Yesterday, there were 2 pigeons in the road.

This is a graphic representation of 2 pigeons. I took this picture of 2 pigeons at the master planned community pool about a week ago. I was going to write a funny blog post about these 2 birds being Jackson & Lucy. I was trying to create a surprised comic reaction in the Reader that went something like: “THAT’S not Jackson & Lucy. Those are BIRDS! HA HA HA HA!” You know, I don’t think every single thing you write is funny as hell either.

Anyway, I proceeded toward the 2 pigeons mentioned above at a rate of 35 MPH and ran them both right the fuck over. The reactions of my 2 children nicely displays the gap between the Nietzschean and Christian visions of the world.

JACKSON CHRIST: Holy Crap you just killed 2 birds! [face contorts and squeezes out a single tear that trickles down his cheek]

Lucy felt a surge of power resulting from the destruction of the pigeons coupled with her own survival, and Jackson identified with the victims and nearly drowned in pity. I had a crazy reaction where I couldn’t pull the word “pigeon” out of the world of signifiers.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Holy Crap I just totally ran over 2… [pause]… [groping]... [longer pause]… quaaaaaaail? [I drew it out like that too. I knew they weren’t quail and I guess I thought if I drew the word out long enough, the right word would appear and insert itself. It didn’t. I am starting to forget words & shit. It’s crazy.]
JACKSON: Those weren’t quail. Those were pigeons. Why’d you run over those innocent pigeons?
LUCY (beyond good & evil): HA HA HA! Daddy killed bwirds.

Last night I tossed & turned in bed as I mourned those moronic birds. What the hell were they thinking? There’s always a bunch of flipping birds in the street. It’s like they’re playing chicken with cars or something, but they always win. Not these 2—they just stared at their approaching fate as if they had made a suicide pact. One of them was singing some Lou Reed tune. They never even tried to fly away. I was wavering on the shore between consciousness and dream when The Ghost Of Dead Skip appeared bearing a pigeon on each shoulder. O he was a majestic apparition. The birds on his shoulders provided him with an awesome sense of authority like some Greek God or that chick with the Scales of Justice or what have you.

GHOST OF DEAD SKIP: What reason have you for sending 2 innocent birds into the ghostly regions? Speak Black Hockey Jesus.
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Dude I was just driving. It was bird suicide.
DEAD BIRD #1: My soul. Want… my… soul.
JENNA: A word in the sand. [lip smack smack smack]
BHJ: WTF Ghost Of Dead Skip?!?
GODS: These pigeons hold that you stole their souls by taking their picture. It was a common belief among primitive people that photographs rob people of their souls. Pigeons believe that shit too.
JENNA: Surf blue in the mush. [lip smack smack smack]
BHJ: Are you honestly telling me that I killed the same birds I took a picture of last week? What are the chances? Isn’t that like a Godcidence or something?
DB#1: S-S-S-Soul.
GODS: They demand the return of their souls at once.
BHJ: Or else what? They’re just a couple dead soulless pigeons.
GODS: You make a good point, Black Hockey Jesus. Goodnight.
BHJ: Goodnight, Ghost Of Dead Skip.


Dear Pedophile,

Hello pedophile. Do you mind if I call you PFile for short? A lot of the rappers do this kind of thing with their names to make their names sound fresher.

Anyway, PFile, you need to stop coming all by your creepy self to the master planned community pool that thematically revolves around children. You will have noticed of course, because you are a pedophile, that the thing all the adults at the pool have in common is they’re all accompanied by screaming crazy children. I imagine that this gets your blood to racing, but you still belong at the Olympic sized community pool where kids are not allowed. Or prison.

Because you are a pedophile and you want me to believe you’re not so you can molest my children without obstruction, you will probably object and say something all frothy with justice like “It is my right to sit by the kiddie pool every single day. I live here too. That doesn’t make me a pedophile.” Give me a break PFile. You stole my son’s water rocket from the pool. You knew he’d be downtrodden for a week, only to be heartily cheered again by good old PFile when he saved the day by bringing it back. Nice grooming technique, pervert. I saw you glare at me with disdain when Jackson, by his parents order, snubbed you. You looked like some high school chick who just got dumped for someone better looking and more interesting.

Ah but you’re resourceful, PFile. You found a new little boy to play catch with and lure closer to you in the least populated section of the pool. I know your game. You shorten the distance of your throws until the little boy is within arm’s length; then you splash him and sneak in a playful hug. You even glance around to see who noticed, and always find me peering into your sunglasses. We lock gazes and I can hear you wondering if I know. O I do, PFile. I know about you. And I tell every single parent of every child you try to fondle. And I tell the lifeguards every time you pick a new one. I am your thwarted lust, PFile.

I try to use my imagination to give people the benefit of the doubt. So PFile, here’s what I came up with for you. Let’s say your 9-year-old boy was killed in a totally bizarre highway accident where a bunch of iron fell off a semi and crushed the passenger side of your car. I used that example because I hate driving by semi-trucks towing a bunch of iron. It freaks me out. I always think “Pass this truck, Black Hockey Jesus, before you’re all crushed by iron. Go. Go. Go.” Anyway, let’s say I confront you.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Dude. You better stay away from my kids or I’m gonna blow your grill out for real.
PFILE (weeping like a sissy): But my little boy was killed just 2 months ago and playing with your son heals my gaping emotional hole wounds. It’s the only thing that brings solace to my woe-filled heart of grief and despair.

You might think I’d get all emotional and hug your fat rolls and go all Robin Williams on you with that “It’s not your fault.” rap, but I wouldn’t.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Dude. Sorry about your kid. Still, you better stay away from my kids or I’m gonna blow your grill out for real.

In the 21st century, there’s no context I can create that makes it cool for a grown man to make friends with little boys, Peter Pan. You need to move along to the grown-up pool. Or prison.


Black Hockey Justice

"If I sit here looking relaxed and nonchalant, the kids'll think I'm cool."


Sweet Face

LUCY: Daddy?
ME: Yeah.
LUCY: How come you never don't call me Sweet Face anymore?

Something clicks. I tilt my head.

ME: But Pink Fishhead. You said at the pool your official new name was Pink Fishhead. Isn’t that what you said, Pink Fishhead?

She smiles. Nods. Wants me to save her from her own contradiction.

ME: Wait a second. Something smells fishy in Denmark, little Pink Fishhead. Are you trying to tell me that you actually LIKE IT when I call you Sweet Face?

She nods.

ME: I see I see, Pink Fishhead. Well tell me this then. How would you like it if every now and again, here and there, you know, just every so often, only at super special times, I still call you Sweet Face?

Her face explodes into a carnival of stars and butterflies. It has never dawned on me quite like this how much my daughter starves for my love. And she starves for it in particular ways.

O Sweet Face.

If you only knew how carefully I hug you for fear that I might accidentally grind your little bird bones into a fine fine dust from the strength of my love alone. How could I ever make you understand? I would join forces with the moon and overthrow the sun for you. I would carry a big rock on my back across the orange desert for you. I would pluck a quill from an angry porcupine just so you could clean between those tiny little pearls you call teeth. I would suck rattlesnake venom out of your big toe. I’d spit it out and go PAH! I would learn trigonometry for you. I would wrestle crocodiles. Then I’d do a funny dance if it would make you smile. I would hire an airplane to write in big white smoke letters across the blue blue sky: “Daddy loves you Sweet Face”. I would build you your very own castle out of unique handpicked stones and mortar made of sugar. It would be on a big green hill on a remote island in the Pacific where there were no such things as sickness and old age. There would be parades every single day with showy displays of extravagant fashions. Lucy. I will hold your hand through the world’s biggest parking lots. I would leap in front of cars for you. I would shoot up Old West bars for you. I would stay up all night and count the sky’s stars for you. And give you the brightest one.

But this above all.

I will be our family’s pioneer and go out ahead to conquer Death for you—if only to explore, sniff around a bit, and check everything out to make sure it’s cool. But don’t worry. I will come rushing back to life and whisper all of Death’s secrets in your trembling ear. Just use your imagination because that’s where your Daddy lives. Remember to be still and listen with your whole heart. When you are a very old woman and you are in your last bed, you won’t need to be afraid. Just close your eyes. I will be there. I promise. I’ll open my arms so wide. Just listen very closely with everything you can muster and you’ll be able to hear me say through those veils of misty silver…

“It’s alright, Sweet Face. Daddy’s here.”


The Jasper Strikes Back

I suppose a defect of mine is that I think it’s hysterical when other people get angry. It’s not the best trait. People who think it’s hysterical when other people get angry never have very many friends.

BLACK HOCKEY: Did you see how red his face got? And I wasn’t even being offensive yet. That was so awesome. I can’t believe he flipped the whole table over.
JENNA: [Her face just has that look that says our weekends are free for life again. It’s kind of a blank look. But I’m pretty sure it conceals a lot of rage. Jenna is so effing beautiful. I want to kiss her.]

My buddy Deez is a stand-up comedian and we’ve had a zillion talks about this. You know when Dylan (later Hendrix) says “There are many here among us / Who feel that life is but a joke”? Well count me & Deez in. The more intense and serious someone gets, the harder we laugh. What’s the deal? I’m not sure.

All that to say: Check out the funniest email I’ve ever received in the history of my biographical life. It’s from my sweet Blog Enemy, Jasper Mocks, in reaction to my entirely faithful documentary of a day subbing in the Myrtle Beach Ghetto.

“What is your problem, Black Hockey Jesus? Or, should I call you Big Headed Jerk?”

Hold it right there, JM. I have a pretty average sized head. But it is very bumpy. I’ll grant you that. How about Lump Headed Jesus?

“I feel betrayed and enraged by your derogatory comments concerning teachers, and more importantly, me! Have you read ALL of the comments I have posted on your stupid blog? Have you read my remarks about you on my blog? I'd say, ‘Obviously not!’ I have sung your praises as a writer, or are you too dimwitted to recognize a compliment?”

I admit it. I have that whole addict/writer complex where it’s tough for compliments to seep through my filters. Maybe you could repeat “It’s not your fault, Black Hockey Jesus. It’s not your fault.” over & over and I could sob in your compassionate arms.

“Is this how you treat your most loyal readers- by insulting them? You have no class! If you had a serious problem with my opinions, you could have sent me a personal email and let me know what you thought. Other bloggers do that. I could respect that and backed off the biting sarcasm I SOMETIMES use. But really, I loved your blog. Not anymore! Instead, like a Big Headed Jerk, you chose to embarrass me so everyone on the planet could see. It was my understanding that bloggers followed the code of not being disrespectful to other bloggers on their blog. Compliments are fine, but not insults! I guess you do whatever you want, you renegade bastard!”

Is there really a code? No one told me about a code. I’m screwed.

“From now on, it'll be my sole mission to ridicule you on my blog. I may even start a new one directed at ripping apart everything you write!”

If a tree falls in the forest and…

“I could start by playing the fact versus fiction game again.... Subbing at a Myrtle Beach school? Hello??? School let out on June 3rd, dumbass! Well, if you want a blog enemy, you've got one now.”

Have I ever struck you as a person who is burdened by the constraints of space and time? Come on. This is MY world. There are talking cats and girls playing round-the-clock volleyball in bikinis. Plus there’s Greek things that are half stuff and half other stuff. The lakes are teeming with otters. It’s so awesome.

Here’s my advice, Jasper Mocks, and I’m being dead serious. Xanax. You need to ask your doctor for Xanax so you can chill out, and here’s how you do it. You’re a teacher so you probably look like a hippie. No doctor is just going to whip out his beautiful triple script pad and write Xanax for some educational teaching hippie. Cash in the tie-dye & sandals for a shirt that buttons and some not sandals. Even then, he’s still going to give you a big hassle.

DR. FEELGOOD: Well Jasper, Xanax is a strong benzodiazepine and benzodiazepine’s are notoriously addictive and I don’t like to use them except in cases of severe anxiety or panic and even in those cases only for a short time. I think for the long haul we should consider an SSRI—

Blah blah blah. You gotta stop him right there, Jasper. You gotta be assertive. You gotta let him know that you’re the customer and you know what you need.

JASPER MOCKS: I don’t need an antidepressant, Doc. In fact, I actually need a depressant and my wife is sick of me knocking back 30 Coors a day. I’m all amped up all the time. I’ve got kids. Enough said. But I’m also a teacher. I deal with 35 kids at a time and they all talk to me at once. I need something that’ll knock my dick in the dirt. Xanax. Starts with an “X”. Not a “Z”. Start writing.

If he still refuses, ask him for a referral to a doctor with less girly notions about benzodiazepines. Good luck, Enemy.


Weekly Pan II

I need to be honest with you.

I don't know how well the Weekly Pan segment is going to work out. How the hell am I supposed to get hats on this frickin cat week after week?

He has anxiety issues. Lucy is all scratched to shit. It's a nightmare.

We tried glasses too. Forget about it.

Pan's all "WTF? I see perfectly!"

I said "Pan! It's for my blog you selfish freeloading bag of bones! Would it totally kill you to do something other than eat, poop, and cost me hundreds at the vet?!?"

I hate cats.

We will buy more band-aids and carry on. However, I'm thinking about the possibilities of a Weekly Pan Caption Contest. I'll take a picture of Pan doing some goofy Pan cat shit, and you give the picture a wacky slogan. Does some blogger already do that? I'm sure that if there's already a caption contest out there, Sweetney will call me out on Twitter for biting someone else's styles.

And I don't know what I'll do for prizes. The sky is yet to rain down Wiis. Maybe I'll just pick up some of this shit my kids leave laying around and call it a prize. That's what's cool about The Wind In Your Vagina. I'm just riding the wave of spontaneity.

Abrupt subject change. You know what I had a lot of fun doing? I liked answering your questions. It made me feel cool. Do you have a question? You can ask me personal questions or throw some insoluble koans at me. Whatever. Anything goes. I'm like a Magic 8-Ball. Ask me.

Ask in the comments or shoot your questions to

Enjoy your Saturday. Mow the grass. Wash your car. Sit in a hammock with a beer. Do Saturday stuff. ~BHJ


Charles Dickens III

Yesterday Lucy told me that when she grows up, she wants to be a bird. I can completely relate to this desire. The fact that the possibility of growing into birdness remains a possibility for Lucy indicates that she is still the most sophisticated thinker in the Black Hockey Household.

Lucy telling me about her desire to pursue a career in being a bird served to reach a goofy mental hand into my goopy stew of memory to grab another bird story. 7 years ago, when Jackson was 3, he woke me up in the middle of the night.

3-YEAR-OLD JACKSON (in a hushed whisper that wants to wake me up gently [???]): Dad. Dad. Awake? Dad.
DAD: Jackson. Yeah. What? What?
3-YEAR-OLD JACKSON: What do birds eat?

I remembered how my future wife had, when she was working in a bookstore, given me her 33% discount on the sly, repeatedly. This was during a period of my life when I would sometimes need to choose between books or food (what a catch, Jenna!). It dawned on me then, in the middle of the night, that ultimately there was no such thing as 33% off your books from a hot bookstore girl. O sure you might save the money at the time. But eventually, you'll pay.

I muttered "Bugs or something I think." because I just can't remember "worms" at 2 AM. Of course when I woke up in the morning I fell in love with this event. Can you imagine having a question force you from your slumber like that? Just springing out of bed solely from the desire to know what birds eat? It's like this hole in Jackson's knowledge base suddenly became unbearable and he needed to know like an addict needs. Kids are crazy interesting, but not so much in the middle of the night.

Lucy's worst statements are the stuff of blog gold. A lot of you praise the name of the blog (and I thank you). And OK yeah, I think it's funny too. But when I was sitting there, and my daughter was screaming with glee about being fondled by the wind, all the kids, the parents O my God. Again a flashback: me staring at a book for hours. Un. Dis. Turbed. This is the black & white of my life. Pre-Kids/Post-Kids. Period. It's like the guy I was before kids is some vague memory of a show I saw on TV. Once. When I was super tired. And drunk.

But I'm like you. I wouldn't have it any other way.

And then there's Lucy's "He looks crazy!" right in the face of a Fat Bald Retarded Kid. At the time, mortified. And yet that is the post that took me from 15 readers to... more than 15.

I can't think of any one terrible thing that Jackson has said because he has formed an entire collection that I'll call the "Mom Is Fat" collection. Probably 20-30 times in his life, Jackson has said something completely fucking stupid like "Mom, you've got a big butt". Now, we can speculate all we want about relativity, how Jackson is little, so his mother's ass "looks" big to his little eyes and blah blah blah. So what. Who cares? Damage done. WTF JACKSON?!? You're not the guy who has to look at her butt in 12 pairs of pants to tell her if it looks big or not, so you can just shut the hell up. I've seriously taken him aside and told him: "Never ever ever ever, under any circumstances, utter a sentence with the noun Mom anywhere near the adjective Fat. Do you understand?" And he does understand. Jackson is a brilliant little boy. He's in the gifted and talented program. Etc. But he sure as hell lacks a little bit in the area of social conscience.

For the record, in bold yellow italics: My wife has an awesome ass.

Anyway, my Friday is always your day. What are some of the best & worst things your kids have ever said? Don't have kids? Make shit up! That's the best part about The Wind In Your Vagina.



You will of course be shocked to learn that no one from BlogHer has answered my query regarding my son, Jackson, and I serving as a kind of kick-off band for the entire BlogHer ’08 Convention. They are no doubt intimidated by our raw pure rocking power. Plus it’s probable that their insurance wouldn’t cover us because we have been known to ignite entire zip codes into bursting suns of fiery mayhem merely from the power of our infectious sounds. And there’s always the fact that it’s primarily a feminine affair. Our raging testosterone would undoubtedly signify an aggressive patriarchal threat that would serve to undermine the communal tone of the event. So it goes. Your loss, BlogHer '08.

Me & Jackson just completed another song fragment. What’s a song fragment, Black Hockey Jesus? I’m glad you asked.

We compose in fragments. We begin with fragments and used to try to convert them into songs, but we frequently discovered that the initial integrity of the fragment was sacrificed by coercing it to cohere into some creatively forced context. Rather than letting the concept of song continue to violate the luster of our initial poetic fragments, we opted instead to do violence to the concept of song. Screw the bridge and hang the chorus. I know I know. That little Jackson is a straight-up radical. We compose in fragments.

For we are the sons of Heraclitus.

Today’s fragment investigates a youthful testing of limits. Me & Jackson rage against the limits of our neighbors’ tolerance, the limits of Jenna & Lucy’s eardrums, the limits imposed by all the silly rules that attempt to hem in our creativity, and of course the Final Limit: that Old Laughing Spiteful Whore.

You are a mountain, Jackson. If you should ever stumble into this blog and read something that hurts your feelings because your Dad is sometimes thoughtless and insensitive, please know that my crowning statement (from the bones of my heart) about you as you approach the completion of your first decade is that you’re a mountain. I love being your Dad and making music with you. You are a mountainous little boy.

We’re gonna stay up so late / Eat candy till our bellies ache / Hanging out with the moon & stars / Watching movies that are rated R / Way past our bedtimes / We’re never gonna die / We’re never gonna die / We’re never gonna die


Dooce Backflipping Challenge

If you click this, you can read about Dooce totally effing up a backflip on a trampoline and going to the hospital on the 4th of July.

She also mentions how Alive by Pearl Jam kicks ass, and she is absolutely right. In fact, Alive by Pearl Jam is the 4th best song in the history of planet earth behind Dylan's Visions of Johanna, Wish You Were Here by Floyd, and The Stones' Sympathy For The Devil. Don't give me a bunch of shit Beatles people - I told you I just don't get it. Mike Spohr is trying to get me to see the light and save my Beatle Soul. And I'm trying hard to understand, but so far obla di obla da la la la la blow me.

Anyway, Dooce continues to be unflinchingly unaware of me. She refuses to send me my class ring and she refuses to sue me for stealing her ideas. So I'm gonna keep stealing her ideas.

Dear Jackson (Newsletter: Month 120),

You are 10 this month. Stop bugging me.

Love you,

Also, this post serves as my Dooce Backflip Challenge. If she's unimpressed with my writing, maybe I can seduce her attention with my acrobatic prowess. Enjoy.

Some Notes: Not only do I backflip, I backflip while covering my face because that's how I do. Also, there's 1 backflip where you'll notice me taunting the camera with a pointed finger. I edited out the sound because a neighbor swore at me to shut-up but I actually screamed "DOOOOCE!" in a very taunting "Look at me backflip while you're in the ER" manner. I don't carry the song in the video through to the end because 5+ minutes of backflipping is too much even when it's this rad. I also pull off a double front flip. It is as you may have guessed totally fucking awesome, but I want to apologize for the slow motion version: you can see a little crack. Again, very sorry for that. But that's another mode of taunting, no? Lastly, I'm a 36-year-old man. 6'3", 210 pounds.