One day I will  be a writer.

Although, ask me what sort of writing, and I must confess that I don't have that part of it nailed down, yet.  Not exactly.  It will be exciting stuff, when I finally get around to it... worlds will drip off the tip of my virtual pen... gritty landscapes... paced by dark-yet-funny characters, smart-yet-cool heroes.  And heroines.  There will be fighting.   And sex.   There may be zombies.  Alien races.  Talking animals. Or historic warriors.  There may be a rebel angel.  Or demons.  Or all of the above, duking it out apocalyptically.  I admit, I once thought I might write about vampires - alas there must be a literary moratorium on nosferati, as they are presently covered in bad-movie-poop.  But I digress.

My point is that I'd never -not ever- have guessed that I could find myself writing about anal blisters... yes... disturbingly large, debilitatingly painful, annoyingly persistent butt bubbles... you know... you have experienced them, or heard of them... the ones that must not be named (but their name begins with H, and rhymes with asteroid)...

In which a helpless baby stranded in a vast and lonely spaceship singlehandedly battles a horrible green alien... and nobody hears her scream.

(some content may not be appropriate for sensitive audiences)

                                 OK, fine... there is no spaceship.

Viktor E. Frankl does not need my endorsement of his book.  Several hundred people give him a virtually unanimous straight-five-stars review on Amazon (which may not be the ultimate criterion for quality, but it is my quick and easy guide to goodness).  And according to Wikipedia, Man's Search For Meaning belongs to "the ten most influential books in the United States," ever.

The question is... how come I never heard of it until now?  Had you?

Oh well, never mind that.  The book is as short as it is good (very).  And, as I just finished it, I will jot down a few of my impressions in the paragraphs below...

Several times in my life I've experienced the hectic months-long madness of comming home each day, bone-tired from work, only to engage in a losing fight to contain the destruction and the poop that an entire litter of marauding puppies can dispense with such unbelievable gusto...  And then, a mere 8 weeks after it began, I've slogged through the heartbrake of seeing the little demons go to new owners... one by one... until suddenly I come home one night and the floors are pee-free, the furniture's insides are still surrounded by the furniture's outsides, and my home is... silent.**

The last time I went through this, I wrote a little "Ode to a puppy, leaving".  It is perhaps, a bit sappy, but I like it.  As far as I know, I only shared it with my then girlfriend (now wife).  Now I share it with the rest of yus.  Enjoy...

In case you didn't know... this blog is routinely read by (you and) about 4 (other) loyal fans...

OK, it is read by 5 fans (whose loyalty and attention span must never be taken for granted, but earned through solid, humorous yet insightful, ultimately informative writing).

Fine, forget fans... by 5 curious people.  6, on rainy days.

And it occurs to me as I sit down to write something... anything... that if there is a sure way to rouse the ire of my readership (or at least their disappointment)... a way, while I am at it, in which I might also make my blog somehow less socially, culturally, or intellectually relevant... (to say nothing of its once alleged commitment to topics related to rookiedaddyhood) well then that way would surely consist of my writing about...

A little too much drama in the title?  Perhaps.  But I was such a proud and prolific blogger once (for about five days)!

What have I been up to, that I can't lend one minute of my time over the last several weeks to my old pal the rookiedad blog?  Well, lets see...



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Well, V-Day has come and gone and - what the hell - I'll write about it.
I do not mean Victory, Valentine's, Vegas or Viagra. I mean, the day (7 July 2011) when me ol' baby-making equipment was finally Retired In Place. Yes, after a longish career of moderate mischief and a recent turn towards family building, the boys are finally... more or less strictly decorative.

Just a list of things my son says.  He's not a big talker.  That's because he is smart.  Before he could say a single word he had figured it all out:  In the beginning (not too long ago) God made the world, and the world was full of things that were good (or at least seemed interesting, or tasty), but in His trademark mysterious way, He had placed them all out of reach.  That seemed unfair.  But then... aha!  God had cleverly populated the world with an endless supply of adults willing to bend over backwards to reach for the good (interesting or tasty) things, and hand them over to you.  Nice job God!  All you had to do was point at the thing desired then say "mmm?" (meaning "give me that"), or "mmmmm!" (meaning "no, not that, THAT you moron!") or "MMMMM!" (meaning "oh ferchrissake what is taking you so long!").  So... Eventually the kid saw that adults were not that sharp... and words would be needed.

I read this post and it got me to thinking (once again) about the always elusive and controversial trait of manliness (and it's twin sister).

I thought the matter over while I showered (I do take long showers which, come to think of it, may be somewhat unmanly... but this, as will be inconclusively argued below, is probably OK).

It has been several months since I began my flirtations with blogging.  And still it wasn't until last week or so that I began to get it.  
It being the realization that... there is some razor sharp funny smart kick-ass writing going over here (or over there).  Addictively good stuff.

My problem was that I wanted to be a blogger before had become a blog reader.  My bumbling transformation unfolded like this: