My cup runneth over with excitement - I got an iPod for Christmas.

Now I know that the Bitsosushi M394X834SPX is a WAY better MP3 player and Apple sucks and all that, but SHUT UP ABOUT IT. I’m happy. And at the end of the day, that’s what matters, right? My happiness.

So far, I have 36 songs on my iPod. I have dozens and dozens of CD’s I’m going to pull songs from, so I have lots more stuff to put on it. But I am always looking to expand my musical horizons, so I beseech thee, recommend music to me. I’m open to almost anything, but like anyone else, I have a certain range of things I like. So, to prime the pump, here are the 36 songs I already have:

Alvin and the Chipmunks - The Chipmunk Christmas Song
The Animals - House of the Rising Sun
Barenaked Ladies - La La La La Lemon
Beach Boys - Sloop John B
Beach Boys - Wouldn’t it Be Nice
Cake - I Will Survive
Cake - Mahna Mahna
Deep Blue Something - Breakfast at Tiffany’s
Elmo and Patsy - Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer
Fall Out Boy - Sugar, We’re Going Down
Fatboy Slim - Weapon of Choice
Five for Fighting - 100 Years
The Foundations - Build Me Up Buttercup
Gorillaz - Dare
Jimmy Buffet - Margaritaville
Kanye West f. Jamie Foxx - Gold Digger
The Killers - Mister Brightside
Len - Steal My Sunshine
Louis Armstrong - What a Wonderful World
Louis Prima - Jump, Jive and Wail
Louis Prima - Sing, Sing, Sing
The Marcels - Blue Moon
Moby f. Gwen Stefani - South Side
Natasha Bedingfield - These Words (I Love You, I Love You)
Newsboys - Shine
Newsboys - Take Me to Your Leader
Newsboys - Breakfast
Norah Jones - Sunrise
Rockapella - Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego (Live)
Roy Orbison - Pretty Woman
They Might Be Giants - Istanbul (Not Constantinople)
They Might Be Giants - Particle Man
Van Morrison - Brown Eyed Girl
Vertical Horizon - You’re a God

Classic rock, doo-wop, contemporary Christian pop, kiddie music, little rock, little techno, little rap. I defy anyone to classify my tastes more specifically than “pop music.”

Suggestions?

Inspired by Al.

My life expressed in moments of cold. I can only think of five.

5.) Dec. 24, 2000, Packers vs. Tampa Bay Buccaneers at Lambeau Field. Temperature: 15 degrees. Windchill: minus-15. This was my first-ever trip to Lambeau, at the invitation of an ex-girlfriend. We tailgated, threw snowballs in the parking lot and then froze our asses of in the stadium. Survival was made possible by Bailey’s smuggled into the stadium, a simple task pre-9/11.

4.) Jan., 1996, Sheboygan Lutheran High School. Temperature: minus-35. Windchill: minus-60. It was so cold we were sent home from school at noon, and I hitched a ride home with a buddy. What I remember was walking out of the school to get to his car and being literally shocked at how cold it was. Not, “Wow, it’s really cold,” but more “I’ve never been this cold before and my brain can’t really process the sensation.” Good times.

3.) Summer, 1993? 1994? Camp Manito-wish, Boulder Junction, WI. Three-week summer camp with horseriding and canoe trips and all the fun stuff, highlighted by Paul Bunyan Day. Paul Bunyan day starts an hour earlier than normal and begins with a silent walk to the lake for a quick naked dip. (It was a more innocent time.) Now, granted, it wasn’t winter, but it was about 45 degrees in the air that morning, and the lake was about 50 degrees. Chilly. I jumped in the lake with 150 other boys for the traditional swim, and then climbed out. I began shivering so violently that I lost control of my bladder and pissed all over the dock.

2.) Winter, 2004. I have a nasty habit of not filling up the gas tank in my car until I absolutely have to, and in nine years of driving, only once has that approach come to its natural conclusion. On the coldest day of the year. A mile-and-a-half from a gas station. Brilliant.

1.) March, c. 1988. My family and I were at Big Powderhorn Mountain in the UP for our annual spring skiing trip. Spring skiing is marked, generally, by more outdoor fun than, say, January skiing. At Powderhorn, the tradition was the annual bikini ski race. This particular day, I was skiing with my Uncle Bob Who’s Not Really My Uncle, (rest in peace) while my parents were off having time away from me. Bob didn’t hold no truck with much of anything except vodka, girls, skiing and his 1957 Chevy convertible. So he made sure that we were at the foot of the mountain in time for the bikini races. (Keep in mind, I’m like, 10). The third “contestant” decided that she preferred not to wear a bikini, or skis for that matter. So as this nubile 20-something RUNS down the hill wearing nothing buy ski boots and panties, guess what my “Uncle” Bob did? Did he cover my eyes, or hustle me away, or something similarly responsible? No. He just pointed, and said “Take a look at THAT.”

Says a lot about me, if you know me.

Ya’ll didn cayeh ’bout my deep and meanin’ful post ’bout my daddy, so $@#! all y’all.

But all you G’s and ho’s out dere best be checkin’ out my homie, Adam Sandler. He dropped a PHAT joint on his new record, “Shh, Don’t Tell.”

“…Well I had a little poodle but neighbor stole her
I’d shoot him with an AK but the kick hurts my shoulda
I can’t pop no gun and I can’t fist fight
hell, I’m afraid to take out the fuckin’ garbage at night
I use the steps in the pool, cuz I’m terrified to dive
And don’t fuck with my floaties, they’s what’s keepin’ me alive, bitch.”

-Mayor of P#$%ytown, Adam Sandler

What is it about fathers?

A father is merely the contributor of one-half of the genetic material that determines the physical makeup of a person. A tall frame, deep brown eyes, flat feet, heart disease, nearsightedness… these are gifts from the father.

In theory, a father is also the contributor of one-half of the psychic material that determines the soul of a person. But how much a father contributes and how he does it is a great variable.

We say “inherit.” But most things a father gives us are taught. Sometimes actively - how to tie our shoes or throw a spiral. Sometimes inactively - how to treat your wife, when to come home from work, how to be emotionally distant.

From my definitively male perspective, there seem to be only two kinds of mothers - good and bad. It seems as if most mothers love their children and try to do the best for them. And some of them drown them in bathtubs or leave them in cars in winter while they visit a strip club. There doesn’t seem to be too much in between.

Fathers, on the other hand, seem to come in an infinite variety. Look at Jack Burns and Bernie Focker from Meet the Fockers. Both good dads, in their own way. Jack is protective, a teacher, tries to instill loyalty. Bernie is loving, nurturing, tries to instill self-worth. Two more disparate fathering styles you couldn’t find.

Then there are the bad dads. This ranges from “You didn’t come to my soccer games” to “You mentally and physically abused me to the point of permanent psychic damage.”

And everything in between.

I consider myself fairly lucky. My dad is a role model for me in business and moral and ethical principles. He taught me to be honest, even when the truth is bad news. He is still teaching me to embrace my duties and responsibilities and take pride in hard work.

On the other hand, I learned a lot from him by vowing I would do exactly the opposite of what he did.

How will KJ look at me?

In the last year, I have experienced a social phenomenon that I would never have believed existed; one that is completely out of view of those who don’t have school-age children, and one that I am completely baffled by.

This phenomenon occurs when parents, ostensibly in the interest of giving their children the best they can provide, treat other parents with disinterest, contempt, and even hostility.

I tried to convince myself that this wasn’t true; that parents weren’t regressing to behavior patterns we should have given up after grade school, that we were merely not quite what they expected. I mean, we are not even 30 years old and we have a four-year-old. We *must* be shocking to people who got their careers settled before having kids later in life.

But then, as I consider that I’m a career professional who makes an honest salary, who makes every effort to provide the most stable, caring, nurturing, educational, and stimulating environment for my little man that I possibly can given the constraints of my living arrangements and career — just like the rest of the parents — I start to get a little angry. And then I start to think about how much effort I’ve put in to teaching my little man how to treat other people with respect, how many times we remind him to apologize when he bumps into someone or hurts them playing, and if someone falls down to help them up, and to always say his pleases and thank-yous, and how these other kids don’t seem to come close to his level of politeness, and the thought gets firmly embedded in the back of my mind: “Where do you people get off treating my family like this?”

It’s tempting to give up, to let my standards slip, to treat these other parents with the same contempt they treat us with, and to let little man run wild. But I refuse. I will not stoop so low, because later in life little man is going to grow up a better person, a polite, learned, and able man, who succeeds on the strength of his restraint and inner strength, and I won’t take that away from him just to wipe the uncomfortable sneers off the faces of these parents.

No, I’ll just be satisfied knowing that at 27 years of age, I’ve managed to keep a four-year-old on track while still building my career and family — something these sneering faces didn’t have the personal strength to accomplish.

And I’ll enjoy the company of those other parents who have taken on the challenge of raising kids without treating it as a competition, who are open to sharing their experiences, joys, and frustrations, who aren’t threatened by other parents and their children. To them, I am grateful for the reminder that I really *can* be successful as a parent and still remember how to have respect for my fellow parents. So, to you, thanks. You know who you are.

You’d think I was on the run from something.

No, seriously, some sort of witness-protection program or maybe some insane ex-girlfriend…perhaps a jealous husband or the mafia (where the toll money goes)…anything to explain the following statistic:

I have moved eight times since 1998. And I’m about to make it nine.

And for the second time in my life, I’ll be living right along the Fox River.

For the second time in my life, I’ll be a homeowner.

For the first time in my life, I’m going to have to buy my own lawnmower. Sweet Lord, a lawnmower; I remember when I used to think new PlayStation games were pretty cool. Now: yard equipment.

For the first time in my life, my commute to work is going to exceed 40 minutes. And not just barely; oh no, it’s 55 minutes on the train alone.

We’ll see if this new neighborhood can contain me. We’ll just see.

This morning, due to the peculiar sleep habits of five-month-olds, I woke up on the couch with a (for back of a better term) muscle headache. This is a favorite thing that happens to me frequently, where some tension point in my back or shoulders causes pain to grip my entire skull. It’s not a traditional “migraine,” but it sucks like one.

So I took some Tylenol, and stopped for a sugar-free caramel latte for some caffeine. Then, because I took all that on an empty stomach, I started to feel nauseous, so I stopped at a gas station and bought some Pepto. Finally, because after all that, the Tylenol never even touched the pain, I popped some Advil.

If I don’t get better, I might have to go home and lie down and take a Special V left over from the beloved’s appendix surgery last year.

And I consider myself someone who DOESN’T like to take medicine.

What would I have done in medieval times? Drank mead until I passed out or just hit myself in the head over and over with a medium-sized rock until I achieved the same effect?

-sigh-

Dec. 6, 2005. Temperature - 1 degree F.

ONE FRICKIN’ DEGREE? IN EARLY DECEMBER?

When I went to college in New Jersey, I tried to explain to people out there how cold it is in Wisconsin. It was like trying to explain the infield fly rule to a 16-penny nail.

New Jerseyan: “It can’t be that cold. How cold is it?”

Me: “Well, about 10 below, bu…”

NJ: “Ten below what?”

Me: “Zero, but that doesn’t inclu…”

NJ: “Ten below ZERO?”

Me: “Yes, but that’s only if there’s no wind.”

NJ: -blank look-

Me: “Have you ever heard of wind chill?”

NJ: “No…”

Me: “It’s a way of expressing that it FEELS colder than it is because of high winds. For example, one day in high school, we got sent home because the temperature was 30 below, but the wind chill made it feel like it was 70 below.”

NJ: “Below what?”

Me: -sigh-

The other thing my slightly southern neighbors didn’t get was how much snow there is in Wisconsin.

NJ: (defensively) “We get lots of snow! They cancelled school one day last year! There musta been like, two inches!”

Me: -sigh-

I just didn’t have the heart to tell them that we also often get two inches. IN APRIL.

Let me take this moment on this incredibly cold day to tell you how much I hate B&T, Luna, and Tom. Hope things are nice in Florida, fuckers.

Bonus comment game: Often, when it gets really cold, the local TV weatherman will give the “frozen flesh” report, i.e., “It’s so cold that exposed flesh will freeze in four minutes.” Your challenge - Finish this sentence:

“It’s so cold that…”

Thanks to Yasmina Sometimes who thanks Lylyan, whom I don’t know.

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don’t speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me. It can be anything you want - good or bad - BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

When you’re finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON’T ACTUALLY remember about you.