Last December I finished the Las Vegas Marathon in just under 4 hours. In order to urge me on toward my goal I imagined I was running from the cops after it was discovered I was writing fake prescriptions for benzodiazepines in more than 35 drug stores. I was in trouble. At some point my fantasy morphed into Hazzard county and the finish line served as the county line. The beauty of running from the cops in Hazzard county is that they are barred as if by magic from crossing the county line. “Looks like you’ve run out of jurisdiction Johnny Law!” I screamed at the lady trying to put on my finisher’s medal. I was all amped up on endorphins. “It’ll take more than your bumbling skills to slap the cuffs on the likes of BLACK HOCKEY JESUS!” Rosco P. Coltrane was all “A G- G- G-”.

Since that time, since I’ve found out about the death of my old friend (you can read about that here & here too), I’ve lacked motivation to run. I had a dismal Los Angeles Marathon in March when some crazy host of invisible trolls started stabbing all my leg muscles at mile 18. You do all that training, only to be attacked by a bunch of invisible LA trolls. Anyway, I’ve soured on running. But when I was brushing my teeth last night, I noticed that I was looking a lot like late-stage Jim Morrison. I got up in the mirror with my foaming toothpaste mouth & said with psychedelic gusto, “The serpent’s 3rd eye is open in the crystal desert baby.” Trixie just shook her head. Trixie is my ideal lady because she doesn’t even ask anymore.

In addition to my recent bloating, Jackson is turning into the fat kid that the kids surround, dump 4 bottles of water on, and pelt with rocks (happened yesterday; you believe that shit?). So this morning we laced em up and started what is going to be our summer ritual. It’s called “No Fun Till We Run”. We are absolutely banned from having any fun in the morning until we log some miles. If either of us tries to sneak even a little fun, we’ll be cursed with more mileage. We will run. We will talk. We will become fitter & leaner and no one will pick on us ever again or we’ll have permission to clock them in the grill with our leaner, fitter retaliatory skills after we’ve tried to reason with them.

Jackson tried to stop running because he said he was itchy but I told him it was Spontaneous Runner’s Itch Syndrome, that this rare condition only happened to those blessed with grace & speed by the Greek God Hermes. He surged. We finished our first mile at 12 minutes and called it good.


Note: I was sitting here trying to figure out how to end this post & Jackson busted in the front door and said “I just found $24,000 worth of silver housed inside these 2 rocks!!!” He held up the rocks and smiled all crazed & newly wealthy. Are your kids this hilarious? I don’t know why the kids are picking on him.

I don’t know what to do.



A few weeks ago, I banged my thumb with a hammer. Wincing in pain but seeing Lucy right next to me, I yelled out under my breath, "GOSHDERNIT, MODDAFREAKING OW!"

I shook my entire hand limply as if I was trying to shake off the pain. Then I sucked the afflicted thumb. Then I shook it some more. And Sucked. Then shook. “Daddy?” Lucy inquired as she watched this pain ritual. “Yeah, sweety.” “What’s a moddafreaker?” I blew her question off to inspect the damage. The entire nail was black. Lucy took off like a shot: “I’LL FIX IT! I’LL FIX IT! I’LL FIX IT! I’LL FIX IT!”

Lucy was fixing my nail by covering it with a coat of sparkle pink. The tedium of sticking to the facts is like a blackened thumbnail. My life needs a coat of sparkle pink.


Jackson The Poet

Just finished reading The Collected 4th Grade Works Of Jackson Hockey Jesus. Here’s a taste.

“Yellow is the color of a newly painted house / Yellow is an apron / The favorite food of a mouse / Yellow is daylight / The opposite of fear / Yellow is a reindeer’s antler / Yellow is a garden hose / Yellow is my nose.”

The poem is a good one. It jams up the attempt to be understood in terms of traditonal rational categories, providing the reader with a bare apprehension of yellow in all its essential yellowness. His daring move to rhyme “fear’ & “antler” is bold. Jackson’s nose, however, is not yellow and I suspect he just wanted to be finished.

But can you believe that Mrs. Tyler gave this little gem a B with the comment “A little bit too short”? In this paltry world of increasing hunger for everything to be bigger & faster & more, must we require our 9-year-olds to increase the size of their poems? This poem needs cuts if anything.



First things first. Black Hockey mania spread like a virus throughout Turkey last night, so I need to give a shout out to Turkey. What up, Turkey?

Next, I want to answer some email.

Yeah, to those of you who asked about the blogroll, we'll do the blogroll thing. I'll put yours on mine. You put mine on yours. Cool. I don't know when I'm going to build it. Soon. This morning I'm horribly depressed and when you're horribly depressed you feel like your horrible depression will never lift, and making a blogroll is shelved in terms of things desired. I don't want to go rollerskating either. I'm feelin bluesy.

"How do you think of all this shit?" Dan from Houston, TX

Good question, Dan. I just try to be a person that lets things happen to me. I pray to the Blog Gods every morning for fodder. Then I see a retarded kid at the pool or Jackson hurls in the backseat. There's stuff to write about exploding all over the place. You can write about your fingernail if you just let it happen.

"I have never wanted to have sex with someone based solely on what they write. Until now." Jessica from Denver, CO

OK I really only got one email, but thanks Dan.



Because my son’s rational defense mechanism will not allow for the possibility of his being at fault in relation to any number of things that might go wrong, he developed the “shallow pockets” theory. He did not lose his $3. His $3 fell out of his shallow pockets. In this way it was his mother’s fault that the $3 was lost, you see, because she is the fool who bought the shallow pocketed pants. “Let’s just follow this to its logical conclusion,” I interjected, “and blame the Big Bang itself for banging into a universe with the possibility therein of 9-year-old boys losing $3. Stinking Being!” I banged the dining room table with my fist, “Why is there something instead of nothing when that something leads to losing $3?” I was shaking my fist in the air, now, in contempt of Being. Sometimes, Jackson looks at me in a way that denotes hatred. He asked if I was finished. “So then,” he continues, “Anthony The Goon finds MY $3 and he knows that I have shallow pockets and that I just lost it, but he picks it up and says ‘Hmmmm. Today must be my lucky day.’” Jackson’s sense of moral decency was seriously transgressed. He was hot. “Anthony The Goon is such an idiot. He even believes in the tooth fairy—“

“Jackson!” I interrupted, but the damage was done. Lucy’s eyes were shocked big. Calamari took his napkin off his lap, threw it on the table, gave Jackson an evil eye that contained devious promises, and stormed off in a huff. “Dude!" I cried, "How many times do you need to be asked to not question the ontological status of fantasy when Calamari is over for dinner?” Lucy made some goofy mourning noise that 4-year-old girls make. You had to be there. It sounded like a door creaking or a pissed off cat or something. Our house has lately been a war zone between Jackson and Calamari with poor Lucy caught in the middle.

Calamari is my daughter’s 16-year-old boyfriend. Sometimes he manifests concretely in a large Raggedy Andy doll. You might find Lucy passionately kissing Calamari if you round the wrong corner at the wrong time. Other times, when he is not needed in kissable form, he is just there. My relations with Calamari are what you might call “strained”. The cats don’t like him either. We think he’s a touch old for Lucy, but we’re not as radical as Jackson. “C’mon Dad. Calamari’s not even real.” Again, Lucy lets fly with the 4-year-old rusty gate noise. “Jackson, listen. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it forevermore: Your imagination IS real.”

You know that old theme where the pastor’s daughter goes all whore crazy with 3 guys through her bedroom window? That theme is expressed in my home via Jackson’s wilting imagination. No aspect of parenting has caused me more suffering than watching the 8-year-old become the 9-year-old. Can you believe people call this growing up? It’s absurd. But, as I turn to Lucy, I know that she will go the same way as well. She’ll follow Jackson right into that dead world of facts with a realistic arrogance that bolsters itself, leaving their Dad behind in this fuller world of talking animals and ghosts.

“C’mon Lucy Blue,” I said, grabbing his plate before his dinner got cold, “Let’s go find Calamari.”


Jacked Up

Our dear heather, devoted reader & ardent supporter of The Wind In Your Vagina in addition to serving as President of the The Wind In Your Vagina fan club, wrote in with the following comment:

“Did I tell you you'd be blowing up today or what? Now write more funny shit. No pressure.”

First, heather, thanks for the comment. Your comments are always welcome here at The Wind In Your Vagina. Second, watch your mouth you profane unrestrained harlot! This is a family blog. Poor Jackson read your comment last night & burst into loud sobs that mimicked night terrors. You might have discerned from my vast languational control and varied powerful references to religion, philosophy, and the arts that my family is steeped only in the highest of cultures, untarnished by the likes of your profanities. Walk easy through these parts, heather. And lastly, you are perfectly correct to imply that my blog blowing up like an 80s rapper’s pager might lead to a touch of anxiety. I’m feeling a bit like Charlie Brown when he tugs on his collar around the little red-haired girl. This is nothing a blue xanax couldn’t cure but, honestly, who, in the paroxysm of an anxiety attack, has 20 minutes to wait around for a blue xanax to kick in? One might crush it up & snort it but this would be construed as abuse. Pharmaceuticals are illogical. My anxiety was quashed this morning anyway when I realized that I would never want for writing material as long as I remained the dad of that wretched Jackson.

Jackson needed to bring a game to school for Game Day. Wait a second. Teachers, Game Day? School ends at the end of the week. Why is my kid phoning it in on Tuesday? Don’t you already get the whole summer off? It took me 2 years of working in the salt mines before I caught a week paid, but I’m still not allowed to bring in a deck of cards the prior Tuesday. Are you lacking for lesson plans? Here’s one. Have each student bring in 3 pairs of socks, throw them all over the floor, AND TEACH THEM HOW TO PICK THEM UP! It makes me so mad. You’re raking in 19 grand to relax all summer and play games at work. Let’s everybody cry for teachers.

I apologize for that digression. When a guy’s previous personal best for page hits in a day was a dismal 58 and he suddenly finds more than 500 on a Monday, he tends to inhabit a cheery atmosphere. This cheery atmosphere, as you have probably guessed, leads him to rapping in the car while his son sorts out SpongeBob Monopoly money on the way to “Game Day”.

“Grab your glocks when you see Black Hock / Call the cops when you see Black Hock / You shot me but you punks did’n finish now you bout to feel the wrath of a menace / nigga I HIT EM UP!” But I must’ve been too happy. Is that it? Did I taunt the Gods by being too excessively happy? For you see when Jackson tries to read in the car (or perhaps count SpongeBob Monopoly money), he tends toward car sickness, and it was in the cheery midst of my mad flows that Jackson tossed a mushy Pop-Tart & stomach bile all over the backseat of the Saturn Vue.

I pulled off the road, hopped out, and pulled a Mystic River Sean Penn right there on the shoulder. This is where I live. And I wish I was making it up. I wish I was lying. I was going to take the day off, read your blogs, and respond to all your kind words. But that plan got Jacksoned. He spit a couple goobs on the road, wiped vomit off his chin with his sleeve, and said “I’m good. Let’s go.”

My son Jackson has a weak stomach but he’s also something of a badass.


Fat Bald Retarded Kid

Today at the master planned community pool there was a fat bald retarded kid. All the master planned community parents were wondering "What's with the fat bald retarded kid?" Nothing overt, mind you. Just a community vibe, you know? All their crazy colored floaties & inner tubes and wild family adventures tended to discreetly drift away from the fat bald retarded kid. I am a magnet for this kind of thing. The fat bald retarded kid was all up in my face showing me some sweet karate kicks. His dad was hyper-conscious of the fact that I had not solicited this parade of karate. I waved him off. “He’s fine. Fine. No problem.” I said. In some inexplicable emergence of selflessness, I wanted to do something for the fat bald retarded kid’s dad. I don’t know what. Wash his car or make him an origami crane. Buy him a beer.

Why don’t they sell beers at the master planned community pool? Who do I talk to about this?

I said “What’s your name Bruce Lee?” and he gave me an emphatic “ZACK!” It could’ve been “Zach” but it was expressed with such urgency that I’m going with “ZACK!”. I said “Hello Zack. This is my son Jackson. He does not possess your skills in any of the Asian cultural combat systems, so please spare him the varied harms you might bring.” Zack squinted. Jackson looked at me like I was making him talk to a fat bald retarded kid. I interrupted their awkward silence by introducing Lucy. “He looks crazy!” Lucy chimed and I thought: this blog is writing itself.

I don’t have any moral for this story. Just a revelation of a kind. Something like a discovery of a hitherto unknown facet of my inner geography. Remember all that pop psychology smack from the 80s about healing your Inner Child? No? Google your Inner Child (How could I NOT say it?). I don’t know about you but when I see John Bradshaw I want to punch him in the face.
I think that perhaps I have an Inner Fat Bald Retarded Kid. I can’t say that he needs to be healed or relieved of his shame or made whole. If anything, he just wants someone to watch him do some sweet karate kicks, to be in some way part of the master plan.



Once, when my mother was driving me to any number of felony cases later reduced to misdemeanors, she smashed me in the face with this hammer: “You know I constantly brag about you. I tell everyone what a smart, funny, wonderful young man you are. And what Black Hockey? What do you do for me in return? I’ll tell you what you do. You make a liar out of me every single time.”

Let that seep in a moment.

No—let it seep in and simmer in the stew of your self-concept for some years. Mmmm. Sweet, sweet self loathing.

Knowing the impact of an unmitigated revelation of shame, I try to conceal my upper reaches of disgust when it comes to Jackson but damn dude—go brush that tooth. He opted to wait in the car this morning while I walked Lucy into daycare; when I returned, the funk in the car was palpable. The car was awash with the stench of rotting lemon garlic shrimp & garden rotini (see below). It was synesthetic insofar as the funk, the scent itself, was corporeal; the aroma was material. Yeah, I’m using big huge words. That’s because it was a big huge smell. Big huge smells call for big huge words. It was nasty.

So I was like “Dude! Did you use the bubble gum mouthwash?” He tilts his head and looks at me like I asked him to dethrone Newton with some quantum equation and I say “Dude! I didn’t ask you to dethrone Newton with some quantum equation. I just want to know if you gargled with the bubble gum mouthwash. In the bathroom I clearly said, ‘Get a little rinse on with that bubble gum mouthwash, dragon tooth,’ didn’t I?”

He’s still looking quizzical & confused so I’ll answer for him. Yes. I did tell him to use the bubble gum mouthwash. But he didn’t. Just like he didn’t turn off his fan. Or wash his hands. Or clip his nails. Or eat some fruit. Or take his finger out of his nose the whole time I was shopping for sunglasses.

So I get rolling: “Jackson! I constantly brag about you. You’re in the gifted weird kids program. You get all As & 1 B. You’re so intuitively and naturally funny. But for some reason beyond my conceptual powers you continue to tenaciously seek that grail up your nose & cling to your raunchy breath and make me a liar—”

Then I joltingly see myself like the mean Dad we all hate in the movie where the kid rises above his meager beginnings. I think: Stop. Stop it. He is 9-years-old. This is the tension wherein I parent. I roll down the window, apologize, again.