with a drink and the toy you had provided along with a stack of complimentary napkins.

I took you up on the accompanying drink and picked out a Glaceau Vitamin Water even though, unlike you, I am old enough to remember when we called this stuff Kool-Aid and, not only did it taste great, it only cost about 59 cents per rain barrel to make. My mother could make enough for the whole neighborhood in a matter of seconds, and unlike the poor schlubs in the TV commercial, we never were chased down by some creepy anthropomorphic drinking pitcher.

The toy you gave my daughter was a plastic replica of a microphone, small enough to get lost behind the couch cushions but big enough that she couldn't swallow it. This is a good thing because, seeing as how to a toddler the item looks like one big lollipop, she very well might try to put it in her mouth. On closer inspection however, I realized that the top of the microphone comes off to reveal a red felt-tip marker.

A red felt-tip marker?

Guy at Subway, what did I ever do to you? What heinous misdoing or unforgivable transgression could I have ever committed that you can now reasonably justify taking revenge on me in this way? I have a good mind never to eat in your establishment again if this is the thanks I get. I don't care how much weight Jared lost.

Have you no clue what havoc my child would reek with this weapon of mass destruction? Within a mere five minutes of my multi-tasking parental supervision otherwise known as checking email, fixing more coffee or putting poop in Dad's potty, she would deface all the wonderful goods her mother and I have worked so hard to earn the money to buy.

The tablecloth we bought in Provence would be ruined. Our high thread-count bed linens would forever have red scribbles on them. The walls I spent weeks painting would be for her a mere canvas upon which to express her angst at having such materialistic parents. Even the cat would likely not escape her pen-wielding wrath.

You appear to be a young subway guy who, judging by your late morning work schedule, either were asked to leave high school prior to graduating or perhaps you just left of your own volition. Maybe slinging the Dijon horseradish sauce was a requirement of your probation. Who knows? Regardless, I am prepared to cut you a certain amount of slack for not thinking outside the protective sneeze guard. But get a grip.

Mischievous toddlers and red marker don't mix.

Sincerely,
Kevin

Me so holy

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 03:26:00 +0000

I know I need to buckle down and get to work on revising this blog template, but I'd rather spend my downtime sorting through old pictures.

Here's one from my recent road trip up from Florida. Who would have thought I would have spotted His Holiness and the VeggieTales in front of the VIP Spa off I-75? As I drove by he was chanting something about them not being from the one true church but that he still loves them

He loves them long time.

Pyramid peddlers be gone

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 16:33:00 +0000

You know if there's any group of people that get on my nerves six ways til Sunday it's pyramid peddlers. I swear I get irritated just thinking about them, those wide-eyed weasels with their cheesy conversation starters and their supposedly slick spiel on how to get rich quick. I don't mean to sound overly nasty but I just think the planet would be a better place without these people.

Meryl and I were accosted at the local Wal-Mart by a man-and-woman team just the other day and in the children's toy department of all places! They paid her a compliment and, being the well-meaning stupe that I am, I answered back with a sincere thank you and follow-up reply. That's when the guy mistook my expression of gratitude as his opportunity to get his foot in the door. I was quick to cut him off once I caught on to the game.

First of all the guy was sporting a lightweight tan jacket zipped up to the neck so all potential marks could easily read the pyramid scheme logo on his lapel. I suppose that would have been a worthwhile tactic were it not for the fact that anybody with half a brain would have recognized the label as a well-known Ponzi scheme. Sure, the company he represented may sell the occasional mortgage, insurance package or investment instrument, but you can tell by the look on the guy's face that the way he plans on making money is by getting other people who are equally as gullible as he was to sell their integrity along with the names and numbers of their friends and family. I'm no genius but even I can spot the shady smile and rapid-fire schlock coming out of someone's mouth that in essence negates whatever he's saying and instead serves as his own pisspoor attempt to delve into my pocket or social network or both.

How gross!

While I was quick to rat this couple out to customer service, I don't know what good it did. On the relatively few occasions I've been targeted by these types of people, the most recent onces occurred at a Wal-Mart or Sam's. Once two guys from the Bush-backed cult known as Teen Challenge solicited me for a donation as I was walking in a Wal-Mart, and at Sam's it seems like there's always a fund raising car wash going on for some transient fly-by-night church slash tax shelter. Sometimes I think the fickle finger of Sam Walton is reaching beyond the grave and inviting these greed demons into his stores. As if getting the government to usurp our private property rights wasn't enough!

I think what bothers me most about the pyramid peddlers though is that they fail to see their own ignorance and greed and instead assume (or at least hope) that the rest of us are as gullible as they were. They think that because they were dumb enough to plunk down cash for an initial investment in garbage shilling, so will we. Fat chance.

Think about it. The guy I met recently touted himself an investment manager who had recently moved down from New Jersey. OK, his accent led credence to the Jersey part, but aside from that I wasn't buying. If he was successful in New jersey, why was he here in a Georgia Wal Mart trying to drum up customers or fellow pyramid peddlers? Secondly, while I have a large number of people I consider family and friends, and their respective intelligence levels spans the smarts spectrum, I can't think of one who would actually be dumb enough to trust their child's inheritance with some schlub I claimed to have met at the local megalomart. And they sure as hell aren't going to trust me with it!

I'm sorry. I just keep better company than that.

Whether it's Pampered Shit or White Trash Living or Crymerica or Scamway or Unimaginative Memories or any of that garbage, I am just no interested.

On the flip side, we're out of Thin Mints and I wouldn't mind trying those Samoas this year.

Bootleg blog template

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 17:47:00 +0000

As of late I have messed up my blog template and had to temporarily resort to what I used as a blog template back in the day. Let me know how badly this sucks and I may speed up my response time for fixing it. Otherwise this may get deprioritized on my list of pointless things to get accomplished.

Pass the Grand Duchy on the left-hand side

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 22:44:00 +0000

Barring the Vatican, Luxembourg is the tiniest country I've visited so far. My wife and I arrived there after roughly two and a half hours of driving having started our route on Avenue de Franklin Roosevelt leading out of Gent in Belgium and eventually snaking along the E411 leading to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. Much like the invitations motorists find when entering Switzerland, Monaco or other small European countries, Luxembourg greets new arrivals with billboards advertising tax shelter opportunities and anonymous banking. Beyond the billboards we found ourselves in the nation's capital city, also called Luxembourg, or as we say in our kinda talk Luxembourg.

Getting there was half the fun as I recall which was good because Elaine and I didn't spend more than an afternoon in the country. We got out of the car and explored the main park before wandering around in the shops downtown. Luxembourg and especially Luxembourg City is a moneyed part of the planet. We were without child at the time but even still Elaine was quick to find a children's clothing store and pick out pricey garments for the baby that we might possibly someday maybe have. As it turned out the store was part of a European chain called Natalys. Clothes are available for purchase on the internet, but we've yet to place an order. I talked her into foregoing the expense and instead use the money to take in a late lunch.

Our waiter, who commuted from France everyday in order to report to work, spoke with us about the benefits of living in one country and working in the other. His English was far superior to most Frenchmen of his ilk and he was most friendly. He would constantly confuse the English verbs earn and win though, so listening to his story was at times like listening to someone read a Mad Lib. My wife hung on his every word, but I think it was his shoulder length greasy hair and Gallic nose that she liked most. So impressed was she with our server that he brought her out of her English-only cocoon. When he asked us if we wanted anything else, she said confidently, "de l'eau s'il vous plait."

I don't know if she really wanted water so much as she wanted a youthful swarthy guy to do her bidding.

Grace Jones: one sexy sexagenarian

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 17:42:00 +0000

For some strange reason I have always had a bit of a celebrity crush on Grace Jones. Well, maybe not a crush exactly. I think I'd be too frightened to spend the night alone with her, but even from the time I was young and saw her in Conan the Destroyer and Vamp back in the mid-80s, I just thought she exuded sexuality. From her striking beauty to her bewitching vocals to her on-screen vivaciousness, there's just something about her.

She was also quite the trend setter in her time because it was she along with David Bowie and Annie Lennox if you ask me that introduced that androgynous mystique that helped define the 80s. Later performers like Boy George and Sinead O'Connor would try to cash in on it but somehow fail. Grace Jones though could sport an athletic cut man's suit and make it work.

Saint Wikipedia teaches us that Grace Jones was banned from all Disney theme parks worldwide after baring her breasts at a concert in Disneyland. Her official website however does not confirm this, so this may be one of the few things found on the innerwebs that isn't actually true. I don't remember seeing Grace Jones bare-breasted in anything, but MrSkin.com (not a saint, mind you) says I must have gotten up to get more Smurfberry Crunch at the wrong time during Vamp because she was naked at some point from the waist up during a scene. I'd guess the real reason she's been banned from Disney is because she has a better rack than Snow White and Cinderella put together. I'll add Vamp to the Netflix queue to confirm.

Sadly, Saint Wikipedia also teaches us that Grace Jones is going to be 60 this year, and for this reason I think she should fall off my celebrity crush list. Jodie Foster remains on even after her coming out and Juliette Lewis, because she was born a year after me, will probably always be on it. But right now, eligibility to collect social security is a deal breaker in my book.

Grace, if you're reading this, it's not you. It's me. For years, I was a slave not just to your rhythm but also to your stunning physique and slight Caribbean accent, but it's time to part ways. So here I go.

Walking.

Walking.

In the rain.

An open letter to my daughter

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 01:15:00 +0000

Dear Meryl,

Now, just a few weeks short of your second birthday I find myself looking back fondly on the times that you have shared with your mother and me and the growth that you have shown since May 5, 2006 when we first brought you home from the hospital. You have definitely made me a proud father. I could go on and on about the things I adore about you, but here are just a few things that come to my mind right now:

Your vocabulary has grown leaps and bounds just in the past few months. I love that you can recognize certain letters like O and M and E and even moreso that you understand that they represent sounds. I don't care that you say buh buh buh regardless of what letter I ask you to sound out, you know that there's a sound attached to the symbol. At your age, that's pretty incredible.

True, you did identify and say liquor store today and when the cashier asked you what Dad was buying you correctly identified the 12 bottles on the counter as wine, but we'll just chalk that up to time spent in front of the boob tube. Damn dirty SuperWhy.

While you used to only eat the pablum found in the various stages of Gerber jars, you now have learned to like such relatively eccentric foods as black olives, shredded Parmesan cheese, and Skyline chili. Even when something's kinda spicy, you're not afraid to keep eating. Speaking of which, I like how when you bite into something a tad piquant, you stick out your tongue to rub it with your hand and exclaim Sypee!!! Sypee!! Those S-P blends aren't easy, but you'll get the hang of it sooner or later. And by the time you can actually pronounce spicy, I'll bet you'll be downing jalapeños as a bedtime snack.

In the past few months, you have evolved into quite the pretender. This seemed to have started a few months back when you would ask for a pot and a spoon and when you're mother or I would ask you what you were making, without looking up you would say simply soup or rice or sometimes just hot. Ah yes, that secret family recipe for Hot. Mmm mmm good.

Now you enjoy opening and closing doors after announcing that you're going bye bye. When we ask you where you're going, you tell us you're headed to work or to Grandmommy's or to Boompa's. Sometimes you're on your way to the store to buy cookies. Other times you're going to the doctor, who I might add, you describe as being nice. You like to make me ask you three times for a goodbye kiss only to refuse me while readily granting our dog one each time you open the door and let the pricey cool air out of the house. Eventually I'll say things like I don't want to pay to air condition the whole neighborhood and fatherly stuff like that, but right now I'm enjoying this game as much as you are.

Speaking of our dog, William T., I think it's cool that you call him T whereas Ambrose you just refer to as Cat. Your mom thinks this is because Ambrose is harder to pronounce. I think it's just a keen observation on your part where you simply abbreviate what your mom calls him which is You Asshole Cat. Just remember that Mommy, using asshole as a term of endearment, doesn't mean any harm by it, but you are not allowed to say it until you're at least three.

You also play relatively well with others. Once on the playground at our local park you pretended to drive a car. When a little boy only a month younger than you came over to sit down beside you, you looked at him briefly before getting up and coming over to me. So as not to be heard by him, you leaned close to me and whispered with an upward intonation boy? like you were asking me a question. When I assured you that he could play beside you you went back to the driver's seat for a few minutes. Then you came back to me and whispered again. Boy? It was cute, but just remember that outside of the playground, you're not to ride in cars with boys until you're at least thirty-three.

More recently you frolicked in the snow with your two-year-old cousin in Cincinnati. At times you weren't crazy about the cold, but you learned to adjust. When your older cousin held onto something you desperately wanted, you would grunt her name while clenching your fists and tensing up every muscle in your body. Sharing is a learned skill, I'm sure, but you'll get the hang of that too.

Not since infancy have you been a cuddly sleeper. Even when your mother or I beg you to come lay down in the bed with us because you sometimes awake before the sun comes up, you refuse and instead insist on starting your day. I guess it's good that you live by the old adage "Early to bed; early to rise . . ." but it sure would be nice if when you wake up at 5:30 in the morning, you either come lay down with us or at least use that pre-dawn solitude for some quiet meditation.

As for the nighttime rituals, I like that you can pick out what stories you want to hear and even go so far as to say certain words aloud as I read them. I would guess this is basically rote memorization on your part, but it's vital to acquiring the beginning stages of reading. When you picked up my book this evening and flipped through it you asked quizzitively Pictures? I like that you like books.

Like I said, this list could span pages upon pages. While going from being a family of two to being a family of three was quite the adjustment for your mom and me, it seems like everyday now you do something that makes us happy. Sure, there are times when you are quite the pill, but I think this is to be expected from a kid of your age. You already impress me as a girl who's sharp witted and has a developing sense of humor. Those two things will get you far. One thing worth working on though is your unwillingness to clean up a mess you've made. Turning a blind eye to all the toys you've strewn across the living room floor only to lose interest in them moments later is only appropriate for younger babies.

And daddies in their mid-thirties.

Love,
Your dad

Cincinnati, a city of sliders and slide-offs

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 17:29:00 +0000

On a few occasions, the most recent of which was this past weekend, I have had the opportunity to visit Cincinnati, a city so metropolitan that it merits its own football team, its own baseball team and even its own style of chili. When I go there I am surrounded by constant reminders of my status as an outsider. Not only do these people pronounce pin and pen differently (whereas for me they both rhyme with grin), this weekend the city was taken aback by almost a foot of snow.

First of all, that much snow is something that native Georgians typically only see in the movies, and when we do see it on screen, while we're jealous of the kids on the sleds, we're glad we don't have to expose ourselves to such elements or worse yet shovel it. Driving in it is also something I'm glad I don't have to do on a regular basis because, as Cincinnatians proved during the past few days, bringing a car to an abrupt halt on an icy expressway is not an easy feat. A news reporter referred to traffic due to slide-offs. Who ever heard of a slide-off? To me, it was as unfamiliar as a snozzberry.

Because I needed gas and mainly because I secretly just wanted to get out and experience frozen tundra driving first-hand, I made a brief trip to Kroger which is only fitting since the company is headquartered in Cincinnati along with Procter and Gamble and the makers of Sunny-D. For fear of being ridiculed by a Kroger clerk for not saying pop, I suppressed the urge to ask where to find cokes. They were easy enough to spot anyway.

Seeing so-called diluted vodka and diluted gin in the beer-and-wine aisle struck me as odd for a couple of reasons. Number one, here in the bible belt we reserve the sale of spirits to more sinful establishments and number two, where's the fun in diluted liquor? When I asked the guy if they sold 80 proof alcohol, he informed me that I would have to go to a state store. State store sounds like an ambiguous term to me, but I guess it's no less descriptive than package store, which is how many liquor stores refer to themselves here.

On the way out, I walked gingerly across the parking lot to my car, making sure my feet only stepped in areas that were at least relatively free of slick ice. On the few occasions that I did slide, even if only a little bit, I'd get that unsettling feeling of blood rushing to my head in anticipation of a fall and subsequent blow to the skull. If walking like an inept toddler didn't draw enough attention my way and make me stand out, I also had on a shirt, two sweaters and a jacket to protect me from the cold.

Half way through my arctic sojourn from the self checkout to the car, a dad and daughter came barreling out of the store and passed me. His only protective wear was a Cincinnati Reds windbreaker, and the girl, who looked to be about nine or ten years old, was wearing trendy plastic footwear. I looked down at her shoes and couldn't imagine how she managed to stay upright in them on the snow and ice. To add insult to injury, while I was being extra careful not to put my foot on any patches of frozen slush for fear of crashing to the ground, this girl was making a point to jump in them the same way a similarly inclined kid here might jump into puddles.

Obviously I survived another trip to the frosty land of Ohio if I'm now sitting back at home with my trusty laptop. I'm glad I managed to make it to Skyline for a five-way bowl of chili and regret that I've yet to taste a White Castle slider. But having already ventured south on I-75 and just recently going almost as far north on the same road, you can imagine that I've gotten kind of tired of packing and unpacking. Town to town, up and down the dial. Maybe you and me were never meant to be.

But Cincinnati, think of me once in a while.

Phone frenzy

noreply@blogger.com (kevin black) — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 01:56:00 +0000

To whom it may concern,

Please be advised that the following times, listed in chronological order, are acceptable intervals during which to call my house:

7:30 AM - Noon Yes, I am almost always up that early, and if you call before noon, you're guaranteed to catch me before my daughter goes down for a nap. On weekends, the answer you get will be much more jovial if you hold your call until after 10:00 AM.

4:00 PM - 7:00 PM Again, I'm awake. Baby is awake. All is well. We might be eating dinner, but we still welcome warm wishes and hearty hellos.

And . . . well . . . that's basically it.

Thank you for your support.

Sincerely,

The Management