It’s a good thing we blasted a big hole in the ozone layer, otherwise we wouldn’t have these spectacular out-of-season afternoons. 63 degrees? A day before December? In the northeast? It’s a gift!

We visited the boardwalk in Asbury Park. It got pretty busy as the afternoon progressed, but nothing like in July. 7-Year Old Daughter brought her scooter and I brought my skateboard. We cruised up and down the boardwalk. She yelled at me again about not having a helmet. I’m Mr. Bad Example.

3-Year Old Daughter is still too young for any mode of transport other than her two feet. She demanded equal time so I carried my skateboard.

Did you hear the cops finally busted Madame Marie
for tellin’ fortunes better than they do?

4th Of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)
Bruce Springsteen

Yes, there really was a Madam Marie.

Asbury Park was once the playground of Presidents but this is all that’s left. It’s okay. I like it just fine.

And on top of all these other really terrible things happening, I got a bad haircut! I look like a prematurely graying plucked chicken. All for $30 + $5 tip.

People who have know me for any length of time know that deep inside I am a vain little girl and that getting a bad haircut is a very serious matter. But the premature gray part doesn’t bother me too terribly much, especially in light of the other current nightmares that have set down at my table and refuse to get up and leave, even though I’ve begged, pleaded, demanded and cajoled them to do so. Actually, I don’t care if my hair turns purple. As long as it doesn’t fall out. *Shudder!*

There’s a saying—a curse, actually—that’s frequently attributed to the Chinese:

May you live in interesting times.

Its authenticity as being Chinese is doubtful, but it’s meant for your enemies, with “interesting” meaning horrible. These have been some of the most interesting days I’ve ever experienced. I pray to Bog Almighty that they end already and that things never, ever get this interesting for me again. Dullness is my new mantra.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. We’re suppose to be thankful for the good things. And I am. But I’d be a lot more thankful if certain things would go the fuck away and leave me and my family alone.

I’m the man in the box
Buried in my shit
Won’t you come and save me?

I’m the dog who gets beat
Shove my nose in shit
Won’t you come and save me?

Man in the Box
Alice in Chains

God, I hate exercising. It’s boring, it’s time consuming and, if you’re doing it properly, it hurts like hell. But I’m an old dad. I started a family very late in life. [My friends back in Ohio have kids in college. I have a 3-Year old.] I owe it to The Daughters and to Mrs. Wife to stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible. So I exercise. And, God, I hate it. But I have to do it for their sake.

I went out for a run today. Plugged in my earbuds, put my iTouch on shuffle and it spit out the following:

Keep Yourself Alive by Queen
Lust for Life by Iggy Pop
Father and Daughter by Paul Simon
Cure for Pain by Morphine

Dear Mr. Jobs: This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Please stop FUCKING with me, man!

* * *

Mapstew did a post congratulating Sesame Street on its 40th anniversary. I was just outside the curve and never benefited from Sesame Street, however, I remember seeing a parody of Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell. It was called Rebel L and it was about the letter “L.” They had an emotionally tormented punk Billy Idol Muppet and used the same camera angles and attitude as the actual video for Rebel Yell. It holds up well and it gave me a laugh.

Over the past week or so I’ve had an illuminating assignment at A Company Called Malice, Inc. I’ve been working on a marketing thought piece on Distressed Debt investing. Finance is not my field of expertise. I don’t do content. I’m the design/layout make-it-look-pretty guy. I’m not going to pretend that I know anything about Distressed Debt investing. But what I’m reading makes my flesh crawl just a bit.

As I understand it, Distressed Debt is the opportunity to invest in companies that are in the final stages of life. They invest in companies that are faltering because of financial and/or operational difficulties. This is, on the surface, an almost benevolent act. They are giving troubled companies a cash infusion with the hopes of profiting on their recovery. What a great bunch of altar boys.

But it’s the tone of this piece and my conversations with the authors that irks me. The message is that, while it’s a damn shame that small business are failing at record rates and unemployment is above 10%, hey, fraternity brothers, let’s not weep in our beers over these losers because guess what? There’s lots and lots of money to be made on their failure. Let’s not pass up an opportunity to cash in.

The piece practically celebrates the fact that we are not at the end of the current distressed cycle and stresses that there’s going to be plenty more meat and bones for the Golden Boys to pick over and profit from.

It’s a terribly cold and calloused piece, especially when you consider the fact that this is the same bunch that got us into this mess in the first place. But business is business. And while it eats at my guts just a bit to be associated with this industry, I’ve got a mortgage to pay and two children to feed, so I’ll keep my mouth shut and do what I’m told. Yessah! Whatever you say sah! I sho hopes you admires mah work.

We took 7-Year Old Daughter to a birthday party in Washington, D.C. It was held at a fancy bakery. The pastry chef gave a demonstration to all the girls on how to decorate a cake. They were instructed on what type of flourish each frosting tip would render. Ribbons. Roses. Flower petals. Swirls. Then, they were each given their own cake to decorate.

Art is not The Daughter’s strong suit, despite the exposure she’s had to some world-class museums. She enjoys taking it all in but, frankly, isn’t very good at producing it. Her cake was a bit of a catastrophe. She made some unfortunate shapes and blobs of frosting. The colors didn’t match and there was no order to it.

A few of the other girls, however, made splendid cakes. Especially 8-Year Old Niece, who has an uncanny talent for art that borders on macabre. Daughter took one look at the other beautiful productions, looked down at her own, and the look on her face broke my heart 10,000 times. She said, “My cake looks stupid.”

Do you remember the first time your own mediocrity was revealed to you? What could I do? I knew what she meant. I’ve had that feeling many times. I told her that her cake was beautiful but it rang hollow. Then, I said the only thing I could think of: “I love you very much.”

* * *

These pics are from a few weeks ago when Sister #2 was visiting. Contrary to popular stereotype, New Jersey isn’t ALL chemical plants. We took her to the beach but also for a walk in the forest. She took these of the two Daughters and I strolling a well-worn path through a thick woods. I like the first pic but the second one is a classic because of 3-Year Old Daughter’s over-the-shoulder glance back.