Lost In Translation

So, Kiki is learning to speak, which is kind of great for us since we now have a clue what she wants rather than guesswork.  She is also learning Japanese from my wife.  Which is also kind of great.  The only problem is that I, alas, do not know Japanese.  Thus, when we were reading a book together (okay, I was reading the book and Kiki was chiming in at times) and came across a picture of a monkey, Kiki broke in with "Saru."  Naturally, being an ignorant gaijin, I corrected her with "Monkey" (also accepting baboon, primate, and capuchin), only to be informed by my wife that I was a jerk and an idiot, and Kiki was right.  So, basically, my daughter, at 17 months, is smarter than I am.  Awesome.  So now I'm afraid to correct her, since I now assume she is just speaking Japanese.  So now we'll read a book and whenever she chimes in with, well, anything really, I just tell her she's right, brilliant, and wonderful.  So, basically my wife is teaching her Japanese and I am teaching her gibberish.  And that is why it takes a village to raise a child, because the father is just fucking everything up.  

Seriousness

Last night I was riding on the bike trail, enjoying my evening, when I came around a corner to see a man on the ground.  From what I could gather as I slowed down, he had hit a speed bump in the road and just toppled over off his bike.  


As I came up to him I saw that he did not appear to be bleeding or injured but I did slow to ask if he was okay.  He did not answer, preferring to grumble to himself and slam his water bottle to the ground.  About then another cyclist came along and passed the fallen rider, leaving about 5 feet of clearance and slowing considerably.  


This, apparently, was the most absurd behavior to our fallen comrade (let's call him "Bert").  Bert proceeded to yell at the passing rider (who we'll dub "Nicodemus") "Nice fucking job, don't fucking slow for a fucking injured person, just fucking ride on asshole!"  


Now, I was a bit confused, for I had, at this point, stopped to offer exactly that assistance Bert seemed so desperate for, but he had ignored me to this point.  Maybe he didn't want my help, but it did seem somewhat rude.  When the understandably befuddled Nicodemus stopped to see what, exactly, all the fuss was about Bert continued to berate him "Fucking asshole fucking riding right by you fucking fucker" (Bert wasn't exactly showing the breadth of his vocabulary).  


To this, Nicodemus succinctly and appropriately responded, in an admirably calm tone, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"  


At this point, I figured these two had it all handled and I rode on my merry way, listening to their continued exchange as I rode on.  However, on the rest of my ride I was puzzled as to why Bert was so disproportionately angry.  I mean, when I'm injured I don't usually react with blind and misplaced rage.  Usually.  And frankly, he didn't appear injured at all.  That's when I realized, he may have not cut or broken anything physical, but he shattered his fragile ego.  


See, when you're a cyclist your sense of self becomes tragically distorted.  Suddenly you think you're cool and hip because you shave your legs, you have multi-colored matching lycra outfits, and your arms are as slender as a 12 year old girl's.  This delusion can become quite strong, until it all comes crashing down around you when you fall off your bike, especially when done at slow speed.  Suddenly, as you lay on the ground, you realize with stunning clarity how you actually appear to the rest of the (non-cycling) world:

No wonder Bert was so upset.  

Parking

So, deciding that Kiki cannot be raised indoors for her entire life, we ventured forth today to the park. We figured between the rose gardens, the playground, and the wide open spaces she would be endlessly entertained. She did enjoy herself, but not exactly in the manner we expected. 


Once again illustrating how little I understand of my darling daughter's thought process, she spent 90% of the time pointing out dogs and babies. Well, more accurately, "dohs" and "bebes." Almost nonstop and at increasing volume and with ever more intensity, lest we miss one. We would walk through the rose garden with Kiki saying "doh doh doh Doh Doh DOH DOH DOH" and pointing at every dog, squirrel, and bird. Sometimes she would switch it up by yelling "bebe BeBe BEBE" and pointing at any baby, child, short adult or even seated giant. We finally decided the rose garden wasn't cutting it so we ventured over to the playground. Unfortunately, once there she had no interest in the swings or slides but she did enjoy picking up random sticks and flailing them about.  Just look how much fun she's having:

Okay, fine, so she doesn't look like the happiest child in the park.  We were even worried that she just isn't that into the outdoors, but we later realized she was just sad she didn't have any "doh's" to whip into shape.  

Happy Birthday America!

Hoping you have a wonderful and pyrotechnic filled fourth (and for those with small children may the fireworks be far enough away for uninterrupted sleep).  Summer is here, so make sure to get outside and enjoy yourself, even if that just means repeatedly opening and closing a sliding glass door...

Unconventional Training

Yesterday on the bike path I saw perhaps the strangest rider yet. Yes, stranger than the 60 year old woman riding in a string bikini and sandals. More bizarre than the rider wearing his bibs over his jersey. Stranger even than the man who wears oven mitts to ride in the winter. No, this was a man, fairly ordinary in appearance, riding a nondescript bike, but saying over and over while he rode... Well, suffice it to say it rhymes with bigger and starts with an n. Yeah. As I see it, there are three possible explanations for this unusual behavior;


1) He is batshit crazy.


2) He is absurdly racist and, as a public service, has chosen to constantly warn others about it, much like a large truck beeping as it backs up to warn passersby.


3) He is engaged in a new and highly unusual training regime consisting of riding around offending everyone until people chase you and then being forced to escape them. 


 I know, at first blush this seems very unlikely, but remember that cyclists will do most anything to gain a competitive edge. Starve yourself to P.O.W.-esque appearance? Sure! Take every known drug, suplement, and hormone in the off chance it makes you faster? Why not! Remove your blood, store it for weeks, and then reinject it into your system? But of course! Suddenly the risk of racially motivated violent retaliation doesn't seem too daunting. I mean, what better way to simulate the excitement and terror of race day than riding for your life away from an angry mob? Sure, you risk bodily injury and alienate all around you, but you might get 1.126% faster. Well worth it.


I just hope this doesn't catch on, the other people on the bike path are annoying enough already. 

Godlike Powers

Well, Kiki is coming up on a year and a half, which means she's now fully mobile and also talking.  This has brought about a new revelation for us, namely that we have an almost godlike power of creation with her.  She is quickly learning words, but she does pickup 90% of her words from either her mother or me (the other 10% being from family, strangers, and crazy yelling men on the side of the road).  


This has given us total control over her knowledge and vocabulary.  For instance, she has learned the english for sock ("auck"), nose ("noh") and eye (er, well, "eye", actually) but japanese for ear ("mimi"), shoe ("ootz"), and bath ("oohaloohalooh" although I think my wife may be screwing with both of us on that one).  


The other day she was fascinated with bellybuttons and I (probably mistakenly) was saying "boop" when she would press on my bellybutton.  Thus, her bellybutton is now known as "boop" to Kiki.  This opens up a whole world of creativity.  Maybe cars will be "rabungas" in her world, perhaps potatoes will henceforth be known as "jibberbugs".  Black will be "white", blue will be "orange", red will be "turnip".  The world is our oyster, or as they will be known to Kiki, "squigiliums".  


I mean, this is a damn good plan, what could possibly go wrong?


Although now that I consider it, I remember something from my own childhood.  When I was about 4 years old, my mother told us that (please hold your laughter until the end) if you wave at an airplane as it passed overhead and the pilot sees you they will throw bubblegum down to you.  Yep.  And by god I believed her.  For two reasons really; 


1) She's my mom.  I didn't think she would lie to us simply for her own personal enjoyment.  I have since learned my lesson on that one.  


2) It's free bubblegum.  Why the fuck wouldn't I believe in it?  I believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny too.  I would have believed in a 300 foot tall invisible giant donkey named Hubert if it would bring me free food.  


Unfortunately, my blind faith and love of candy led me to wave like a spastic reject whenever I saw a plane.  It didn't help that we lived in a major flight path.  Needless to say, I wasn't exactly the most popular kid in the neighborhood.  Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't do the same thing to Kiki... but at the same time, my experience did teach me a healthy distrust of authority which I would like my daughter to have.  Alright, maybe I will teach her most words correctly, but I think bath will always be oohaloohalooh.

My name is Tulibo, and I'm an addict

I was at the bike shop the other day.  Surprise, surprise.  I break bikes like it's my job.  Oh, I should look into if anyone's hiring for that position.  Anyway, I was chatting with one of the salesmen while waiting for my latest broken bit to be fixed.  He was telling me that he hasn't been able to ride much lately (just 40 or 50 miles a week) because he's working at the bike shop, his girlfriend had her tonsils out, and things just get busy.  As I left I realized that I have a full time job, a wife, a 16 month old child, and I still bike 100-130 miles a week.  Granted, that's down from my average mileage PK (pre-Kiki) but only by 30 or 40 miles.  That's when I realized that either I'm a heartless bastard, a terrible husband, and a neglectful father OR I have a cycling addiction.  You can guess which explanation I'm going with.  I figure step one is identifying the problem.  Step two is, what, doing something about it?  I'll get around to that eventually.  I figure I should just take this one step at a time.  Man, these steps are exhausting, I think I need to go for a bike ride.  You know, just to clear my head.  What?  I have a disease, cut me some slack.  

Unexpected Problems

When you discover you're going to be a parent you worry about many things: what if the baby chokes, what if she won't eat, what if she never sleeps through the night.  


You read some books, which give you even more things to worry about: SIDS, ebola, alien abduction (I guess it depends what kinds of books you read).  


Maybe you even subscribe to a parenting magazine, which gives you a few more things to throw on the worry pile: mismatched outfits, bad haircuts, self-immolation.  


But then you have your child, and you realize that no matter what you've been worrying about and preparing for, you are still totally unprepared.  Like, for instance, when your dog begins humping your child.  Yeah, awesome.  


I mean, she doesn't seem to mind, and frankly, for the amount of grief she gives the poor animal, it's probably just fair turnabout.  But still, I feel like I need to step in, but so far my books and periodicals have been mute on the proper parenting solution to this particular conundrum.  


But then again, maybe I just missed that issue of Parenting with Pets magazine.  

One Thing At A Time

Once it became widely known to friends and coworkers that I was into cycling (usually when I showed up in full spandex to an event, also the turning point where many friends and coworkers became ex-friends, former coworkers, and the plaintiff named in the sexual harassment suit) I often found myself invited to participate in sporting events.  


Ah, but not the bike races you may assume.  No, nothing that simple, rather it's usually a triathlon.  Why do people assume, just because I can ride a bicycle, that I can also run and swim?  I guess they see me walking (sometimes in spandex, for which I apologize) from which they extrapolate that I can also speed it up into a run.  Fair enough.  But swimming?  The most interaction I have with water, outside the bathroom, is riding my bike in the rain.  And usually when I try that I crash. I view swimming as a way to keep from drowning, for which it is great.  But a way to get from point A to point B?  No fucking way.  I'll take the ferry, thank you very much.  


So the activities themselves are annoying enough, but then there are the distances.  Let's take the most common "beginner" triathlon, the sprint distance.  You start off with a .5 mile swim.  So right off the bat I drown, nice start.  After resuscitation there's a 12.4 mile bike ride.  Really?  That's literally how far I rode last January when it was 10 degrees and snowing.  It's a joke distance, barely worth putting on a helmet for.  So, after getting warmed up on the bike you get to jump off and run 5k, which is not dauntingly long but just kind of, well, boring, like all running really. 


But I hear you out there, with your shaved bodies and poor bike handling skills, you "true" triathletes mocking me to take a real challenge and do a longer triathlon, maybe even an iron man.  Yeah, 2.4 miles in the water, 112 miles on the bike, and a 26.2 mile run.  Do I even need to delineate why this is idiotic?  You know what, I really don't think I do.  Let's just move on.  


Here's my biggest problem.  It isn't that triathlons exist or that people participate in them.  Hell, most people I meet think I'm insane for enjoying cycling like I do, far be it for me to judge any else's sporting choices.  Hey, if you want to combine football, chess, and hopscotch into some unholy amalgam please, be my guest, but don't invite me to join in just because of my love of hopscotch (it should totally be an olympic sport).  I mean, if I tell you I like apples do you send me a bag of potatoes?  If I tell you I play hockey do you invite me to join your handball league?  So quit inviting me to do your triathlons.  Well, unless you want to do a relay team and all I have to do is ride the bike leg.  I wouldn't mind passing some triathletes with their goofy helmets and $4,000 wheels.  

Haircuttery

All my life, someone cut my hair for me.  First my mother, who was a big fan of the "Prince Valiant."  For those of you fortunate enough never to have had one of these inflicted on you, here's the 'style.'

Hot!

Thanks Mom!


Once I moved on to having professional haircuts, I went to a friend of my mothers who would periodically have fun at my head's expense.  Like when she thought I'd look good with Agassi's haircut. His pre-bald haircut.  Yeah, this one:

To be fair, this may be a wig

To be completely honest, I was 100% behind the idea.  I mean, who wouldn't be?  And besides, all that was separating me from Andre was the hairstyle.  Oh, and the fitness, skill, and good looks.  But mainly the hair.


As I reached high school, I went with the ponytailed look, reducing my haircuts to annual trims, still professionally administered, just to keep from looking too much like Cousin It.  Fine, I looked exactly like Cousin It, though less skillful, fit, and good looking.


Eventually I got a job and cut my hippy hair off and, you know, stopped looking like as much of an idiot, despite what every picture of me on this blog may indicate.  But now I am faced with a new hair related problem.  That's right, Kiki, and it's a doozy:

What?

Yeah, from birth her hair just stuck straight out.  All the time.  No matter what we did.  Hats, hair clips, bows, water, gel, glue.  Nothing could contain the madness.  Finally, after six months, her hair finally succumbed to the siren song of gravity.   But then we were faced with a new challenge.  Now that her hair was no longer vertical it was just in her eyes.  So, much like my mother before us, we were forced to cut our child's hair.  But, being progressive, forward thinking, and hip parents, we wanted to give her something different.  Something unique.  Something sleek and modern:

Alright, to be fair, it's quite a bit like the Prince Valiant.  Actually, it's a lot more like, well...

Wanted: One Babysitter

So, we lost our babysitter.  No, we didn't misplace her at the mall or leave her at the park, but we do find ourselves without a viable childcare alternative to, well, us.  I know, horrors!  


So we consulted that infinite database of all parenting knowledge.  Yep, we googled "babysitters" and came back with some creepy site.  Undaunted, we tried searching for "real babysitters" and did no better.  Same for "experienced babysitters", "strict babysitters" and "coed slutty babysitters".  Fine, so the last search was for my own benefit.  Anyway, finally we searched for "babysitters, really, babysitters, you know, to watch a baby, our baby, not some weird and creepy babysitter pornography appealing to stunted and deranged perverts.  Seriously." and found some honest to goodness babysitters in our town.  Not to say some weren't every bit as disturbing as the pornography.  Let's meet the candidates, shall we?


Our first applicant is Jazmyn.  Now, let's not be hasty in judgement here.  Sure, her name and chosen spelling might, possibly, somewhat hint that perhaps, maybe, she could have at some time danced with, you know, no clothes on.  But hey, we're enlightened and open minded parents, if she is comfortable with her body and secure in her choices who are we to hold it against her?  No, what sunk Jazmyn was her assertion that she doesn't believe in letting children watch "telivision".  Really?  I mean, I guess that's fair, when I think about it I find that I also don't believe in children watching telivision, or even tilevision, tellevision or tellyvisheon for that matter.  I'll even go so far to make the blanket statement that I am against children watching anything that doesn't exist.  


Well, Jazmyn's out (sorry Jazzy, we barely knew ye), but let's see who's next!


Ah, Robin, a bit older, a bit more experienced, a bit, well, judging from her photo, blurry and pixelated.  But that's alright, the technologically challenged can be great caregivers, just look at Mary Poppins.  Sure, she could fly using an umbrella but did you ever see her using an ipod or GPS?  I rest my case.  Anyway, so Robin has been nannying and babysitting for many years and prior to that, let's see, oh, she went to a prestigious art college, that's nice.  And let's see, oh, she majored in... seriously...really... photography?  Sorry Robin, if you're that bad at your chosen area of study I hesitate to hire you in something outside your "area of expertise."


And now we come to Sarah.  A sweet girl, fairly experienced but still young enough to keep up with a toddler into the wee hours as needed.  A student at the local university, she is studying abnormal psychology, which will come in handy when dealing with, well, me.  However, what really caught our attention is that, in addition to babysitting services, she also works as a dogsitter.  Now, many of you will judge us negatively for our priorities, but bear in mind we have a cute, well behaved, and relatively easy daughter.  We also have three ill behaved, bad tempered, and strange dogs.  Yeah, if she can handle them then Kiki will be a breeze.  


So we're trying out Sarah this weekend.  If all goes well we will have solved our childcare conundrum through the proper application of google.  If, conversely, things don't go well... let's just say if you see a cute part-Japanese toddler for sale on Craig's List could you just go ahead and buy her for us?  I'll thank and reimburse you later.  

Snotsy

When I am riding my bike and the temperature drops below 60 degrees, an interesting thing happens.  Well, interesting to me, hazardous and disgusting to those behind me.  See, my mucous production goes into overdrive.  In other words, I become a snot factory.  Oh, and phlegm, don't forget the phlegm, oh so much phlegm.  

In an effort to uncover the cause of this, well, 'skill', I did some digging into the family history and I think I may have figured it out.  Oddly enough, it turns out my great-great Aunt Susie-Lou was a hagfish.  

Auntie.  Unfortunately, I got her nose.

Also known as a slime eel, the hagfish can produce 5 gallons of slime in minutes.  Yep, sounds about right.  Now, the hagfish's slime is thought to be a defense mechanism or protective film, either of which don't seem to explain my problem... unless it is protecting me from anyone chasing me, or protecting my entire face, and leg, and arm, and bike, and the guy behind me from wind and possibly sunburn.  

It occurred to me that maybe this was my body's way of expelling heat and waste, much like a dog pants rather than sweats.  However, the problem with this hypothesis is that I also sweat like a, well, here's my great Uncle Herbert:

Be quiet, he's sleeping

If only I could find a way to turn this into a marketable skill.  Know anyone looking for industrial quantities of snot?

Weight Weenies

Ah, cyclists.  Among our other issues (shaved legs, saddle sores, spandex), many of us suffer from the delusion that the only possible thing standing between us and Tour de France glory is the extra 3 grams we're carrying around, unnecessarily, on our bicycle.  We go to extreme, and often absurd lengths to shave grams.  Well, not extreme or absurd, just extremely and absurdly expensive.  


You see, most cyclists won't go to extreme or even ordinary efforts to eliminate the extra 3 (or 30,000) grams they're carrying around on their ass.  If you go into most any bike shop, but especially one in an expensive suburb, you'll see a steady procession of average looking guys looking to spend almost any amount to save a bit of weight on their bike.  Because excess weight makes you slower.  And, by my reckoning, every gram of weight slows you down by at least 11.3 mph, so going from an 18.5 pound average bike to a sub-seven pound featherweight will make you 140 mph faster.  Yep, it's science (though not necessarily sound mathematical reasoning).  


Just to illustrate for any non-believers out there, the friendly people at Speedplay make a wide variety of road pedals, all of which have the same performance (you know, they hold your foot), varying only in physical materials and thus weight.  Their baseline pedal weighs 305 grams and costs $115.  Their top of the line pedal weighs 218.5 grams and costs $630.  That's negative 86.5 grams for $515, or $2,703 a (negative) pound!  Just for reference, negative pedal weight costs more than actual weight of marijuana, and is significantly less enjoyable.  


So why are we all so dumb?  Two words.


Lance Armstrong.


Yep, I pin this one squarely on ol' Lancey.  See, before Lance came along, the guys winning professional bike races looked like this:

'Sup

Yeah, the kind of guy who had no problem eating and even carrying a tray of pastries during a race, because it looks fucking cool.  Alright, to be fair, maybe a tray of dessert is not the most badass example, but this definitely is:

Smoking and endurance sports?  Nothing cooler.


My point is, cycling used to be cool, until Lance and his team of nerds sucked the fun out of it and made it all about results and winning.  I want to go back to the good old days, when it didn't matter if you failed to win because you were carrying some extra weight, as long as you were enjoying yourself.  Really, which of these situations would you rather find yourself in?

Reach Out and Touch Someone

Have you heard about the latest breakthrough in digital technology?  No, not the iPad 2 (now with two cameras but still no flash support!), not the new Android 8G Smartphone with inbuilt Gameboy (a crappy phone AND a ballsy game system), not even the new 4D Television from Samsung (see time pass before your eyes!!!).  No, I am referring to the latest news in crowdsourcing and infodynamics, not to mention other made up words like digitography and sensontology; The FleshMap Project.  Relying on the old adage that calling something "The ____ Project" makes it seem serious. Conversely, calling something "The  _____ Experience" makes it sound stupid and mildly sleazy.  "The FleshMap Experience"?  Yeah, makes me feel like I need to shower.  


Anyway, they had thousands of people indicate where they like to be touched and where they like to touch others.  They then digitally represented their answers in a simple graphic.  So, in a stunning insight into human sexuality, they discovered, through the most cutting edge technologies and exhaustive research, that men like to be touched on the crotch.  Seriously, here's the stunning graphic to back it up:

I mean, I guess it is mildly surprising that the genitals don't glow with the light of a million suns, blinding the viewer and causing the computer screen to erupt into flames.  But really, is this the best our technologies can generate?


But, to be fair, there is some interesting data coming out of the "project."  Namely, in the graphic showing where women want to touch men.  

To be fair, I don't know that the data set was only women, it presumably also included gay men and the other myriad sexual orientations drawn towards the male body (is bisexual still a thing, or did we decide that was dumb?)).  Unsurprisingly, the crotch is not as bright as men wish it was, but that's not what interested me.  No, it was the right forearm and both shins.  Apparently there are women (men/transgendered/small woodland creatures) who want to touch a man's forearm and shins.  But then, maybe they're just trying to stay away from the glowing crotch area, it does look like it might burst into flames at any moment.


But, in the end, all this study really tells us is that no matter what fancy new label you put on something, crowdsourcing is just asking a bunch of people their opinions, which are typically short-sighted, selfish, and ignorant.  And no matter how you gussy it up with digital representations, at the end of the day most of us just want someone to touch our special places.

Do You Hear My Voice?

So I was reading my weekly science magazine, because I am a tremendous nerd, and I came across a rather shocking bit of information.  Apparently, approximately 85% of the population hear a voice when they read.  Like, a little voice, in their head, telling them the words.  WHAT?


Really?


Well, yes, apparently so, according to the information.  And chances are you, dear reader, are hearing these words in your head right now.  Weird.  What does my voice sound like in your head?  If I may make a request, I would prefer James Earl Jones or, at the least, Morgan Freeman.  But, let's face it, it's probably Andy Dick.  On helium.  Damn.


Anyway, I was shocked by this tidbit of information because I am apparently one of the minority of people who hear nothing when reading.  I just don't get it.  I look at a word, I know what the word is, I don't have a voice telling me what it is.  I guess I cut out the middleman?  But it raises so many questions in my mind, silent though they may be, such as...


Do people really have a running commentary while they read?  


Does punctuation, change what... you hear?!?  


Do typographical changes make it sound LOUDER or saucy or emphatic or dumb?  


If you read something en français does it sound différents?  


¿Qué hay en español?  


Do you hear different voices for each character in a book or the same for all?  


If it is a female versus male character do they have different voices?


Do ya'll hear accents or jus' the same ol' fer everyone?

Do people really have a running commentary while they read?  

Weird.  You all (well, 85% of you) are weird.  Just weird.  But I would like to sound like Marvin Gaye, if that's alright.  Weirdo.

Earthquake in Japan

Well,  I'm sure you've heard an earthquake hit Japan.  The scale of the violence and destruction is just incomprehensible.  Thankfully for our little family all my wife's relatives and friends are safe and accounted for.  Sadly there are many thousands of others that are not so fortunate.  I have written a lot about Japan and travelled there extensively and love the people, the culture, and the country and it is always terrible to see nature exert such destructive forces on any people but that much harder to watch when you have some personal connection.  Unfortunately I've been relying on the national television media for much of my information, which is akin to asking your eight year old niece to describe the plot of a David Lynch film.  They'll get some facts right, others massively wrong, and just generally miss the whole point.  


Thankfully due to the wonders of modern technology and the robustness of the Japanese infrastructure we have been able to talk with my wife's family in Osaka, which was quite far away from the destruction, and her brother in Tokyo, who had to stay in at his office overnight but is at his apartment now and doing well.  I must say, if ever there was a country and a culture that could deal with this type of destruction it is the Japanese.  Even having lived in California, I've never seen a place more prepared, top to bottom, for a calamitous earthquake.  From their building techniques and home furnishings to their school drills and infrastructure, Japan is constantly aware of the risks of their geological location and planning for the worst.  It's just terrible that finally their preparations were needed (and then some).  


I hesitate to even include this in what is typically a light little meaningless blog, but if you feel the need/desire to help by sending money/food/clothes or just buying tickets to Charlie Sheens' live tour (seriously, he's doing a tour and giving the proceeds to Japanese relief?  I mean, I guess doing charitable work, even in a totally batshit crazy way, is still good, right?) please do so.  At the same time, if you do have the itch to help out but want to help with Haiti, which even a year later still has enormous work to be done, or Chile, or even someplace that has issues that are not geologically caused, or even something close to home, go for it.  It's a good thing.  Even if Charlie Sheen does it.

Japan Tales - Odds 'N' Ends

Going through my photos on the computer I came across a few items I saw in Japan that were just so batshit crazy I had to snap a picture to prove they existed: 

Teeny tiny beers.  You know, for toddlers.

Frightening McDonald's sandwiches.  

Bit hard to make out, but the label reads:"Green Cola, for your natural life.  Made from selected raw materials, derived from plants such as fruits, with cola's own dynamism and briskness."  This is nice, because I have been looking for a more dynamic soda.

That, dear reader, is maple syrup and pancake flavored soda.  Served hot, out of a vending machine, on the street.  Right next to the used panty machine.

But nothing was close to being as peculiar, odd, and befuddling as this gem:

This is a trash can that seems designed to make you review your life choices and become filled with regret.  Thanks a lot trash can, you jerk.  

Sing a Song of Sixpence

Parenting experts recommend talking to your child, interacting with them, and even singing to them.  Now, we try to do right by our child, so we do engage her in conversation, despite her less than stellar contributions to the discussion (gooey-gooey-gooey doesn't often add a lot to the discourse, though we do enjoy it).  


We play and dance with her even though she hasn't taken much of a shine to the waltz, her cha-cha is pretty weak and her tango is, well, kind of a mess.  But she is pretty awesome at the stomping baby dance, wherein she stamps her right foot repeatedly, both on and off the beat.  Yeah, we're waiting for the dance shows to call.  


And even ol' tone deaf dad sings to her.  Only problem is, I only know two songs.  The spiderman theme song and "little boxes" (a.k.a. the "Weeds" theme song).  So, every song she gets is a variation thereof.  The other problem is, I don't have a very good memory, so every song is slightly to extravagantly different.  But, they do have one thing in common, they're all crap.  Just abysmally horrific.  And I realized, singing to your child is great in a general sense, but in my specific case, I should probably just stick with talking.  I mean, how helpful is hearing, to the tune of "The Amazing Spiderman"


Baby girl,
Baby girl,
Does whatever a baby girl does.
Can she swing from a tree?
No she can't, she's just a baby.
Watch out, here comes the doodle bear.


Yeah, I just need to leave the musical teaching to others.  You know, non-morons.  Oh well, that just leaves more time for the stomping baby dance.  

On The Road Again...

Well, we took on a bit of a challenge last weekend.  We decided to take Kiki on a 4.5 hour car trip.  Why, you ask?  Because we're masochists?  Because we decided we were having it too easy as parents and needed a challenge?  Because we're idiots?  Well, yes, but it was mainly because we wanted to go skiing... on the warmest February weekend on record.  64 degrees and sunny is perfect ski weather, right? Mmmm, slushy.  


Anyway, through our struggles, failures, mishaps, and failures (there were enough to merit inclusion twice) we did learn a few lessons in road tripping with a 1 year old that I am now going to attempt to pass onto you, dear reader.


Tulibo's 6 Step Guide to a Relaxing and Trouble Free Road Trip with a 1 Year Old:


Step 1)  Leave the child at home.  Seriously, they aren't going to remember the trip anyway.  You can always tell them they came, they're not going to know.  If you're really concerned just invest in Photoshop and you can drop them into a few vacation pics to prove they were there.  


Step 2) So, you've ignored step 1 and brought your child along.  Congratulations, and welcome to hell.  But hey, this isn't so bad.  You're on the road, they're napping in the back, you're making good time.  Uh oh.  They woke up.  Now, you may think you should stop, change their diaper, feed them, and continue on your merry way.  Resist this urge.  Remember, this is not a human you are dealing with, this is a toddler.  Once you free them from that carseat they will not happily return.  At least not without an hour of running and playing first.  Therefore, if you have any desire of arriving before the end of your vacation, resist the urge to stop at the first stirring.  Put some miles in while you have the chance, push on until they're making their unhappiness known from the back seat, because soon enough you'll find yourself spending more time in a fast food restaurant than is healthy.  Which brings us to...


Step 3) Don't stop at a fast food restaurant.  Yes, on previous 'pre-child'  (a.k.a fun) road trips, Burger King was your best friend.  Well, no longer.  Now you have a little person who wants to walk around, crawl a bit, and generally touch (and taste) everything within 30 inches of the floor.  Now, the next time you're in a fast food establishment, take a good look at the dining area floor.  You know what, just go ahead and lick it.  Oh, don't want to?  Then don't let your child either.  Now, I can see you out there thinking to yourself "I don't eat fast food, I am an evolved and sophisticated traveller.  My body is a temple, that's why I eat at Applebee's/O'Charlie's/Houlihans/Chuckie McFoodieStuff's/Uncle Fattie's House of Burgerdogs/etc."


Well, Mr. Smartypants (or Mrs. or Ms. or Dr. as the case may be) how do you plan on letting your child run around for the 30 to 60 minutes it is going to take for them to burn enough energy to accept once again being strapped into the car?  Do you think the waitress is going to allow you to sit and sip on your water for 40 minutes after your check is paid?  She's got to get new butts in those seats, her tattoos aren't going to pay for themselves you know.  


No, when you are traveling, be on the lookout for yuppie-ish enclaves, places where you can leisurely enjoy a meal and sit for a while afterwards undisturbed, where they have a beverage menu rather than a soda fountain, the kind of place where the floor may have been cleaned since 1973.  I'm talking about Panera/Starbucks/Hipsterville Cafe/etc.  There you will find you can enjoy a relaxed lunch while the little one toddles around, pleasant staff that are just pleased you won't be taking the table to mooch free wifi and "work on your novel" while making your $3 latte last all day, and nice touches like floors that aren't sticky, bathrooms with changing tables that haven't been ripped from the wall (assuming they were ever installed to begin with), and toilet paper that is not reminiscent of sandpaper (hey, mom and dad need pampering too).  


Step 4) Don't rely overmuch on technology.  You may have the car decked out with all the latest gizmos and widgets; a rear seat DVD infotainment unit, a white noise generator, and the latest in GPS military spec satellite radar/lidar guidance systems.  But one faulty battery, one missed signal, one overeager guidance shortcut and you can find yourself listening to the sweet sound of static radio harmonized by your screaming child as you bounce along a dark, rutted, and icy gravel "shortcut" in the middle of nowhere.  Trust me, I've been there:

Do yourself and your child a favor, bring a couple nice, simple, non-electronic toys.  Just in case it all goes to hell at least you can cuddle a doll when your car loses a wheel and you have to wait in the freezing rain for a local hillbilly to find and rape you.  


Step 5) Upon arrival, do whatever is possible to maintain your child's habits.  If they always eat dinner at five, by god, get that food in them by five.  If they take two naps a day, plan your schedule around it.  If they always sleep in a room of their own and you find yourself in a single room... well, sometimes you need to improvise...

Look, I'm not necessarily proud that we had our daughter sleep in the bathroom, but the point is she did sleep.  Better a sleeping baby by the toilet than a crying baby in a palace.  Hmm, I think that may be the name of my next childcare guide.  


Step 6) Please, just leave your child at home.  Seriously.  Just look how easy it is to use photoshop to create lasting family memories of your "together" time.  


Here's Kiki skiing with us in Utah:

Here's Kiki enjoying the sun in Costa Rica:

And here's Kiki at our wedding, 3 years before she was born.

Tasteless

Mayhap you've heard of this new phenomenon, the supertaster.  These are people who have ultra sensitive taste, caused by a surplus of fungiform papilla, a.k.a. taste buds.  To such individuals, everything tastes, well, more.  Salt is saltier, meat is meatier, chees-its are, as difficult as this is to believe, even cheesier.  Apparently, this is a 'scientific' explanation for why people are "picky" eaters.  To which I say bullshit, eat your fucking vegetables and quit your bitching.  Yeah, it is going to be fun when Kiki starts refusing foods, no?

In other flavor news, there's a new taste as well!  Nevermind sweet, salty, bitter, or sour.  No, now there's umami.  It is sometimes described as delectableness, deliciousness, or savoriness, which is not really helpful at all, but supposedly soy sauce and meat are oozing umami out of their pores.  

In short, food marketers hadn't had a new taste to sell in several decades, so they mined the internet and found that the Japanese had another taste name, and now they're using it to try to sell food.  Think about it, seeing "Soy Sauce, it's liquid salt" doesn't make you want to rush out and buy some, but "Soy Sauce, it has umami" makes you feel sophisticated and intelligent for knowing what the fuck they're saying, so you should probably buy a gallon or two.  

But this is just the tip of an approaching taste tsunami.  Soon we will be told we must pay attention to the tastes of spicy and juicy, then ooey and gooey, and shortly we will be told to try to taste the flavor crystalization and bubbaliciousness of our dinners.  I, for one, can't wait.  Partly because I am a total sucker for marketing (New AND Improved? I should probably buy two then), but mainly because I am what is known, apparently, as a non-taster, though if Latin taught me anything, it should be subtaster, but maybe that just sounded like an unfortunate Subway job description.  

Though it is a bit depressing to learn that this handicap of mine has a name, and a grammatically incorrect one at that, it does explain a lot.  Like why I enjoy coffee the consistency of motor oil, scotch that causes your eyebrows to singe and fall out, and, periodically, chewing on dirty diapers. They're packed with ooey, gooey, and bubbaliciousness.  Not to mention flavor crystals out the ass, no pun intended.