Character Classes in Gracieworld

The art of interactive storytelling is as old as the forebrain, if not older.  We use a lot of toys to entertain ourselves now, from NERF guns to polyhedral dice to specialized computers the size of your palm to anal beads.  But the simple fact is that all forms of entertainment are subservient to one-we like to hear, and tell, good stories.

Telling Gracie a bedtime story is always an adventure, and it is something like a cross between self insertion fan fiction and role playing.  Typically "Princess" Gracie goes out on adventures.  We have, over the course of the past 5 years, set a sort of campaign setting up that is reiterated in every intro like cheap 80's cartoons.  The basic premise is that Gracie and her dog Sadie live in a castle on the edge of a spooky forest filled with various monsters and undead antagonists, and she goes adventuring for various reasons (I typically give her an objective every time, such as "Save Pingu from the mean witch" or "Explore the spooky pumpkinhead's cave."

Anyway, each time I let her pick her equipment loadout and such, but lately, over the past month or so, she has been describing her abilities to me instead, accompanied by a name or label she uses. Note that this is without me projecting anything to her; she has based it off her loadout and abilities she chooses at the beginning of her "adventure."  And it seems to come down to character classes.  So I thought I'd list the character classes she has given me so far.  Note as well that guns are typically included on any adventure and are not any particular class feature.

"Riding Hood" as in "Red Riding Hood."  The riding hood classe appears to be some form of benevolent ranger and is her most frequently picked class.  She has described a Riding Hood's powers as walking "Very far and very fast."  Specialized equipment includes the hood itself (which sometimes has magic powers) and the basket.

"Cowgirl"  Typically, this is a mounted character in boots with a Woody hat.  Abilities seem to be limited to horsemanship, although some of the feats of horsemanship she describes are pretty impressive.  Specialized equipment includes the woody hat and the "cowboy string" which is a lariat and also sometimes has magic powers.

"Ballerina"  This is the newest incarnation and is largely a product of her grandma getting her a ballet costume.  Still, we went over the ballerina gracie version tonight and apparently they can "Dance and sneak and jump really well" which makes a sort of intuitive sense to me.  The ballerina doesn't appear to have any specialized equipment, except the outfit itself.

"Fairy \ Nice Witch"  This is sort of a hybrid catch-all spellcasting class.  Sometimes the witch flies on her broom, sometimes the witch has fairy wings and casts fairy spells.  Special abilities include magic use, which in Gracie's paradigm is mostly limited to baleful polymorphs.  Specialized equipment includes her magic wand or "bibbidy bobbidy boo" and occasionally a broom to ride.

Somehow, I think I could make a coherent game system out of this.

Contact Drills & Junior D&D

Gracie and I have been taking our hikes along the train tracks with backpacks on and doing some impromptu "Zombie Training."  We've been taking long walks for as long as she could walk; with a pack on she can walk five or six miles without stopping.  How many adults do you know that can do the same?  All bragging aside though, I wanted to discuss how our adventures tie in to our preps and overall training methods.  It is more relevant than you think.

When we go out walking, we sometimes "play zombies" which to hear means she listens to me narrate a spooky zombie story and then we participate in it.  It has a lot in common with LARPing; we physically take the actions we would take in the story.  What that comes down to is that we sneak, hide, break and shoot when necessary.  Basically, we'll be walking along and I'll make a zombie groan; if she hears one, she knows to look at me right away.  Then we go into our decision tree.

Zombies present but unseen: we sneak.  I encourage her to make as little noise as possible; I've taught her how to avoid noisy surfaces, step slowly and quietly, and stop and listen after every fourth or fifth pace. We never sneak without setting a break point; more on that later.

Zombies incoming that haven't seen us: we hide.  With the theoretical direction of the zombies in mind, we rush to get behind something or around a corner.  More sophisticated camoflage techniques will have to wait.

Zombies incoming that have seen us: we break.  "Break" is a command I have internalized in her when sneaking or just walking.  Whenever we sneak or hide, we set a break point so we know where to rush to, and on  daddy's "break" command, we rush to the chosen break point and hide there.  We also break if there are too many zombies to shoot.  From the break point, we hide, resume sneaking, shoot, or break again as needed.

Zombies incoming that have seen us: Shoot.  We "shoot them away" (She has a little toy AK that matches daddy's closely enough that I use it for house clearing drills) and then break.  This is to simulate the group's standard response to hostiles-suppress to break contact.  I teach her to get low, preferably prone, and take shots at zombies while I simulate shooting over her; this is mostly to get her out of the way during a real firefight.  However, in a few years, she can add her .22 to the verdict if strictly necessary.

How does this apply to training?  Well, on a foot bugout, my kid knows to listen for Daddy's command first and foremost; it is extremely important that I don't have to hold her hand as much if shit breaks down because I can give her orders and expect a predictable response.  Each of those orders has a purpose.  "Sneak" as our default mode means that she is gaining a workable understanding of noise discipline and she can sneak for about 500 yards without making a sound before she gets bored; this is an acceptable limit for now.  Again, how many adults could do the same?   "Break" and "Hide" means that she knows to run and hide if told to.  Although in a real scenario I'd grab her hand anyway, it is nice to know that she doesn't necessarily need it, as daddy may be grappling with a tango at the time that we break contact.  Finally, if there is no choice but to slug it out, with the "shoot" command, I can get her prone and out of the way while the adults engage over her head.

Anyway, I just wanted to describe my methods to the internets at large to get them thinking: How am I training my kids to survive?  Groups that don't do that are limited to strictly one generation.  I've been doing it and having fun with it, especially when she admonishes me that I'm stepping too loud.

Congratultions (and simultaneous condolences) Gracie: You have me as the Dungeon Master of your life.  It may drive you crazy-but you'll outlive your peers getting there.

Numerology for Kids

In transcribing Codex Kalachnikova (America's #1 Pulp Novel about Conan with an AK) from it's hard copy into a digital copy with all the typos and cliches and awkward phrases hopefully edited out, I have discovered a lot of mistakes.  In fact, my most common refrain when transcribing "WHY DID YOU MAKE THIS STUPID SHIT PLOT CRITICAL?!?!?"  But I ran across the most glaring one today.  Apparently in numbering the chapters, I completely skipped sixteen.

The weirdest part is that sixteen is Gracie's favorite number.  How do I know sixteen is her favorite number?  Because when counting to twenty, she likes to repeat sixteen three or four times.

When I was younger I assigned anthromorphic characteristics to numbers; for instance, nine was an eternall greedy number because of how adding 9+5 = 14 when obviously the number 15 was more desirable, as in 10+5.  10 = generous, 9 = greedy.  Don't be surprised if that doesn't make sense; I started doing it when I was about six.  I'm not OCD exactly, just highly math retarded, and I understand characters better than I understand numbers.  In order for me to really differentiate between 8 and 412, I had to assign a sort of pidgin NPC personality to each.

Anyway, in my juvenile numerology, 16 was a a real go-getter, ambitious enough to get past the placid 15 and reach for that 20, eternally striving for completion.  I wonder what that means, skipping that chapter.  Probably nothing.  But something weird in me has to make me wonder.

If you are waiting for a point there isn't one.  Except maybe don't trust 7.  7 is the most duplicitous of numbers, just waiting to shank 8 in the back.

Father's Day Thoughts, Mk 2

Another year, another Father's Day that doesn't really belong to me.

Rather than my own fatherhood duties, meditations on the meaning of fatherhood in a world that is fast forgetting it, I find myself thinking about my old man instead.  In the end, Father's Day still feels like his holiday, not mine-does that ever go away?

When I was growing up, it felt like Grandpapa had all the answers.  I know now that some of them were wrong, but they were still answers.  But I've never felt like that; in most ways I feel like I never have any answers at all.  Often I delegate hard decisions to Amanda and just handle the bellowing.  That isn't right, and it isn't that I think she knows better than I do, but internally I can never quite rationalize that in Gracie's eyes I am that motherfucker that Grandpapa was to me as a kid, that I am the one with all the answers when the chips are down, when the shit hits the fan, when the cue is behind the 8-Ball.

I'm not the world's greatest dad; I know that for damn sure.  Too lazy and self absorbed maybe-my brain is always on my own convoluted plots for world domination and double head, plus, well, I'm fuckin' baked all the time.  I don't think I could ever be one of those dads that sacrifices every scrap of personal identity for the status of patriarch.  I've made whatever peace I can with this-but Gracie still doesn't know that I am not superman, the look she gives me every day that says Daddy Can Fix It All has not gone away.

I don't ask myself to be perfect; that is an irrational expectation even for non stoner parents.  But God Almighty, how the fuck am I ever going to live up to that little girl's expectations?  If they were even half the expectations I had of my old man, the answer is "not very goddamn well, sir."

I miss you Grandpapa.  I'll try to be you as best I can.

Lube & Tasers

Caught this piece from Parabarbarian.

A gay Indiana teen whose mother gave him a stun gun to defend himself against bullies is facing expulsion for bringing the weapon to school and reportedly firing it into the air. 

The hell of it is, as I look at the way schools respond to bullying in the modern age, I see them creating every single possible thoughtcrime, showing a marked pattern of hostility towards self defense, and continuing to fail to prevent bullying.  And even unarmed, you can't fight back anymore-they punish both of you the same.

Bullying is as old as childhood itself, though it doesn't end there.  In the end, the only response to bullying is a good hard ball stomping, because bullying is an expression of cowardice and insecurity and nothing deters it like the possibility of ball stomping.

It actually puts me in mind of two gay guys I knew in my hometown of New Dunwich.  They were big butch motherfuckers in a small redneck town, yet because they were big butch motherfuckers who made it clear they wouldn't take no shit, they rarely got fucked with.  The solution is simple and has been here the whole time if we care to look at it.  But no, instead we make focus groups and talk about the bully's broken home or
violent video games or rap music-and we fucking suspend the victim if he fights back.  Oh, and we tell him he shouldn't act so gay.

Larry Yarrell, the school’s principal, told the Star that he suggested to Young to “tone down” the flamboyant accessories he was wearing to school. 

Updates & Shit

Oh, herro dere.

My blogging and writing have ground to a standstill lately, either through a case of writer's block or some worldwide conspiracy against me (leaning towards the latter) and this is what you get in the meantime.

I've been one busy son of a bitch lately, trying to kick up my preps into high gear.  I've been running three days a week and hiking at least one, though some of those hikes are just jaunts along the train tracks with Gracie.  Surprisingly, my knees have held up pretty well; I'm rocking dual knee braces and they help a lot.  Cardio has never been my strength, but I am making a deliberate attempt to improve it in the hopes that everyone else will follow suit.

I finished adding doohickeys to the BCS chest rig.  The fucker is actually complete now minus the FAK, which is on there but mostly empty.  I'll probably have to drop another Hamilton on that before I'm done; I plan on it being larger and more comprehensive than the average IFAK.  My BOB is in a shocking state of affairs, having been cannabalized for parts, but bugging out is actually the least of my worries right now so I'm not stressing over it.

I had to reschedule my rifle class but as a consequence I'm taking a different course in September that is more suited to my temperment and skill level.  Still haven't gotten out to shoot this spring; I'm thinking I may rectify that real soon.  I really want to work on my pistol craft but I don't plan on taking a class until I can afford some private tuition; I'm just really awful with a pistol and I don't carry one for self defense, opting for my baton 99% of the time.  (I know, I know, it's not a gun-but it is the weapon I have logged the most training hours on.)

Looking forward to the Hoosier patcom.  I really want to meet some of you sick bastards; you sound like people with a lot of interesting stories to tell.  I hope to make some new friends and network some allies for our tribe, as well as present my Sexy Scumfuck Action Items list.

Gracie has been singing about Manatees lately.  Apparently Hank III appears on a kid's song by a guy called Farmer Jason.  The CD (Nature Jams) is on zune so we've been listening to it a lot, and Gracie is always asking for that song.  Speaking of Hurricane Gracie, she has gotten in trouble at school for drawing pictures of zombies and pirates that scare the other kids.

I couldn't be more proud.

Pirates of the Emerald Sea

Sorry about the lack of content, Scumfucketeers. Gracie has been on spring break so we've been spending pretty much every waking hour together. We had a lot of fun, but I'll be glad to drop her off at school on Monday.

Anyway, today we built a pirate ship. The new bed Amanda and I ordered online came in like five big cardboard boxes so we took them out to the backyard and set them up with duct tape to vaguely resemble a ship. Then I dug a small hole under the bow and jammed a few metal poles that came off the frame of the old bed into the dirt so we could fly our pirate banner.

The day was idyllic; mostly blue skies with straight off a greeting card white clouds. Once we successfully got the mast to stay in place, the "SURRENDER THE BOOTY" novelty pirate banner that had been hanging in the living room was quite picturesque. We played out there for several hours, singing jolly sea chanties and watching the trains run by and eventually just laying on our backs in the grass to watch the clouds roll by.

Other adventures this week included: Meeting a friend's new baby, trying out roller skates, spending the day with her pack, playing legos with the neighbors in the back of my truck, bugging out along the railroad tracks and chasing a mouse across the parking lot.

Parenting has it's own fairy tales, and contrary to popular belief is often a screaming, hair pulling, eyeball gouging uphill battle against the forces of chaos. But Gracie and I had a pretty good happy ever after week.

Raising an Epic Chid - Gracie's Song List

Gracie sang a mash up of 3 Shades of Black and Soft Kitty today.

She does that sometimes, mashes songs together or replaces words or lines with other lines. She does the Elmo thing where she finds a word she likes and sings it to the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." She hums the songs we sing to her while she does things in her quiet, gravely focused way, building blocks or assembling train tracks or coloring.

These are typical experiences for parents, but most parents probably don't expose her to any good music until much later than we do.

The songs I sing her when she goes to bed at night are chosen very carefully; they have to be songs that I can always remember no matter what my state of intoxication might be. Thus, we have a sort of ADD mix CD setup here, with metal and country and nursery rhymes and showtunes all juxtaposed together. I thought you might like to see the partial list of songs my daughter is always singing or humming and the names she calls them.

Clutch, Cypress Grove - AKA "Now Women" (This song is arguably her favorite; she likes to listen to it on my phone)
Monster Magnet, All Friends and Kingdom Come - AKA "Enter Now" (The standby for when Daddy is *really* fucked up-I can sing this song upside down and blindfolded)
Hank Williams, Cocaine Blues - AKA "Early One Morning" (She loves to sing along with this one; she knows every line)
Fiddler On The Roof OBC, If I Were A Rich Man - AKA "Dibba Dibba" (I catch her singing this one on her own all the time, just going "Dibba dibba dibba dum" at random)
Ronnie James Dio, Rainbow in the Dark - AKA "Rainbow inna Dark" (A good, heavy metal lullaby song)
Tim Mcgraw, Don't Take The Girl - AKA "Johnny's Daddy" (This is a mommy song, but Gracie asks for it all the time)

There are other songs too, especially classic nursery songs, but I find they don't last long enough to have a prayer at getting her to sleep. She needs to have long enough to lose interest in singing and dancing and start getting soothed. I think most people would be creeped out to hear me sing to my daughter; I usually kind of render these songs into a Disney Sing Along format that is probably quite unnerving to anyone that listens to the lyrics.

But I'm raising a bad ass daughter that will someday pwn your little honor student's face off, bitch.

Sad Gracies

Recent circumstances have caused Amanda to pick up more hours at her job.

I don't like this for a number of reasons, but the worst of them really hit home today-Gracie fuckin' hates it and there is nothing I can do to console her.

Daddy and Gracie day used to be a special day where Daddy cut down his sleep to three hours and we spent the whole day together doing fun stuff. It was fun and different-one day a week. Now that its Daddy and Gracie day four days a week, it has become painful and depressing for both of us. For me, it isn't that bad-the sleep thing sucks, but I can just up my pill intake if I need to. The housework is suffering because while I do housework, I'm not as meticulous or detail oriented as my lovely wife. That doesn't bug me either; as long as I have a clear spot in the floor to pace on I can live with it. But really, the problem is that it is breaking Gracie's heart to be separated from her Mommy so much and that I find I cannot stand.

Today she just clung to me and sobbed for Mommy. Not even a screaming tantrum, but a low quiet sobbing where she asked for Mommy over and over. I couldn't get the kid to eat tacos, and she is the taco eatinest kid I ever saw in my whole goddamn life. Towards the end of the night I got her to lay with me and watch a movie, but she still whimpered every time I moved and jumped up if she heard the door handle jiggle. Once she fell asleep, I carried her up to bed and laid down with her, and she still woke up sobbing every twenty minutes until Mommy got home and I went in to work.

It is a hideous thing to hurt your child for their own good; no matter how much we need the money to pay off our various debts and bankroll our various schemes, I wish we were a single income family again. Christ knows that even with Amanda working we still don't have enough money, and when your little girl is curled up in the fetal position and won't eat because she misses her Mommy, it makes you wonder about the ol' cost\benefit ratio.

The Grandpapa Voice

So I know you, Internet.

You see some crazy heavily armed nerd on the internet talking about his large group of like minded riffraff and you think "Oh, sure, he has some buddies in his D&D group that love talking about zombies and the guy thinks he's some kind of high level Post Apocalypse aristocrat. How is he even going to control all these panicking fucks when the shit goes down?" (Internally, we almost never say SHTF-we say "When the shit goes down" as in the Cypress Hill song.)

Well I have probably given you nothing but reason to doubt my credentials, but fuck you anyway, Internet. I got the motherfuckin' Grandpapa voice.

My grandfather was well known as a word class bellower and snarler, a man who believed in that quaint concept called "The Fear of God." It was bad enough that I have had Tios beg a bail bondsman not to let them out so they could face a nice, quiet judge rather than The Old Man. Once, when we were gaming in the dining room and making too much noise, Grandpapa snuck up behind me in the DM's chair and for a few moments I could not figure out why everyone's eyes were the size of dinner plates and no one else was talking. The man could instill fear in someone with one sharp whistle. If you ever want to get a shudder out of Jared, ask him how fast he peeled out when Grandpapa was coming out to get him unstuck from the culvert at the end of our driveway; it came loose just as the old man came out and Jared's tires smoked all the way to the stop sign at the highway.

What does this have to do with me?

So lately, as Gracie gets over her tewwible twos and thwees in fits and spurts, I've started to discover The Grandpapa Voice inside myself. Mostly it's "GRACIE GOD DAMNIT GET THE FORK OUT OF THE LIGHT SOCKET" or "GRACIE PUT THAT DOWN BEFORE I BURN YOU WITH THIS CIGARETTE" etc etc etc. I'm a quiet guy. I don't like to raise my voice. But when I do have to yell at her, man, it is motherfuckin' Grandpapa the second. It is bad enough that my friends who grew up with him all look up for a moment with that deer in the headlights look. Hell, its bad enough that my own echo in the hallway sometimes freaks me out, and I always know it's coming.

I am the living reincarnation of that crotchety old bastard, and when the time comes to seize control of the group, like when the dead are rising or the Chicoms are dropping paratroopers downtown on 3rd & Rogers or, god help me, if the Heffalumps and Woozles are fighting it out in the streets, I am gonna bust out that voice at full volume and watch my homies jump. My homies will jump, my aunts and uncles will jump, my mom and cousins will jump-I'll go from "stoner with delusions of grandeur" to "stoner with a small army" in one bellow.

You better mother fuckin' believe it.

Daddy and Gracie Day

Today, Saturday, is Daddy and Gracie day.

We are doing well enough that Manda only works on Saturdays. I think at least half of it is that she likes getting out of the house and into society once a week, but we also get a lot of free groceries, a little extra money and, of course, Daddy and Gracie day.

Today's events are reduced; usually we go over to a friend's house so she can play with their kids, but they are at a funeral. And we usually drop by and see Mommy at work and then walk along the B line for awhile. She loves seeing the sights around town; decorative limestone and flowers are some of her favorite things. But today it is officially Too Goddamn Hot For September and so we are cancelling that as well. The only thing we're doing today is eating chocolate toast and watching UFC. Later, we'll go on our usual classy date to Mcdonald's.

Gonna be a good day, motherfuckers.

Bonus Post: Interesting Link Dump

First, a blog about training with a tomahawk. Check it out. Most online material on the tomahawk is long on cool pictures but short on actual training info, as in stuff you can actually do rather than 3 or 4 minutes of a guy fondling a hawk and talking about it. As far as I can tell, this guy just does google fu and compiles info, some of it pretty good. I really like the swinging log drill (Check the videos section) that they do in the video; it is from a Paladin Press video that is on my Christmas list. In the end, I just love the tomahawk, even if I keep the woodsman's pal on my bugout rig. It is my more elegant weapon from a more civilized age. When asked how I justify it, it is with a quote from The Glory Road about the hero's sword-it gives me courage to hold the fucking thing when I'm terrified.

Next up is a webcomic I have been reading, a new one that tickles me in so many unpleasant ways, Lulu Cthulhu It is just as adorable as it sounds. Considering that my daughter sleeps with not one but two stuffed Cthulhu plushies, and has "Night Night Cthulhu" in her phrase list, and is occasionally sung to sleep with Monster Magnet's All Friends and Kingdom Come, I suppose I just cannot resist a bit of mythos humor. In any case, I find the comic's artwork deliciously squee-able, and all four comics that have been posted so far have brought a smile to my face. So I pass it on, like the Necronomicon, to you, beloved reader, in hopes that you will not be dead or insane by dawn. It is your choice, of course, to open that shit.

And with a tip of the tinfoil hat to Mr. Zane at the Cliffs, I present this little gem: African Country Set to Make Breaking Wind (We all call this 'farting'-the editor) A Crime Just remember, if they outlaw farting, only outlaws will accidentally shit themselves. Actually, I seriously want this to happen here. I can't wait for the forensic analysis of 'He who smelt it dealt it'-and I'm looking forward to CSI: Fart Squad. Goddamn I love me some poop jokes.

Welp, I'm afraid I'm out of material and out of weed. Get outta here you sick fucks.

Top Ten List: The Joys of Stoner Parenthood

#10: The school play is actually awesome and hilarious, especially the Christmas program. And everyone hands out cookies, which you will appreciate more than anyone.

#9: The cop that sees your car seat and your JPFO bumper sticker never suspects you have a packed bowl in your diaper bag on your way to the park. It is even better if you have the kid and it is a cute one, because they assume doper's kids are generally either with the grandparents or off starving in their own shit somewhere.

#8: You can watch the same movie two hundred million times in a row and still be entertained every time. Often you develop a sort of Rocky Horror audience participation dialogue or elaborate subplot. You don't know this, but the Monsters, Inc world got invaded by Russia for kidnapping a high ranking Party official's child in 1954 in what the race of monsters calls "The Red Time."

#7: All of your kid's toys are awesome. I once composed a hip hop backbeat with a talking alphabet catapillar as my keyboard. For the less creative, you can always try to trick it into saying cuss words. A friend of ours, Codename Shane Train, wore the batteries out on this toy before Gracie was even born.

#6: "Mac & Cheese again? Hell yeah, let me get the ranch dressing."

#5: Nobody questions you baking brownies for no reason at all. Everybody is all like "Wow, what great parents, making cookies for their kid," when you are really like "Man, I'm baked, how about we make some fuckin' cookies with M&M's in them and shit." They also seldom question you singing loudly and in public.

#4: Angry Mommy & Daddy arguments usually peter out about 4:27 or so. There is very little chance of the kid growing up against a background of constant screaming.

#3: You are always well stocked on juice and Kool aid, so cotton mouth seldom rears it's ugly head.

#2: Everything your kid does and says is hilarious rather than aggravating. You find yourself laughing together more often, and nobody ever looks back on their childhood and says "Man, I wish there was less laughter."

#1: You always have a pressure valve when you have gone four nights without 8 hours of sleep and you want to chew your feet off and shove them in your ears.

Not the four rules I remember

Saw this on Codrea's page.

The four rules according to weiners:

Children should know to take four steps if they ever hear about, know about or see a gun:

1. Stop.
2. Don't touch the gun.
3. Leave the area.
4. Tell an adult.

Yeah, somehow I think that teaching & following these 4 rules would keep us just as safe and much less helpless. Call me crazy, but when it comes to guns I'd much rather listen to the professional soldier than the guy who prescribes my adderol. I love and value both guys, but I don't tell the soldier I'm having trouble paying attention to everything and I don't fuckin' ask the doctor how to educate my children on firearms safety. Why? Because that makes no fuckin' sense.

My daughter, being under 3, is still at the stage of knowing Mommy and Daddy's Shit That You Can't Have as one large group of things including guns, knives, bongs, makeup, lighters, and anything that is fragile, and frankly I plan to continue that until she shows enough maturity to handle each individual item, based on my assessment of her mental and physical abilities, being the guy that spends every day with her and not some jerk in a labcoat that feels like the ability to sign an RX form is a certification proclaiming him the Grand Jackass Knower-of-All. There are two things, however, that I will never teach my daughter to be-a coward, and a snitch.

Father's Day Thoughts

So today is Father's Day.

I've had three of these now. I'm officially old as fuck.

My grandfather was the father figure in my life, enough so that when offered the opportunity to learn who my (biological) father was I turned it down. Part of it is a horrible suspicion that there is some VC Andrews bullshit going on. But mostly it was knowing that, whoever this hypothetical dude is, he has a pair of shoes that he cannot possibly fill, and it would be unfair to even hold them in the same light.

My grandfather was sardonic and perverted, tireless in his devotion, and a master tetris player. My friends all loved him and feared him, as natives love and fear a totally badass volcano. He played IU Football when that wasn't a sad joke, and dropped out when Dick Butkus broke his back. Every time he saw that dog faced blowhard on tv he would curse. I never inherited his skill with tools; frankly Amanda runs circles around me in that regard. In some ways I know it disappointed him, and I hate that. I hate that I dropped out of IU like a fucking tard, knowing how important it was to him that I graduate, even with a useless sociology degree that I was like four classes away from attaining. I hate that he will never see his great granddaughter, and that she will never know him.

I will do my best to make up for those failings, by applying the lessons of his life to my own family, and making sure that the things that he taught me shine through in my actions. And I will make sure that my daughter knows of us, our heritage, the good and the bad, and that she can learn those lessons and pass them on.

Sample Case: I am wearing one of the silk shirts I inherited from Grandpapa today, to honor his memory. It is a panama shirt; you never see those anymore, in a tan / cream color. All my friends know that my clothes are theirs, even the rest of grandpapa's clothes-but they never wear this shirt. It is in good shape still-it was made to last-but when it is too ragged to wear I will cut this motherfucker into rags, and honor his memory by getting one last fucking use out of the thing, to scrub my sink or patch my BDUs or blow my fucking nose on. Because when the hard times come-and lord, they are a comin'-you waste nothing or you find yourself falling behind.

I miss you every day Grandpapa. I'm sorry for the things that I failed you at. But my family will always have food and a place to sleep, and I'll never pick the wrong mushroom, and if I have to cut a motherfucker I'll only do it three ways-deep, wide and continuous.

Content Fail

I realize that I haven't been posting anything but story updates in a long time. It has occupied a surprising portion of my writing time, aka my "slow night at work" time-which has been in short supply. But man, I've never seriously finished a book before and for some reason I am able to grind on it pretty quickly.

Life is slow here in Babylon, though I never run out of shit to do-or even get caught up on the shit I should be doing.

Gracie has my cellphone and is wandering up and down the hallway saying "Hello, flower? Hello, flower?" over and over. Those are two of her most clear words. It is perfect.

I just smoked a bowl and am watching the Super Mario Bros Super Show on netflix. It's a good combination. I think the theme song is my favorite part. I can't decide if they cut the zelda episode out but left the introduction in, or if I just accidentally hit the skip button on the xbox controller and missed it. The next episode will prove informative.

To make up for a lack of content, here's a Gracie.

If I may wax religious for a moment...

I am deeply and abidingly grateful for all the manifest blessings in my life.

First off is my beautiful daughter Altagracia, to whom I owe at least a portion of my newfound salvation. By merely existing in a state of unconditional love, you have built me up from a bitter, vicious and petty scumfuck praying for the world to end, to the enlightened scumfuck I am today. I have seen universal beauty and truth in your unwavering, determined blue eyes as they contemplate the world around you, exquisite divine purpose in your tiny hands as they hold onto mine, and simple, untainted joy in your giggle. You are more than my beloved daughter; you are my redemption, and to you I owe whatever sad case I can make at the throne of Heaven to admit me despite my flaws, weaknesses, delusions, perversions, sicknesses and buried hatreds. Watching you grow tall in the light of God's grace is my keenest pleasure, and the one for which I will fight most dearly.

The second blessing is Amanda, my wife in spirit if not in bastardized legality. While our daughter is the salvation of my soul, you are the salvation of my heart & mind-my eternal steadfast companion in a life marked mostly by my spectacular fuckups. Your simple devotion and unwavering love for me buttressed me against all those dark years of bitter, galling failure, giving me strength when I just couldn't hack it any more. You have accepted the whole of me, every last depraved centimetre, and without you even the most modest of my achievements would still be frustrated pipe dreams. I am thankful that you know when to prick me and when to coddle me, when to nip my schemes in the bud and when to smile and nod. You have seen me crash and burn a thousand times, but never lost faith in me, and in doing so restored my faith in myself.

I am thankful for my friends-the best goddamn bunch of stoned D&D nerd militiamen that ever rolled a twenty sider, hit a bong or racked the bolt of an AK. I am thankful that I have never found a situation so dire that I could not get a place to crash, a friendly ear, a long term and possibly unpaid loan, a cigarette, a job referral, and a steady supply of drugs. I am proud and thankful for the trials we have endured together, the strength and support we have drawn from each other in times when eating involved digging in dumpsters and other, less savory activities. I have seen some ugly times, but by the grace of God and the circle of unbreaking loyalty among you freaks, I have never had to face any of them alone.

In addition, I am deeply thankful for my job. Not many people with GED's and no practical job training have a job these days, particularly a job that is stable and secure which they are good at. I am thankful for all those years in bland telemarketing hell, hating my job and myself and everyone I worked with, because it gave me the experience to be hired on at the job I am doing. I see the Pink Collar dying all around me, and every day I am thankful that I can draw a paycheck to support this beautiful family I have given me. I am grateful I get paid enough that Amanda can stay home with Gracie. I am grateful that the people I work with aren't choads. I am grateful the job is easy enough I can get away with blogging at work. In short, I am grateful for the means to do what I must do in this world.

Finally I am grateful for my family. This time of year, I find myself thinking of my grandfather often-God rest his troubled soul. Though you are gone, I cannot help but feel blessed that I had you as my guiding figure in this life. I am grateful that you taught me the many lessons you did, and I am grateful that I have the opportunity not to repeat your mistakes. I find when I am digging deep in myself for the strength to get up and go on, it is always the strength of your spirit I feel urging me on, always your hand I feel on my shoulder shaking me out of my stupor\slumber\self pity party so I can get on with the business at hand. Gracie is my soul, Amanda my heart and mind, but you have always embodied my strength.

God has given me my fair ration of shit, I think, although I know that there are those worse off than me-and believe me, I am thankful not to be those poor fucks. But I have had more than my fair share of blessings, by any man's reckoning, and these five columns which hold up my life are only the beginning of them, not the end. So in the end, I can only render my thanks and praise unto you, YHVH, who has given me more happiness and an easier road than I deserve. I hope I can make myself worthy of it in time.