We recently signed Collin up for Gymboree classes, but every time I go I’m faced with this scenario:

Other Parent: Oh, you’re son is so cute!  Look at those curls!

Me: Well, thank you.

(I look over at their kid. Egh!  Definitely not cute.)

Me: These mats are pretty soft huh?

I hate stuffed animals and I always have.  You talk about worthless toys.  Remember Pound Puppies?  Those were some truly shitty toys. 

Oh look, a dog!  How fun to play with!  No, wait, it’s not. It doesn’t do anything.

Well it’s 2009 and like everything else on the planet, they’ve improved on stuffed animals by adding USB connections.  My son had his first birthday recently and one of our friends got him this guy:
 

This rad little brother’s name is Scout and he’s not your average stuffed animal. Inside he’s got a little computer that you hook-up to your computer via USB. Once connected a small piece of software installs that connects you to a special website where you can customize Scout. You can update Scout to say your child’s name, favorite color, favorite food and favorite animal.  You can also add and remove the songs stored on Scout.

When my son turns on his Scout it says, “Hi Collin, do you want to play?” And when he sings the song about favorite things he mentions mangos and dogs.  That’s pretty sweet if you ask me.  And Collin loves the fact that it says his name.  As soon as it turns on he flies across the room for it.

Scout’s pretty cheap too. He’s only $15 on Amazon right now. Hey, pick a few up for Christmas.  He’s recommended for children from 6 months to 3 years.

I’ll admit, I’m a sucker for techie-toys, so Scout’s a winner in my book.

Uncle Vic had fun with his Facebook Profile pictures. The above is my favorite. He titled it “Alaskan Redneck”

My Uncle Victor passed away last night. He took his own life.

He had some horrible variety of cancer that was attacking his body and giving him agonizing back pain. While it likely wouldn’t have taken him for some time, the pain wasn’t going anywhere. While he didn’t mark his calendar, he has been preparing his family and friends for Thursday night over the past few months, although I’ll be honest when I say I didn’t expect it to actually happen. He went peacefully.

If you recognize his name, it’s because my son’s middle name is also Victor. Dom was named after his great grandpa, but it’s a family name, so I guess in a way he was named after Uncle Vic too. So what am I going to tell my son, Dominic Victor, about my Uncle Victor–the man who affectionately referred to me as “poopeater?” (And no, there is no story behind the nickname, except that when I was eight the word “poop” was considered the pinnacle of comedic genius and Uncle Vic was always willing to oblige.)

Well, first I’ll give Dom the basics. Uncle Vic was an actor. I saw him on stage and on TV. He was enormously tall and by all accounts equally talented. He had the loudest laugh I’ve ever heard, and he would say anything to anyone.

But once I get passed the surface, I’m going to tell Dom that Uncle Vic taught me you don’t have to agree with everything someone says or does to love them, or to be loved by them. My Uncle was pretty much my polar opposite. We disagreed on almost everything and have made very different decisions in our lives, but we just kept right on loving each other anyway. And please don’t misinterpret that last sentence as a reference to his homosexuality, it wasn’t.

But since you brought it up, my first vivid memory involving my uncle is when my mom told me he was gay. I remember being a chubby little seven year looking forward to staying with my uncle on a visit to Chicago. For some reason I also remember I was wearing my brand-new Joker t-shirt (the Jack Nicholson incarnation). I remember being relieved that nothing was actually wrong with him because, based on the “we need to talk about Uncle Victor” intro to the conversation, I expected to hear that he was hurt in an accident, or worse yet, was canceling the visit.

Soon after my initial worry dissolved away, I remember feeling guilty for saying all of those horrible little rhymes that seven year-olds say about homosexuality. You know the ones:

“I love you, you love me, homosexuality. People think that we’re just friends but we’re really lesbians.”

At an early age I learned that I had someone who I loved dearly who was gay, and that shielded me from falling into whatever sexist, racist, homophobic thought patterns some children seem to develop during their formative years.

That weekend in Chicago, his partner Mark was given a proper introduction as Uncle Vic’s boyfriend. We made a hundred paper cranes and played with Mark’s Casio keyboard. It could actually record your voice and then play it backwards. We laughed for about an hour when we realized that “wake up” sounds an awful lot like “F*** you” when played backwards in a muffled robotic keyboard voice.

Mark died of AIDS a few years later. Mark and Uncle Vic had broken up before Mark was diagnosed. My uncle’s next love, Scott, already had HIV when they met. I was a big fan of Scott. He would see middle-aged women, trying desperately to defy the cruel aging process, walking down the street in ridiculous outfits deemed fashionable by whatever designer was popular that week, and simply comment, “well, it’s not for everyday wear.” I spread Scott’s ashes in Italy with my Uncle. Uncle Vic gave me Scott’s cuff links. I wore them to a wedding a few weeks ago and remembered him fondly.

I just reread that last paragraph. It’s funny how fragmented memory can be. I didn’t think about Italy when I heard the news this morning. It was only after I made it through the maze of my mind to Scott. Even now, it seems my brain will only release little vignettes of our trip to Italy, even though some of my fondest memories of Uncle Vic come from those two weeks.

However, I do remember Uncle Vic hanging his head out of my great aunt’s window into the crowed plaza below and shouting “look at these American whores!” in perfect Italian, as my mom and aunt approached. They didn’t think it was as funny as we did.

I also vividly remember the vile dinner we were served at some obscure relative’s house. Uncle Vic and I hid the mystery meat in the potted plant sitting behind our chairs, rather than subject our stomachs to its stench. Uncle Vic asked for seconds and thirds just to amuse me with new and inventive ways of disposing of the meal. During dinner, he also routinely made vulgar and offensive remarks in English to the Italian-only speaking audience. He would say things like, “The meal you just served tasted like dog shit,” with the same inflection you would normally hear, “thank you so much for your hospitality.” It was his goal to make his sisters and nephew laugh uncontrollably in front of their old-world relatives. As soon as we stepped foot outside the door, our pent-up laughter erupted through the Italian countryside.

Finally, I remember taking a few morning runs with Uncle Vic through the cobblestone streets of Rivisondoli, just silently enjoying his company.

It was rare to enjoy his company silently. He usually never shut up. When he spoke he was often saying things I didn’t agree with. He would swear loudly and make vulgar sexual comments in public places just for shock value. Although to be fair, I suspect he would tell you he did it as a social service. He believed that most people are prisoners of their own guilt and misguided sense of right and wrong. He postulated that if everyone would just tell the truth and stop pretending to be pure and pious all the time, the world would be a better place—at least a more honest place. He hated false-pretense and believed that the lies we tell ourselves are the most insidious. He’s probably right about that one.

He never understood how my faith could be anything but an unnecessary shackle. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the concept of faith bringing with it freedom. While he had some choice words for “organized religion,” he had at least some respect for my personal faith. Don’t get me wrong, he thought I was nuts, but he loved and accepted what he perceived to be my nuttiness. He wanted to know every detail about me, even the not so nice ones. Okay, especially the not so nice ones. He didn’t judge me, he just wanted to know me all the way to my core.

And that’s how I loved him, all the way to my core; for who he was; for everything he was; for what he taught me about myself. He wrote something on his blog a few weeks ago that has stuck with me, and I find myself going back to it again and again today. Here is a quick excerpt:

Vic’s Love Q&A:

Q: What’s the difference between unconditional and conditional love?

A: This is a trick question: If it’s not unconditional, it’s not love. Conditional love isn’t love at all, it’s barter.

Q: So you’re saying the phrase “unconditional love” is redundant.

A: Yep, I am.

And so am I, Uncle Vic. I love you unconditionally because there is no other way to love.

Rest in peace, Poopeater.

Dom didn’t get to go trick-or-treating yesterday. He had a pretty high fever and the buzzkill doctor said to keep him inside. We did as we were told. Does that make us good parents or bad parents?

Either way, Kerry and I were really sad for our little guy. We had spent the majority of the week teaching him to say “trick or treat” and his hotdog costume was about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen (and yes, I repeatedly made him say “weiner”). Poor little guy. While he couldn’t go outside, we did let him trick or treat from room to room with Mommy and Daddy, and let me tell you, he got some killer candy. Just for clarification, I mean “killer” as in “name brand sugar-fix” and not “killer” as in “check the tootsie rolls for HIV needles.”

He wasn’t doing much better this morning, and when Dom isn’t feeling well, Dom gets whatever he wants from his pushover parents. Today, “whatever he wants” was watching Disney’s Cars on repeat. I now officially know the numbers of Lightning McQueen, Chick Hicks, and The King (95, 86, 43, respectively, in case you were wondering).

I hate it when Dom is miserable. Even though I’d take his illness away if it was possible, I will admit that I do enjoy it when he just wants to lay on me and watch movies all day. It’s hard to slow him down long enough for a good squeeze when his energy bar is at full capacity. Unfortunately, he won’t be nearly as compassionate in three days when he feels fantastic and I’m showing the first symptoms of whatever nasty little virus he gave me by coughing in my mouth seven times.

This doesn’t have anything to do with being a Dad, but I found a solution to something that was driving me crazy that I couldn’t find the answer to, so I figured I would post it.

This is for folks with an Android phone who are getting the error message: “Too Many Contacts Deletes”

This occurs when you try to delete a large number of contacts and then your phone tries to sync with your Gmail account. If you don’t do anything about it, it won’t go away.

Here’s the Fix
1. Make sure your contacts are still in your Google account.  You can see this by visiting http://www.google.com/contacts
2. On your Android phone > Go into Setting > Applications > Manage Applications > Contacts Storage
3. Inside contacts storage choose: Clear Data

That’s it, next time your phone tries to sync with Google it will repopulate your contacts with no annoying error message.

While we were down visiting my brother in Georgia, he decided to surprise me with a fishing trip into the mountain rivers of Georgia. He let me in on his shenanigans the day before we were go and even shared with me some of the things the guide had told him about the trip. Most of which I believed were overblown and fanciful lies or as we call them at work: Marketing.

As you can see from the photograph, if anything, the guy undersold. It was an amazing trip. We were pulling huge fish out of water you wouldn’t expect to find a frog in let alone gargantuan dinosaur fish. Each one taking at least 15 minutes to get into the boat, I had never seen such large fish in my life.

You’ve probably guessed by now that this entire post was merely a thinly veiled plot to allow me to showcase my incredibly large 37 pound striper and maybe rub in the fact that my brothers fish was only 25 pounds.  While 25 pounds is big for fish, it is far smaller than 37 pounds which I illustrated very nicely in this PDF which I sent to my brother.  My boss would be so proud.

As we were planning our vacation to see my brother and his family in the ATL I fantasized about all the great times we would have together.  Maybe we’d drink a few beers (probably a few too many), talk about old times that nostalgia has since shined into perfection and laugh so hard, for so long, that it truly hurt.

But the best part about our entire trip was one that I had, understandably, never envisioned. My son is now almost one and he has two boys, one is two-and-a-half the other is only 4 months old.

What I hadn’t stopped to consider for a moment was that the older two would find interest in each other. Seemingly from the moment we arrived they were drawn together like two old friends, my older nephew showing my son around his playland. The two relying on only smiles and eyes for communication instead of words. They played together for hours, day after day.

I don’t know what it was that impacted me so deeply about them playing together, but it really made me happy. And not the kind of happy you get from buying a new TV, the kind of happy you can recall on memory weeks, months or even years later and still have it warm your soul.

My brother was a senior at Toledo during my freshman year at Bowling Green. He was happy to buy me beer, but he me made me abide by one rule: I was only allowed to request Milwaukee’s Best or Natural Lite. He told me that good beer was wasted on the underage. He was absolutely right.

Now, college is further away than I’d like to admit. I sometimes reflect fondly on the days of having no real responsibility except for showing up to class. I do not, however, miss sucking my beer through a funnel. With the relative sobriety of responsibility comes the appreciation of good beer. I’m no snob, but I do have rather strong opinions on the subject. My least favorite beers are rated on a scale of 1 to 5 miserable Dominics (5 miserable Dom’s being the worst beer ever). My favorite beers are rated on a scale of 1 to 5 happy Dominics (5 happy Dom’s being the best). I hate all IPAs, so I’ve left them off of my list entirely.

Bud Light – Simply put: it tastes like poison. Stop buying it because the commercials are funny, you sheep.

Budweiser American Ale – I don’t necessarily endorse what my body does the next day, but this is a good all-around ale, and it comes at a lower price than the micro-brews. The fact that the same company makes Bud Light and American Ale makes me believe peace is possible in the Middle East.

Grass Roots Ale – The guy at Great Lakes Brewing Company who created Grass Roots Ale should get a face punch from the guy who created Conway’s Irish Ale for tarnishing the brewery’s good name. Unless of course the same guy created both, in which case I’d like to shake his hand while simultaneously punching him in the face.

All Great Lake Beer, Except for Grass Roots Ale – Phenom. Visit the brewery and get the chocolate coffee porter. It’s the one thing that saves people living in Cleveland from crippling depression.

Corona – Drinking Corona is supposed to make me feel like I’m experiencing “the islands.” Apparently experiencing “the islands” involves having somebody piss in your mouth. But if you add a lime, at least it tastes like piss with a citrusy finish.

Land Shark – This is what Corona should be. I’m not a big fan of this style of lager, but this is far and away the most palatable of the bunch, plus it’s made by Jimmy Buffet’s brewing company, and that one song he sings isn’t completely horrible.

Wacko (Magic Hat Brewery) – It’s beet beer, and it tastes exactly like beet beer. The color is unique in a good way, but the taste is unique in a “why did anybody ever think this was a good idea” way. I’m a big fan of Magic Hat beer because at least I know it won’t taste like everything else, but I could have done without this one.

Odd Notion (Magic Hat Brewery) – There may be another beer as dark as this one, but you’d be hard-pressed to find one darker. It tastes like chocolate and coffee and night time. As far as I know it’s only available in the fall seasonal 12 pack. All four beers in the sampler are solid (especially the “Circus Boy” Hefeweizen), but this is the headliner.

Sam Adam’s White Ale – I’m a big fan of almost all Sam Adam’s beer, but the White Ale tastes like puddle water. If you squeeze in an entire orange, you can choke it down, but then just like with Corona, you become one of those guys who puts fruit in his beer. Ask yourself if you really want to be that guy and be prepared to live with the consequences.

Shock Top – Michelob realized it was losing market share to micro-breweries, so it came out with a line of mass-produced pseudo-micro brews. They’re surprisingly good. Shock Top is probably my favorite of the bunch, followed closely by Winter Cask Ale (seasonal). Shock Top is light at about 100 calories/bottle, but makes you feel like you’re drinking something a bit more substantial. If you’re not into citrus, stay clear.

Heinekin – At least I can now say I know what a skunk’s ass tastes like.

Coor’s Light – It really is as cold as the Rockies. I know, because the mountains on the bottle are blue. True, it’s not as exciting as some of the others on this list, but every man needs a solid drinking beer for when his kids are staying at the grandparents and “moderation” can be a foreign concept again, if only for one brief evening.

Having to go shopping with a child is merely God’s way of punishing people for having sex. From getting them out of the car, keeping them from touching everything within three feet of the floor, changing their diaper while balancing them on the edge of a sink, heating up bottles on exposed pipes, rushing to complete all of your purchases to prevent a breakdown at the checkout and trying to get all of the stuff you bought and them to the car; it’s enough for anyone to see the benefits of buying online or a vasectomy.

Not long after I wrote this article about how Target can improve their stores, I was fortunate enough to visit an Ikea store with my family and I was pleasantly surprised with the way Ikea eliminated all of those "sticky" parts you face when shopping with children.

Family Parking – Sweet lord! The fantastic life of the physically handicapped can be yours! Ikea provides close parking spots for families with ample room to get out strollers and you don’t have to walk your kids across the parking lot.

Bottle Warmers – I can’t even count the number of ridiculous ways I’ve warmed up bottles for my son, but in their cafeteria at Ikea there are bottle warmers all over the place.

Family Restrooms – These are everywhere now a days, but I prefer using them when changing my son. Not only are they generally roomier, but there’s no chance I might be changing my son in front of some pederass.

Supervised Play Area – While I’m far too paranoid to ever leave my son with someone that I don’t know and who could easily hide my child behind any number of Billy bookshelves, some people love the fact that they can enjoy Swedish meatballs in peace.

Cheap Kids Food – If you do fancy yourself a Swedish meatball, your kid can eat pretty cheaply.  Only 99 cents for a kids meal and if your child eats baby food still, they’ll give you a jar for free.

I must say, from start to finish, Ikea makes shopping with kids almost enjoyable.  It is shopping after all.

“You” 

Dom has a fun new game where he randomly shouts out animal names and then humiliates me by making me act them out for his own twisted amusement. (Just for the record, what the hell sound does a giraffe make? It’s keeping me up at night.) Anyway, I try to entice Dominic into acting out his favorite animals instead, because it’s infinitely cuter than a grown-ass man scratching his armpits and making monkey noises. Here is the actual transcript from a conversation I had with my son, proving that the intricacies of the English language are difficult to master:

Dom (pointing at me): Daddy why-in!

Me: Daddy was just the monkey, you be the lion

Dom: me why-in

Me: Yeah buddy, you be the lion. What’s a lion say?

Dom: no, me why-in!

Me: Wait, do you want me to be the lion?

Dom: O-kaaaay!

Me (doing an Oscar caliber lion impression): Roooooar!

Dom (while clapping his hands with delight at my genius): you sick-in. Cyuck-cyuck-cyuck

Me (flapping my arms like an ass-hat): I’m a chicken. Cluck cluck cluck cluck

Dom: no, you sick-in. Cyuck-cyuck-cyuck-cyuck

Me: yeah, I’m a chicken.

Dom (getting frustrated): no you sick-in! Cyuck-Cyuck-Cyuck

Me (the light bulb flips on in my brain and I run to get a photo album. I point to a picture of Dominic): Hey buddy, who is this?

Dom: You.

I think I finally figured out where Abbott and Costello got their inspiration. . .