We nicknamed him well.
Published writer, compulsive reader, Old School Whovian, Match Game enthusiast, NKOTB fan, data hoarder, and - surprisingly, given that list - married with four kids. Welcome to my take on life, fatherhood, entertainment, and whatever strikes my fancy. Enjoy!
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Friday, November 1, 2013
Thursday, October 31, 2013
A Ghost Story
It was three in the morning when the ghost returned to visit Steven.
At first, shortly after his family moved into the house, there was only the sound of heavy, careful footsteps in the night. Alarmed, Steven would leave the imagined safety of his bed and venture down the hall, terrified of finding an intruder. But it was always the same; the kids fast asleep and unaware, the doors bolted, the windows locked.
In the morning he and his wife found it amusing, a curiosity to liven up the anecdotes they told about their new home. Neither, of course, believed in ghosts.
That was how it started.
What followed was a lull, two weeks of undisturbed and blissful sleep. And then, an escalation: the footsteps again, this time breaching Steven's room and stopping just beside his bed. After that the mornings brought no peace. The restless nights made tempers flare, and he grew angry each time his wife dismissed his claims, blaming it all on the shifting frame of a century old house.
Steven, for his part, was no longer sure what he believed.
Soon his wife let the news 'slip' to his mother. "I don't understand why you would worry," his Mom said, over his protest that the whole thing was blown out of proportion. "Our family has owned that house since it was built. The only people to pass away there are your great-grandparents, and even if they could come back, you know they would never harm you."
They were words meant to comfort, but did the opposite. He felt no kinship with a couple dead and gone twenty years before his birth. Nor could he fathom caring about his own descendants, at least those he wouldn't live to see. If there were angry spirits in the house, why would they be obliged to tolerate him? For the sake of a relationship four generations removed?
That was the night the figure appeared. There were footsteps of course, loud enough to wake him but no one else (although, to be fair, he never really slept well at night anymore, surviving on catnaps scattered throughout the day). They came forward slowly but confidently, as if the spirit no longer cared to mask its presence, and again, they paused by the bed. Ignoring his fear Steven opened his eyes.
Before him stood a shadow, a man-but-not-a-man. While there was no physical form, the shifting darkness that was its whole worked to craft an illusion of strength and bulk. Through the pressing, psychical weight of his fear Steven sensed a strange familiarity in the figure. Remarkably, he found himself begin to get out of bed.
Not yet, a voice said, and he had no doubt it could be heard only in his mind. Not yet.
That was the beginning of the end.
In the weeks to come Steven would spend his nighttime hours awake, fighting off sleep with a ferocity fueled by fear. His work began to suffer; his children, sensing something wrong, grew distant, and his wife, concerned, begged him to see a doctor. When he refused all pleas for help he found himself banished to the living room couch. For Steven it seemed a hidden blessing. The shadow man seemed contained to the upstairs level, and his few nights on the couch gave him his first true rest in months.
On the night of the final visit there was no sound, only an icy shiver that wrenched Steven awake with a stunning abruptness. The figure stood at the head of the couch, leaning over and staring - if it had eyes at all - directly into Steven's face.
Now, it said.
The figure began to walk away, heading for the kitchen. Steven's body, his mind, his very soul screamed caution, and he resolved to stay where he lay. It was a surprise to him, then, that he found himself on his feet and following the form. They entered the room together, and in front of his eyes the figure disappeared.
Here again Steven's body reacted against his wishes. His head screamed retreat, and yet he looked frantically for the figure, as if instead of vanishing he'd simply lost sight of him in a crowd. Through the pantry lay the door to the basement stairs, and the sound of the familiar footsteps. He opened the door(retreat!) and began to descend. His eyes had grown accustomed to picking out form and figures in the dark of night, and they came quickly to rest on a figure below.
On his way down his foot stubbed against an item on the stairs, and hearing it begin to fall he instictively reached out. His hand came to rest around a taped handle, and instantly registered it as his son's little league bat.
At the same moment he noticed the cellar door hanging off its hinges, and the glint in the shadow's hand as it rushed up the stairs. Before these thoughts were complete the intruder slammed into Steven, slashing at him in a frenzy. The first blow struck harmlessly against the bat.
A second later the man was on him again, grabbing the bat and tossing it aside before raising the knife for a final blow. Steven's eyes went from the knife, to the eyes of his assailant - and then to the familiar figure emerging from the dark.
Pitch dark arms ignored the blade and encircled the intruder's neck from behind, leveraging him up and off of Steven. It was then, only for a moment, that he saw the face of his visitor. There was no face as we know it, simply the impression of one, but in its imagined features was not one face but many; his great-grandfather and his father before him, his sons and his future grandchildren.
Even in the surreal chaos of that moment he knew in the end the fight would be his own. The intruder continued to struggle and the shadow grew paler, and in the dark Steven's hands found the bat once again.
Now, the shadow said, and Steven knocked the intruder to the ground.
He would see the shadow only once more in his lifetime. Years later, he and his wife would babysit their firstborn grandchild. In the middle of the night Steven stirred and wandered into the baby's room, and sat in the rocker alongside the crib. From the corner of the eye he noticed a shadow distinct from the darkness, but did not turn to meet it.
Together, they were content to stare into the face of the future.
- Me, 2009
At first, shortly after his family moved into the house, there was only the sound of heavy, careful footsteps in the night. Alarmed, Steven would leave the imagined safety of his bed and venture down the hall, terrified of finding an intruder. But it was always the same; the kids fast asleep and unaware, the doors bolted, the windows locked.
In the morning he and his wife found it amusing, a curiosity to liven up the anecdotes they told about their new home. Neither, of course, believed in ghosts.
That was how it started.
What followed was a lull, two weeks of undisturbed and blissful sleep. And then, an escalation: the footsteps again, this time breaching Steven's room and stopping just beside his bed. After that the mornings brought no peace. The restless nights made tempers flare, and he grew angry each time his wife dismissed his claims, blaming it all on the shifting frame of a century old house.
Steven, for his part, was no longer sure what he believed.
Soon his wife let the news 'slip' to his mother. "I don't understand why you would worry," his Mom said, over his protest that the whole thing was blown out of proportion. "Our family has owned that house since it was built. The only people to pass away there are your great-grandparents, and even if they could come back, you know they would never harm you."
They were words meant to comfort, but did the opposite. He felt no kinship with a couple dead and gone twenty years before his birth. Nor could he fathom caring about his own descendants, at least those he wouldn't live to see. If there were angry spirits in the house, why would they be obliged to tolerate him? For the sake of a relationship four generations removed?
That was the night the figure appeared. There were footsteps of course, loud enough to wake him but no one else (although, to be fair, he never really slept well at night anymore, surviving on catnaps scattered throughout the day). They came forward slowly but confidently, as if the spirit no longer cared to mask its presence, and again, they paused by the bed. Ignoring his fear Steven opened his eyes.
Before him stood a shadow, a man-but-not-a-man. While there was no physical form, the shifting darkness that was its whole worked to craft an illusion of strength and bulk. Through the pressing, psychical weight of his fear Steven sensed a strange familiarity in the figure. Remarkably, he found himself begin to get out of bed.
Not yet, a voice said, and he had no doubt it could be heard only in his mind. Not yet.
That was the beginning of the end.
In the weeks to come Steven would spend his nighttime hours awake, fighting off sleep with a ferocity fueled by fear. His work began to suffer; his children, sensing something wrong, grew distant, and his wife, concerned, begged him to see a doctor. When he refused all pleas for help he found himself banished to the living room couch. For Steven it seemed a hidden blessing. The shadow man seemed contained to the upstairs level, and his few nights on the couch gave him his first true rest in months.
On the night of the final visit there was no sound, only an icy shiver that wrenched Steven awake with a stunning abruptness. The figure stood at the head of the couch, leaning over and staring - if it had eyes at all - directly into Steven's face.
Now, it said.
The figure began to walk away, heading for the kitchen. Steven's body, his mind, his very soul screamed caution, and he resolved to stay where he lay. It was a surprise to him, then, that he found himself on his feet and following the form. They entered the room together, and in front of his eyes the figure disappeared.
Here again Steven's body reacted against his wishes. His head screamed retreat, and yet he looked frantically for the figure, as if instead of vanishing he'd simply lost sight of him in a crowd. Through the pantry lay the door to the basement stairs, and the sound of the familiar footsteps. He opened the door(retreat!) and began to descend. His eyes had grown accustomed to picking out form and figures in the dark of night, and they came quickly to rest on a figure below.
On his way down his foot stubbed against an item on the stairs, and hearing it begin to fall he instictively reached out. His hand came to rest around a taped handle, and instantly registered it as his son's little league bat.
At the same moment he noticed the cellar door hanging off its hinges, and the glint in the shadow's hand as it rushed up the stairs. Before these thoughts were complete the intruder slammed into Steven, slashing at him in a frenzy. The first blow struck harmlessly against the bat.
A second later the man was on him again, grabbing the bat and tossing it aside before raising the knife for a final blow. Steven's eyes went from the knife, to the eyes of his assailant - and then to the familiar figure emerging from the dark.
Pitch dark arms ignored the blade and encircled the intruder's neck from behind, leveraging him up and off of Steven. It was then, only for a moment, that he saw the face of his visitor. There was no face as we know it, simply the impression of one, but in its imagined features was not one face but many; his great-grandfather and his father before him, his sons and his future grandchildren.
Even in the surreal chaos of that moment he knew in the end the fight would be his own. The intruder continued to struggle and the shadow grew paler, and in the dark Steven's hands found the bat once again.
Now, the shadow said, and Steven knocked the intruder to the ground.
He would see the shadow only once more in his lifetime. Years later, he and his wife would babysit their firstborn grandchild. In the middle of the night Steven stirred and wandered into the baby's room, and sat in the rocker alongside the crib. From the corner of the eye he noticed a shadow distinct from the darkness, but did not turn to meet it.
Together, they were content to stare into the face of the future.
- Me, 2009
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
RIP Fish
It is with deep regret that I must report that our goldfish succumbed to his wounds mere minutes ago. I have removed him to a temporary morgue (the fridge) until the kids come home; he's been with us long enough to warrant a full Team Slap funeral in the Hallowed Ground (outside the shed) that holds the mortal remains of Billy and Gizmo. RIP fish - against our wishes, we came to love you.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Fish Armageddon!
A tragedy here today: one of the two feeder goldfish that have survived year after year was violently attacked by a rogue Molly overnight. A side fin was ripped clean off and there's a gash along its side. I removed the Molly, and tempering my anger, gave him to Smiley in a bowl of his own.
Meanwhile the goldfish survives, obviously in pain, and much weakened. *fingers crossed* In addition, for three days in a row we've lost fish. A Black Moor died overnight on day 1 (but I had seen the ba*tard Molly attacking it the previous evening). A Beta followed on Day 2, and on Day 3 a red tigershark and a small feeder fish died. Grace is begging me to call Dale Czech for help, but I think that's just because she thinks he's cute. It's fish Armageddon around here!
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Visiting a Barnes and Noble
Ugh. In the land of the beast at BN
They don't know what they lost in you! - Lisa
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Halloween
Nighttime trick r treat was great with Team Slap and the Wagner's for company! It only involved a little blood.
Marcia Wallace
Marcia Wallace, veteran of The Match Game, The Bob Newhart Show, and The Simpsons, has passed away at age 70. RIP.
The Charcoal Grill on Greefield will Soon Be Torn Down
If you like Charcoal Grill on Greenfield - the last location within shouting distance of Milwaukee - hurry up and visit. The beautiful split level rustic restaurant is closing 11/2. They were bought out by Walmart and will be torn down, despite there being a Walmart only a mile or so away. Grrrr
Maritial Conversation
1st conversation of the morn': We were laying in bed when I shook Lisa awake.
Lisa: (groggy and angry) What? Why'd you do that?
Me: You're twitching in your sleep. You look like you're having a seizure. Knock it off so I can sleep.
Lisa: I can't help it, I'm dancing in my dreams.
Me: (long pause) What? Seriously??
Lisa: Yes, I'm dancing in my dream.
Me: (shorter pause) Jeezus that's tacky. Stop that s**t.
Lisa: (laughs, then hits me) As**ole.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
ISO
Trying to arrange a way for Lisa and I to have a night alone for our anniversary tomorrow. Any takers on a kid or two? Smiley is the hardest to find a sleep over place for. Let me know! I'll owe ya one!
Grrr
Not having a good day at all. And if I wanted to be more specific, I would have done so, so don't ask.
LOL He Ain't Lying Though, is He?
Remember, being healthy is basically dying as slowly as possible. - Ricky Gervais
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Thanks Crystal!
Thanks to the Facebook status of Crystal G, WE Energies is sending me 5 free window insulation kits, outlet gaskets, and a nightlight. Thanks Crystal!
"FYI- WE Energies offers FREE weatherization kits to all of it's customers. You get window film and outlet insulators. Call them at 1-(800) 242-9137 to request your kit AND your free cookie book! I just did it We can all afford to save a few bucks."
Monday, October 21, 2013
Sunday, October 20, 2013
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