A Special Message From Captain America...

This just in...

SECRET WEAPON...

I love Canada.

I love their beer.

I love their crazy policemen, that dress like the Nutcracker.

I even love Martin Short.

But today is different.

Today I must distance myself.

I must channel everything that is evil about Canada in order to vilify them in my mind.

I must think of Celine Deon and how she makes me want to rip my own face off. I must think of Avril Lavigne and how she makes me want to rip Celine Deon's face off. I will burn my Corey Haim DVD collection. I will throw away my Elvis Stojko autographed figure skates.

I will shatter my Rush Albums.

Well, maybe not the Rush Albums. They're awesome.

Be afraid Canada.

Be very afraid...




GO USA!!!

My Barber and Me...

A Barber is someone whose occupation is to cut any type of hair, give shaves, and trim beards. In previous times, barbers also performed surgery and dentistry. In more recent times, with the development of safety razors and the decreasing prevalence of beards, most barbers primarily cut hair. Barber is from the Latin barba, beard.

-Wikipedia

The above statement, as far as I can tell, is probably accurate. The only thing I take issue with, is the bit about the decreasing prevalence of beards. This sounds kind of vague to me and I'm not sure if that's the reason for barbers steering clear of shaving beards. I would guess that it has something more to do with the rising cost of insurance and perhaps the general public consensus in regards to trusting complete strangers with straight razors, in close proximity to their necks. And maybe the whole A.I.D.S. thing slowed things down a bit. Who knows? That's not what this is about.

This is about one of the single most consistent things in my life.

This is about loyalty.

This is about value.

This is about service.

This is about my Barber Shop.
























I've been getting my haircut at the same Barber Shop since I was a teenager. Uncle Ernie's. There is no Uncle Ernie there. The owner's name isn't even Ernie. It's actually owned by a man named Arikhay. I believe he's a Russian Jew. There are about 6 or 7 other barbers that cut hair in the shop. Most of the time, they are just standing around reading Penthouse or watching TV. They have all the things that Barbers have. Hairbrushes, combs, towels, hairdryers, that jar with the blue liquid. You name it, they have it.

I pick my own hairstyle out at this barber shop. Nothing is left up to chance.
























There I am. Middle row all the way on the left.

I feel comfortable in my barber shop. It reminds me of home. It has all of the creature comforts.



















I can relax and take a load off. Even a man deserves a spa day once in a while.
























The prices never change. Why should they? It's always the same haircut. Always the same shave. $25 for the whole kit & kaboodle. I think this is a very reasonable price.

There is also a plethora of accessories for sale. I never buy them. But there are people who do. I've seen them at the counter. It's not for me. It's not my style.



















My barber's name is Mike. He's a good guy. I don't know that much about him but I trust him. He always asks about my family and work. He has a very thick Russian accent. It's hard for me to understand him but somehow, we manage to communicate.
























Out-Numbered - Hey Mike. What's new?

Mike - Naaseng. Waas wit u?

Out-Numbered - The usual.

Mike - House verk?

Out-Numbered - Busy, busy, busy. Thank God.

Mike - House da gerlz?

Out-Numbered - Keeping me busy.

Mike - Goot. U vant shafe?

Out-Numbered - I'd love one. Thank you.

Mike - Goot.

I trust Mike to hold a straight razor to my neck.

He's a good guy.

He's my barber... and together we Out-Number most.

You Wanna Do It?

The evening prior to our departure for vacation. My Wife and I talk in bed...

Out-Numbered - Are you excited for tomorrow?

Wife - Totally. Are you?

Out-Numbered - Absolutely. I just feel like I still have a shit load of stuff to get done.

Wife - Like what? We've packed everything.

Out-Numbered - I still have to cut my toenails. I think I actually ripped a hole in my sock today.

Wife - That's pleasant.

Out-Numbered - Remember, I need your help either tonight or in the morning before we leave.

Wife - Help with what?

Out-Numbered - I need you to shave my shoulders and my back.

Wife - Come on. You're a guy. You're allowed to have a little hair.

Out-Numbered - No way. It's fucking disgusting. You said you would do it.

Wife - Fine. Let's do it now. I don't want to miss our flight because I was shaving your back.

Out-Numbered - Thank you.

Wife - Get in the shower. I'll be right there.

Out-Numbered - Did you just fart?

Wife - I can't help it. I've been so gassy lately.

Out-Numbered - Jesus. It smells like a pet store in here.

Wife - Stop it.

Out-Numbered - You could have gone in another room.

Wife - Do you want me to shave your back or not?

Out-Numbered - Fine.

Wife - Hurry up and get in the shower.

Out-Numbered - I have to pee first.

Wife - I'm going to check on the girls. I'll be right back.

Peeing...

Out-Numbered - Ahhhhh! Dammit!

Wife - What happened?

Out-Numbered - I peed on my hand.

Wife - What the? How do you pee on your hand?

Out-Numbered - Oh man. I think I peed in the garbage can too.

Wife - You're like a friggin' Orangutan. Clean this up and GET IN THE SHOWER!

Standing naked in the shower. My wife lathers up my shoulders and back with shaving cream.

Out-Numbered - Be careful.

Wife - Now what?

Out-Numbered - I have a pimple on my back. Make sure you don't cut it.

Wife - I'm not gonna cut it. Hold still.

Out-Numbered - Hey.

Wife - What?

Out-Numbered - I'm naked.

Wife - I see that.

Out-Numbered - You wanna do it?

Wife - Are you fucking kidding me?

Out-Numbered - I Guess not?

Vodka & Diet Coke at 30,000 FT...

Family trip commence.

Witness my mad parenting skillz.

Airplane style...



Out-Numbered by clouds only...

A Valentine's Day Optical Illusion...

Everyone loves an optical illusion.

They're fun and they challenge your brain to see things differently.

I thought that since it's Valentine's Day, I'd lovingly throw you guys a brain bender that I came up with.

Have fun!

Picture 1

On Valentine's Day we see a beautiful Heart and a delicious Hershey's Kiss...


















Picture 2

But what happens when you flip it upside down?


















Look! A Fat Ass Dropping a Deuce...

What a happy coincidence and perhaps the true meaning of Valentine's Day.

Big wet smooches to all my Internet crushes out there.

I Love You All !!!

Valentine's Day Is A Greedy Whore.

I hate you Valentine's Day.

I hate you because you are right.

I hate you because you remind me of what a complacent shit I've become.

I hate you because you make me feel guilty.

I hate your $50 Roses and your fat, hollow, glutenous, chocolate face.

I hate your funny, digital, musical cards and your plush little cupid dolls.

All reminders of my inability to give love consistently and unconditionally.

You disgust me with your cheap satin negligee's and your overpriced pajama-grams.

I won't buy them this year.

We own a closet full of unused spa days, gold pendants and orphan teddy bears.

My wife deserves better than you.

She deserves better than me.

Long before you came along, I wrote her love songs and poetry. I sent her letters that chronicled my unrequited love. I remember that courtship from long ago. She fell in love with me and you had nothing to do with it.

You're a cheap substitute.

You're a greedy, fucking whore.

I will bring her flowers on Saturday instead. I will wear black on Sunday to spite you.

We don't need you and your phony trinkets.

Go away.

Do Not Disturb.

This year I'll bring her a kiss on the neck, a careless whisper of sweet nothings in her ear, or maybe even a foot massage.

I remember how to do this. I don't need your God Damn help.

I hate you Valentine's Day!

Fuck you and the winged unicorn you rode in on.

I love my beautiful, precious wife because it's Friday, not because of you.

So go ahead and fall asleep on your over sized, satin, heart-shaped pillow.

I hope you never wake up.

My Daughter Is Sleeping Around...

Hoping this isn't a sign of future things to come.

Gonna go lock her in her room now...





































Maybe she's just really tired.























































Glad I remembered to put on her tights.













































































































This can't be good.



















Maybe she just takes after her Dad.

I've been known to sleep around as well.

Out-Numbered by big girl beds.

When in Rome...

A Woman's Right To Choose...

My oldest daughter and I are very musical people.

We both love to sing and perform.

For her 5th birthday, I bought her a microphone and an amplifier. She uses it all the time. We have guitars in the house, a piano, keyboards and all sorts of musical influences, that serve as a constant source of inspiration and encouragement.

The only thing that's been slightly disappointing for me, from a selfish standpoint, is that our tastes in music seem to differ quite a lot.

I grew up loving all things Heavy Metal; Manowar, Scorpions, Metallica, Queensryche and anything else I was able to bang my head to. As I grew older, my musical tastes continued to expand.

Now, I can tolerate most anything, with the exception of all the crap that she likes; Hannah Montana, Ashley Tisdale, Jonas Brothers, Vanessa Hudgens and whatever else she blasts from that shitty, little CD / Clock Radio we put in her bedroom.

It's as if Lucifer himself had a megaphone, standing at a podium of evil, spewing sounds of retched, demons, writhing about in agony, in a pit of fiery despair. Not coincidentally, these demons are all employed by Disney.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm just getting old and it's a part of my transformation into a crotchety, old bag. All parents are meant to feel like their kid's music is too loud and far inferior to what they grew up listening to. Right? My parents probably drove my grandparents crazy listening to the Beatles and Elvis. I drove them crazy listening to Manowar and Kiss. Now my kids will inevitably push me to the brink of insanity by wearing out the High School Musical 3 Soundtrack.

But in the grand scheme of things, it will become painfully obvious that The Beatles, Manowar and Zack Effron were all genius lyricists and musical trendsetters. What a sweet moment of irony that will be for some Musical Historian / Psychotherapist. Until then, it's just a hideous cycle of doom.

Recently, I came up with a plan.

It's actually quite brilliant in its simplicity, if not diabolical in its intent.

I came up with a way to trick my children into liking my music.

All I did was make them think that it was their choice.

You see, I have about 1000 old cd's that are sitting in my basement. I haven't touched them since I ripped them all to my Ipod. They're all shelved neatly, in alphabetical order, in one of those gargantuan, black, faux wood, lazy susan style, cd racks. Remember those? My wife and I decorated our entire first apartment around that fucking monstrosity.

I'm sure those hideous pieces of functional furniture, were the sole motivation for Steve Jobs and his team of developers, when they were working countless hours, designing the prototype for the first Ipods.

Anyway, my kids are always asking me about those CD's and they are constantly asking for my permission to play with them. I always say no, because it only leads to a giant mess for me to clean up.

That just makes them want it more.

But what if I were to find a way to control the mess?

What if I were able channel their curiosity and harness it for the greater good of me? It sounds like molecular science but it's not.

It can be done.

It has been done.

THE PLAN

One night last week when I was getting my 7 year old ready for bed, as always, she asked me to put on some candy ass, demon music, for her to fall asleep to.

I said, "What would you like to hear baby?"

She said, "Can I listen to Corbin Bleu?"

I said, "Absolutely not. That's not sleepy music. That's shit for brains, dance music, sweetheart."

OK, maybe I didn't exactly say that but it's what I was thinking.

But I did offer this suggestion...

"How about we go downstairs and I'll let you pick out one new CD from Daddy's CD rack?"

She sat straight up in bed.

"REALLY? I can pick out any CD I want?"

Knowing I have her right where I want her...

"Absolutely. Any CD you want."

And that's exactly what she did.

We spent about 15 minutes going through my collection, discussing all the different types of music there was to choose from, which ones were my favorite and what singers were alive or dead. She has some sort of obsession with dead artists and she thinks Janis Joplin is ugly. Who am I to disagree?

The amazing thing is that after all these years of trying to push my music on her, in the car or in the house, it finally came down to this. I gave her the opportunity to choose. Of course, it was a controlled group of selected material but it was a fair choice nonetheless.

Now every night, we go downstairs and spin the huge, black tower of ancient song. Round and round and round she goes. Where she stops, nobody knows.

INDIGO GIRLS - Strange Fire

OK, so it's not a perfect system but it sure beats being Out-Numbered by Lucifer and his band of Disney Demons...