I got an attitude of grattitude!

So I took Max trick or treating and that means Halloween is over and that means I'm trying with all my might to be disciplined enough not to eat all of his candy while he sleeps and that also means it's November which means Thanksgiving is coming up and that means its time to start being more grateful but it doesn't mean that I have to stop using run-on sentences... but lets get back to being grateful.

I'll start by expressing my gratitude that my biking buddies didn't have a video camera rolling when I turfed it on our last mountain bike ride. Now, I realize I broke 3 ribs, bruised my torso, gave myself a wicked charlie-horse, and almost almost almost cried in front of my bros, but honestly none of those things even compares to having the wind knocked out of you, particularly if it's caught on film. I say so not because of the level of pain associated with being unable to breathe (minimal really), but more so because you feel like an idiot rolling around on the floor gasping for air while your friends stare in wonder. Let me illustrate:

I'm also grateful that my friend decided to share this video with me after the accident because there's nothing better for broken ribs than trying not to laugh over and over and over again while he keeps pressing play. "Preciate it" Jeff. I'm also grateful for friends who are just as concerned and helpful in that humiliating moment as the studio reporters were for that poor lady stomping on the grapes. "Oh... Oh no... Youch... Well... Okay. Should we just keep riding?"

"Dad, dissis disgusting"

Attaway fittytwo!

Glen Beck is the new Stupid

Dear Glen,

I was planning on having the local neighborhood kids get together to rake the leaves from your mother's lawn and maybe come back in a month to shovel some snow from her driveway, but since you don't agree with 'volunteerism' or acts of service we decided to stay home and watch TV instead. But don't worry, we're not watching any of those shows that accepted Obama's challenge to promote "responsibility" and "service to others". After all, you're right, "a campaign to inspire action and a new way of thinking about service" would just be lame. Instead, we'll just keep watching more and more shows focused on crime, rape and murder because encouraging Hollywood to portray and promote a better America is downright communist! Okay, I'll stop with the sarcasm.

In fairness though, it must be difficult to come up with a new conspiracy to be "outraged" about every night. I guess not all of them are going to be winners.

p.s.

Why didn't we hear the same uproar when Bush and Rove enlisted Hollywood screenwriters and directors to talk about how the entertainment industry could help the war effort?

If wives were to beat up other wives, mine would beat up yours.

What's all this talk about me being spoiled? Listen, just because Ashlee brings lunch to work for me EVERY DAY does not mean I'm spoiled. To the contrary. Rumor has it I am one devilishly-good-looking and very deserving husband who just so happens to be loved loved loved by his mrs (...and that hypnotist was totally worth every penny). Besides, just because your wife doesn't bring you lunch to work (EVER!) doesn't mean you should rain on my parade. It does, however, mean that your wife doesn't love you.

Hey man, don't blame me if you're wife don't love you.

As for me and Ash: we are luvas...

Dernier Cri.

My peeps! I've got great news. Apericots is up and running.

Now you may, or may not have heard me talk about our latest endeavor to start a new clothing company for infants, but despite whether you've ignored my calls over the past few months or actually answered, we've finally got our monkeys to stop jumping on the bed and they're ready for launch (that said, from the hereafter I will be dedicated to shamelessly prodding and cajoling you until you buy something).

And because I know its a fact that you will want to buy Apericots for your kids and for the kids of your friends and the sons of your co-workers and the daughters of your BFF's and the grandsons of neighbors, granddaughters of complete strangers, offspring of old college roommates, random kids on the street, and well... you get what I'm saying... we're offering a 30% DISCOUNT FOR FRIENDS AND FAMILY. Just type "apefandf" in the discount code section upon checkout (now through September 30th) and get a deep discount on sweet apparel. To top it off, we'll even give you FREE SHIPPING on orders over $20.00. In fact, if you have any Shasta in your fridge and you're willing to share, I might even hand deliver your item myself and stay awhile.

Rest assured that even though I think organic food is a scam, I know organic clothing is totally legit. That's why our products are backed by MC Hammer... or maybe we just WISH we could get MC Hammer. Regardless, Apericots apparel is made from 100% USDA Certified and pesticide-free cotton and we only use eco-friendly inks (alright, alright, I'll stop linking boring technical jargon and go back to linking super rad icons from our childhood).

Seriously though, who else makes clothing with as much love for your kids AND Mother Nature? Even if you don't care about going green, our designs are so cool we could print them on Mexican ponchos and you'd want your kid to wear 'em. (btw, if mustaches are your thing, we've got just the thing for you).

The simple fact that Apericots apparel is both hip and healthy allows you to bathe your conscience clean of all the ugly outfits we've worn over the past 30 years, let alone the harmful junk we've thrown into landfills all along the way.

To wrap things up, I'll make my point and my point is this: Check us out. You'll love what you see and I'll love you back if you buy something.

PEACE,

- Dave (davidv@apericots.com)

post script,

You should copy our web address (http://www.apericots.com/) into your email and send it to everyone you know. Seriously. People love mass communicated, boilerplate emails forwarded in bulk. Worst case scenario: Everyone in your contact list will be mad initially, but I'll think you're the coolest.

How could you choose between Brian Ferry and David Bowie?

HORRIBLE movie. Great scene. "Fantastic" Song.



Is it weird that Ashlee and I both think of my mother-in-law when we watch this?

verbatim

Grandpa: (pointing to a crescent moon in the daylight sky) "Max! What is that?"

Max: "Itsda moon. [Gasp!] Dere's a big piece broked off!"

verbatim

[driving home from the store]

Libbie: "Waah! Waaaaaaah! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

Dave: "Hey Max, will you talk to Libbie and make her feel better?"

Max: "It's okay Libbie. There's no lions."

While we're on the subject,

I thought I'd post another clip from another misinformed hippie.

I've tried to put a face with the voice and the only thing I can come up with is an image of an angry smoker lady, wearing stretch pants and a XXXL t-shirt with a cat on it.

Let's break down her rant:

"What the heck is in our water supply, what the heck is in our oxygen supply... of the metallic oxide salts that create a rainbow effect in a sprinkler?" She sure knows science. "Metallic oxide salts"? She isn't just full of it, she's very specific in being full of it. The only way I could have liked this video more is if she had made up some words in her explanation. "See, the phosphoraic tanins in the grass have been compromised by the acidaxation of the hydrolium in the atmospheroidal zone".

"Not just around our sun and our moon anymore..." When has there ever been a rainbow around the moon!? Lady, are you mistaking reality with your Trapper Keeper cover from second grade? I'm not judging you. I like unicorns too.

"The visible spectrum... is rainbows. This cannot be natural". Right now, Isaac Newton and Pink Floyd are in heaven shaking their heads in disgust. Not only did she ignore her teachers at school, but she never even bothered to take a closer look at the cover art on Dark Side of the Moon.

"We all know it wasn't something that happened twenty years ago". As someone who spent his childhood in the 80's, I can attest that as I slid down my "Crocodile Mile" I indeed noticed refracted light in the water mist and sunlight. I guess that just goes to show pollution has always been around. Danged corporations!

On second thought, if all this pollution is just making more and more pretty rainbows, it can't be so bad. When do we get unicorns!?

Organic food is a scam... and it tastes bad too.

Don't believe me? Read this article that was published in Reuters yesterday. I plan on taking it to Costco demanding that they go back to selling Kellogg's Pop Tarts that actually taste good instead of the crappy organic "Toaster Pastries" they carry now.

But first I'm going to mock and criticize people who act like they know what they're talking about, all while only pretending to know what I'm talking about. (*note my complete lack of credentials concerning nutritional information).

On second thought, I'm not going to get into it. Why spend my time demonstrating that just because you paid more for something does not mean it's of greater quality or allowed a chicken to roam free (while still having her eggs stolen)? I mean how do I win an argument against all the superior purists out there with thoughts like this running through their heads:

"Sure, I could pay a buck a pound for those giant, flavorful, red bell peppers that are so freaking good. Or I could pay a buck ninety nine a pound for the much smaller, wilted peppers next to them that taste like corn husks, BUT they do have that green 'organic' label on them. Oprah said evil corporate farms are poisoning our children with their chemicals and pesticides to make more money so I'm going stick it to the man and pay twice as much to get half as much from the "green" businesses that really are concerned about me and my family".

Eating organic food, driving a Prius, wiping your rump with recycled toilet paper... whatever elitist and superficial lifestyle choices you make to convince yourself that you are not as environmentally destructive as your neighbor is fine by me. It means all the good produce isn't picked over when I get there.

In the spirit of the Reuter's article, here's a clip from Penn and Teller. Now, I usually don't take my political thought from illusionists, but I do think they prove a point.

What do you do on a rainy day?

You ride your bike inside.

ALL DAY LONG.

Over and over and over again.

Sometimes you might get bored of the monotonous route so you turn your handlebars around and ride with them backwards. You know. Just to mix it up.

Mom the Magnificent

Every night before Max goes to sleep we both climb into his bed and read a book together. One of those books happens to be one of my favorite books to read when I was a boy:

Now I'm not talking about a copy of the one I used to read. I'm specifically talking about the exact same book. -In fact, if you flip open the cover, you'll see my name and phone number permanent markered in my Kindergarten attempt at cursive letters.

See, my mum was cool enough to save boxes upon boxes of my childhood toys and books and secretly stashed them in the attic after I grew tired of them - or maybe just left them laying around too many times. Whichever it was, millenia later, after having grown up, married, purchased a home and with kids of my own, my mum dug up those hidden boxes of pure nostalgia and gave them to me. I've since unpacked them like a giddy little school boy on Christmas morning.

Most of the toys have been re-stashed on the top shelf in Max's closet until he's a bit older and promises not to eat any pieces of my Micro Machine Super City Playset.

The books, on the other hand are seeing some action already. And this brings us back to the featured story: Max recently pointed out that grandpa and Marc the Magnificent know each other. Every time he sees this picture he points to I think you can figure out who, and yells, "GRANDPA!".

The downside to the story is that I think grandpa's going to have some explaining to do because Max keeps seeing him with this hot blond and has started asking where grandma is.

"You gotta ouchie dad?"

After riding Bobsled on my Epic, I've decided it's kinda like getting into a knife fight... only instead of bringing a Samurai Sword I took a spork.

On the bright side, I'll be picking this scab off my arm in about a week, packaging it as Beef Jerky and selling it on the side of the road. That guy on the side of Highway 6 that you pass on your way to Moab needs some competition.

Libbie Vogelsberg

Sunday, May 17th, 2009 at 8:41 AM

6 lbs, 15 ounces - 19 1/2 inches

A proud dad:

A wonderful mother:

And an excited big brother:

>

"When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche

It's time to break the silence. I realize I'm probably going to get into some trouble for this one but truthfully, I'm going to be completely unapologetic about not wanting to look at your dog's junk. I think that statement would be obvious, yet people actually buy dogs that are genetically predisposed to mooning the world. See:

(I've censured the following image for the sake of the children)

Look, I'm a dog guy. I always have been. The fact that I no longer have a dog of my own only means that my disdain for picking up poo exceeded the joys I received from having a mutt of my own. If you're a dog lover and you actually own a dog, good for you. It seems you might just love your dog as much as I love my kid because for no one else am I willing to handle feces. Not even my wife. Let me break it down for you;

If you're a cat lover, I have nothing to say to you. But I do have have plenty to type... For example: There are many clear advantages of owning a dog over a cat. Happy tail wagging beats creepy purring any day of the week. And I'll take an affectionate dog kiss (slobbery as it may be) over a scratchy cat tongue or that annoying rub against my shins. Not to mention the fact that dogs actually like people. Cats just stare at you in silent judgment. I have enough feelings of inferiority as it is and I don't need some snooty cat strutting around my house thinking it's better than me.

Despite that, the number one advantage dogs have over cats is the canine propensity toward modesty. Most dogs have a tasteful tail that considerately drapes over their exit ramp. However, no such characteristic exists for cats. This means every time a cat walks away from you, you end up catching a glimpse of the One Eyed Jack. You try not to look. Honestly, it's the last thing on earth you want to see, but it's like a strobe light. You've got to intentionally close your eyes to avoid it. And this is exactly what makes the curly tailed dog so irritating. It negates one of the primary desirable characteristics of their species. And this of course brings us back to the topic at hand.

I now direct my efforts to the owners of Pugs, Chows, Shar Peis and other dogs with tails that curl upward. Allow me to respectfully explain it to you; no one wants to see your dog's rectum. No one. Ever. And because you're the one who brought that unholy abomination into my life, I think it's up to you to do something about it.

Look, a dog's tail is the way it is. But for some reason you felt compelled to buy one with no regard for moral decency. Why you would choose to own a Pug instead of a Beagle, or a German Shepherd, or a goldfish is beyond me. I guess some people prefer their dogs to have bulging eyeballs and the inability to breath clearly from their noise.

Its clear that the dog isn't gonna do anything about their Red Eye to the Sky so as I stated earlier, this places the burden of hiding that dreaded wrinkled star from the involuntary glance of the reluctant public squarely on your shoulders. But friend, I would rather light a candle than curse your darkness. And that's why I've created this:

I'm currently developing a tasteful and modest "Dog Bumhole Cover Upper Because I'm Sick Of Looking At That Thing And Clearly You, The Owner Are Not Going To Do Anything About It So I've Taken Matters Into My Own Hands".

Because it's such a long name, I've decided to abbreviate it. I'm calling it the "DBCUBISOLATTACYTOANGTDAAISITMIMOH" for short and you can find them at DBCUBISOLATTACYTOANGTDAAISITMIMOH.com.

My prototype consists of an eye patch from my Halloween pirate costume that is connected to the dog's collar. This way when your bug eyed, snorting Pug walks away, you get a glimpse of a cool skull and cross bones instead of the winking eye of death.

As technologically advanced as it is, I'm going to write off all the capital I've invested in research and development and I'm practically giving away the DBCUBISOLATTACYTOANGTDAAISITMIMOH because it's for a good cause. Act now and for only four payments of $19.99 you can experience the preferred alternative of ridding your friends lives of your dog's shameless exhibitionism.

La-ia Vogelsberg

We're down to the wire here people. Babygirl Vogelsberg will be joining us soon but we still don't have a name. Ashlee and I continue negotiations but to no avail. We decided to bring Max in as a mediator but he likes names like, Yogurt, Motorcycle and Shoot Hoops!, which I'm not entirely apposed to considering the freak-nasty granola names Ashlee keeps putting on the list. Needless to say, we need a name and that reminds me of a good story:

One of the labors I enjoyed most while letting my dad pay my way through college was substitute teaching at a middle school in Rose Park. And for those of you who have never ventured to the West siiieeeeed, don't be fooled by the common nomenclature that because it's a "park", its a pleasant little ditty in the middle of a city. (don't even act like that that wasn't a sweet little rhyme with a catchy little rhythm)

Now, I can understand why the local government would try to hide the fact that Rose Park is anything BUT rosey or parkish, but I also think there should be a bit more honesty in a name. That said, I think it should be called Rose Thorn or maybe Gang-banger Park. It's the same reason I think my parents should have named me Thecoolestdangkidontheplanetandwithfreakinggoodlookstoboot Alan Vogelsberg. I guess they figured I'd have a hard time spelling that so they settled on David Alan Vogelsberg instead. Whadaya do?

Truth be known, Rose Park isn't near the scariest or most dangerous place I've been. Nor is it the Compton that Utahan's claim it to be. Nevertheless, it is more than just a golf course away from a country club. I mean how many times have you seen guys waving guns around on your way to work?

Specifically, North West Middle School is an ESL (English as a Secondary Language) school with the majority of enrollees being Hispanic and African immigrants. That's not to say I didn't have other demographics like Germans, Russians and other foreign nationals in my classroom (most of which spoke no English), but its true, the majority were from Mehhicco so mostly we habla'd Espanol.

I taught 7th and 8th graders who, for the most part were accustomed to the ways of the psuedo-gangsta because of the environment in which they lived. Regretfully most had at least known someone, or even had a family member, who was either incarcerated or shot at. Despite the affiliation, these kids were harmless. Too small to hurt you and too young to punk you. They just needed some influence from someone other than eminem (sorry Marshal, I meant eminem) or Tupac.

Now I'm not saying I was the influence they needed or even the one who could help these kids choose a better path. Quite frankly, I recognized early on that they looked at me like I was some nerdy Peabody trying with all his might to be cool. They called me Mr. Dave and asked, "Why you always wear North Face man? You don't got no Dickies". I knew I was finally accepted when they started calling me "Foo", as in "What up fool?".

One of my preferred memories at Northwest Middle School involved choosing a new mascot: The city decided Northwest Middle School was a scab on the map and as a consequence planned to demolish the building and relocate to a newer, nicer facility (read; further West and farther away from the Gateway Shopping Center). Someone suggested it was time for a new mascot too... something like, The Jets for example, being that the new school would be close to the airport. As faculty and staff we decided to survey the student body and let them vote for their new mascot. Little did we suspect eighty two percent of the student body - THAT'S 82 PERCENT ! - penciled in 50 Cent as the leading candidate. Let me clarify: they weren't suggesting two quarters, five dimes, ten nickles or fifty pennies. They were suggesting 50 Cent the gangsta YO! How telling is that?

Anyway. That's not what we were talking about. We were talking about names.

One day, we're working on registration for the next semester. A couple, parents of one of the students, reaches the front of the line and hands the girl next to me an application with the name "La-ia" on it. We look at the name, look at each other, scratch our heads, and the girl next to me apologetically mumbles something that sounded like "Luh-eeeuh?". The mother flashes a big forgiving smile, leans over to put her hand on the girl's shoulder and says, "Oh no honey, that dash ain't silent. It's Ladasha".

Now THAT is awesome. So awesome, I'm pulling out my trump card on this one. We're going with La-ia Vogelsberg. Well, on second thought, I'll meet Ashlee and Max half way... La-ia Yogurt Vogelsberg.

Bea Arthur, Be Naked

I saw a bumper sticker once that said that and I thought it was funny. Funny in that "make me throw up in the back of my mouth" kind of way. But that's a mean thing to say about a classy woman who just passed away.

Bea Arthur, better know as Dorothy Zbornak, died and it's a shame. That's now two of the four Golden Girls that have passed away in the last little while. I considered doing some long winded send off memorial tribute to the baritone beauty but it would have been a rehash of my Sofia tribute. So instead, I thought I would treat us all to the single greatest moment in the history of the Star Wars franchise. But wait. What does Bea Arthur have to do with Star Wars?, you ask. Let me tell you, thereby proving you a source of endless joy.

In 1978, in an attempt to capitalize on the success of the first Star Wars movie, some TV producer somewhere greenlit the unholy abomination known as the Star Wars Christmas Special. The story goes that Han Solo needs to get Chewie back to his home planet of Kashyyk in time for Life Day. Apparently they didn't have Christmas a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. I guess it was just too far for Santa's reigndeer (no offense Rudolf). If, on the other hand, Santa had a Millenium Falcon, things would have been different because "It's the ship that made the Kessel in twelve parsecs". Dude. That's fast. Buuuuut, we all know how Han was about lending out his Millenium Falcon. Even to Santa Clause. So they bagged Christmas and had Life Day instead.

Anyway, one of the scenes from that awful Christmas Special involves a musical number preformed by our beloved Bea. Cast as a bartender named Ackmena, she's working in the Mos Eisley Cantina. The Empire enforces a curfew putting her out of business. Her response? A deep voiced jazzy, New Orleans style, musical number. Take that, you dirty, evil Empire!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzXKySxPFCI&feature=player_embedded

No, this is not Spaceballs or Hardware Wars. In fact, it's no spoof at all. It's episode 4.5, starring Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher, Mark Hamill and the rest the original cast. If you doubt my word, check out the following musical number by a coked out of her mind Carrie Fisher in which she sings a crappy Life Day song to the tune of the Star Wars theme. My favorite part is the look on Harrison Ford's face (at 3:15) that seems to say, "What am I doing to my career?".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLfjqzLsPgw&feature=player_embedded

Holy Wookie! Check out the slow dissolves between the main characters as Leia sings, the clips from the movie seamlessly interwoven with the new footage, the crowd of fully robed Wookiees walking creepily through space, and the fact that Carrie Fisher is singing in a completely different tune than the music accompanying her. And yet as laughably awful as it all is, it is still more tolerable than Hayden Christensen's acting.

But back to my original point. Bea Arthur, classy broad. You'll be missed. Actually, I haven't seen anything you've done since the Golden Girls, except for that one Malcom In the Middle episode where you babysat Dewey (and then died...). So I guess nothing's really going to change. But Bea, you'll always have a warm place in my heart.

Creamed Corn it is...

So I don't necessarily have a rant about creamed corn other than it could only have come from the dirty dirty South. But I do have a rant about Pork n Beans which will suffice.

What's the deal with the blob of white fatty tissue that pops up half way through your bowl of pork n beans? You know what I'm talking about. It's that danged gelatinous mass of brain tumor that for some reason Heinz decides to leave in the can! And why is it that pork n beans can only be served on plates made of Styrofoam or paper? Neither lend to a suitable situation. It either keeps soaking through your paper plates until you've got 14 of them piled up to stop the bleeding or you were lucky enough to get a Styrofoam one but you screwed it all up because you poked your flipping fork right through it and now your balancing your plate so the juice doesn't drip through the hole onto your pants.

Despite the hassle I used to love Pork and Beans when I was a kid. And I mean LOVE pork and beans. Mostly we just ate them on camping trips because that was the way we rolled. Pimpin' the '64 DrummerBoy pop-tent trailer (my dad still protests, "It was Salmon, NOT pink!") was like a pork n bean pantry on wheels. We'd pull into the campground, pop that trailer and eat pork n beans by the fire all night. Sometimes mum would make it extra delightful and throw in a cut up hot dog. YATZEE!

Anyway. I loved me some of them pork and beans. And I loved em good. Until, that is, I spooned up the biggest chunk of white pork n bean fat that humanity has ever documented and I asked my brother what it was. He said it was the "mother bean" and that I should eat it because they were delish! He furthered the deceit by asking if he could have it. (BTW, this is the same big brother that had me convinced the daylight moon was the Deathstar and that Vader was watching me at all times and in all places). Upon his advice (alright, it was probably more his wanting it that urged me to eat it myself) I slurped it in my mouth, tried to chew a bite, smooooshed it with my tongue and then gagged a puke. Alas, I have never bean able to eat Pork and Beans since.

The "Mother Bean"...freak. I shall ne'er be the same.

someone give me a topic please so I can go on ranting.