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.



Can you say Black Hockey Overkill? I know. I feel you.

But when Jozet At Halushki calls, you answer. Or I answer. Does it bother you when I write in the 2nd Person?

You think a moment.

YOU: No. I rather like it. It makes me feel like I'm a character in your story, Black Hockey Jesus. I love being a function of your narrative.
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: But how can I trust you? You could just be saying that you like being written in the 2nd Person because you don't want to hurt my feelings. Plus we mustn't overlook the fact that I'm inventing everything you say. This of course begs questions regarding the authenticity of your statements.
YOU: But I DO love it when you write about me in the 2nd Person, Black Hockey Jesus. How can I prove it to you?
BHJ: You could open your stomach with a big hooked knife and spread your intestines all over the floor. No. Let's do it outside!
YOU: No.
BHJ: No?
YOU: I'm not going to open my stomach with a big hooked knife and spread my intestines all over the grass just to prove that I enjoy being a function of your narrative. What else?
BHJ: You could go to Halushki and read my guest post.
YOU: I'll do it! But how do I go to Halushki to read your guest post?
BHJ: You click here, silly.


Shiva Nataraja

I generally don’t like using coupons. They make me feel poor. I said feel. I like to feel like I can light cigars with burning Benjamins. I like to leave waitresses big tips, even when I’m giving her the last of my loot till Tuesday.

Some people tend toward preserving. Others are destroyers. Choirs are made up of a variety of voices.

When I use a coupon, I sense that I’m making an announcement to the cashier: “I am struggling to make ends meet”. I much prefer being the herald of a carefree “Keep the change”. Nonetheless, when Shakti (my wife) gave me a coupon for a free Slurpee, me & Jackson were throwing up high fives. Do I contradict myself? Do not make a God of coherence, dear reader. Coherence don’t fly round here.

The Snaggle Toothed 7/11 Sea Hag examined the coupon like I was trying to pass a counterfeit hundo.

SNAGGLE TOOTHED 7/11 SEA HAG (suspiciously): Where’d you get this, sir?
ST7/11SH: O you don’t know do you? [I am dead serious. That’s what she said. She goes to get her manager.]
BHJ (giggling): Jackson. This Snaggle Toothed 7/11 Sea Hag thinks I’ve wasted a day photoshopping a bogus coupon for a Slurpee.
JACKSON (irritated): Let’s do this.
BHJ: Hold the phone trigger finger.
SNAGGLE TOOTHED 7/11 SEA HAG’S CROSSEYED MANAGER: Sir. Did you say you don’t know where you got this?
BHJ: Yeah. My wife gave it to me. I’ve misplaced my master tally of where my wife gets her Slurpee coupons. Do you 2 CSIs honestly suspect that I manufactured a coupon for a Slurpee?
ST7/11SHCEM: Well sir—
BHJ (acting rich): Because I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay full price for both the Slurpees and buy the store.
ST7/11SHCEM: Sir?
BHJ: How much for the fucking store, lazy eye? I’m buying the store.

Jackson couldn’t restrain his outrage and knocked over a rack of candy. Snickers and licorice slid across the floor as the sound of clanging metal sang. Jackson tossed back his head in a laugh that signaled an expenditure of excess energy. My boy. Sabotage by The Beastie Boys started playing way louder than you’d ever expect. It was awesome. Right when Ad Rock howled his introductory “Ahhhhhhh,” me & Jackson went off like bombs. I grabbed the trash can and heaved it through the storefront window in a singing tinkling of shattering glass. “Kiss my ass!” I screamed (because “ass” rhymes with “glass” and moves my rambling prose along at a somewhat frenetic pace). Jackson was eating a hot dog out of each fist. I ripped open a big family sized bag of potato chips and tossed them into the air where they hung awhile in slow motion before the whole store was a storm of raining potato chips. And that’s when Jackson whipped out his flame thrower. He is so awesome like that. He just spontaneously has really kick ass weapons. He took his flame thrower and completely torched the Slurpee machine as if to say via correlated imagery: “We want our free Slurpee or no Slurpees for anyone ever again!” He was making a totally effed up face like John Rambo makes when he’s getting shit done for real. And even though you might imagine all this destruction in terms of chaos, it was underwritten by a kind of grace. Like a dance. Destruction is a dance. I generally don’t like using coupons.


Base Slut With A Large Hat

Do you see that woman?

There. Right there. 

Yes. Her. Mark my words and mark them well. She is a base slut. Ladies, keep your men on a tether when this one comes a swimming.
Yesterday at the master planned community pool there was a base slut with a large hat. Make no mistake. She did not expose herself outright for a harlot. In fact she posed on the sly as someone in service to her fellow man before her lowly stature emerged like a thief in the night. I’m not so sure about that simile. Isn’t there some Biblical thief in the night? I don’t want Christian tones lurking in my text. She was like a delightful kiss that ultimately spreads a virus. Another quesionable simile. I don’t want to you to think that I think Hep C or HIV is spread by kissing. I have been to many a day long training. I know about the gloves. But are any viruses spread by kissing? My wife is a nurse and I don’t know these things. When she starts to tell me about things like viruses, she takes for granted this foundation of medical terminology that glosses my countenance with a glassy stare. This post is besieged with digressions!
I was struggling to hit that impossible spot on my back with sunscreen, gritting my teeth with elbows all crazy, when this “nice young lady” with a big hat, the one photographed above, circled in red, approached. She will be denoted from the outset by the moniker she deserves.


BASE SLUT WITH A LARGE HAT: Would you like some help, sir?
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Ah! A Good Samaritan [*blasted Christian tones!*] in this decadent age of alienated selfishness. If you could but apply some sunscreen to this impossible spot on my back, I would be confidently protected from the specter of skin cancer.
BSWALH (getting hot): My, you use big words.
BHJ: Well I read big books, young lady. Now get about your task. It’s not proper for a married man to carry on with such a barely clad woman.
BSWALH: I read books too. How would you like to rub some sunscreen on these monumental orbs?
BHJ: For the love of God!

In nearly every context, it’s improper to strike a woman, but this slut’s indecency elicited an instinctual reaction that resulted in a sweeping backhand across her jaw. It occurred so quickly and with such force that the SMACK! rang out with its sickening violence a full half second after the blow was delivered.

And o my God you don't believe me. At what point did you stop believing me, cautious reader? Well, far be it from me to demand your faith. To ask that you have faith in absurdities would be a bit of a stretch, no?

I am not so much interested in what is true and what is not and what you believe and what you don’t. What really interests me is that thin line (the point) between what is fact and what is fiction. And my interest doesn’t reside in clarifying that thin line between the 2, of stating exactly what is fact and what is fiction, but rather my interest resides in blurring that line, moving it around, playing with it—indeed asking whether or not the thin line itself is fact or fiction.

The last 125 years of philosophy have revealed that Truth herself is a whore that really never puts out. What a waste of money. This startling revelation divides us into 2 kinds of people: those it horrifies and those who revel in it. It should be obvious by now where I stake my claim. The untruthing of Truth. Somebody’s gotta do it. Why not do it with a base slut who wears a big hat?

JACKSON: Dad. Your Daddy Blog is sorely lacking for kids.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: O shut it you. You've got your whole life to highlight my shortcomings.


Did you guys hear about the big copycat blog controversy? Sweetney's all up in my grip talking smack about me stealing my name from Hockey Jesus. Well my name is BLACK Hockey Jesus. Excuse me Sweetney but there's only so many possible configurations of words in the English language. OK the possibilities brush up next to infinity so what?!? If Hockey Jesus doesn't like the proximity of BLACK Hockey Jesus to her name, then she can change her name. Plus she's a MOMMY Blogger. I'm a DADDY Blogger. Whole. Different. Genre.

Speaking of copycatting, let's talk about Dooce. I've been straightforward about alerting you to the fact that I want what Dooce has, so it follows that I should use Dooce as a model for my blogging path. But it's tough to toe the line between "modeling" and "copying", no? Here's how I've resolved the issue. I've been reading Dooce and she's kinda... careful... careful BHJ... she's kinda... upscale. How's that? You might say she appeals to a certain class of people. Now, I don't wanna step on Dooce's toes. I just wanna carve out my own little niche in the big, big internet. So here's the deal: I want the lower classes from the trailers that can afford internet access all the way to the middle of the middle class, and I won't bother with the upper middle class and the rich people. Rich people intuitively despise me anyway. I just smell lowbrow or something. I emit lowbrow transmissions. Don't get me wrong. I can hold my own in an art museum. But all that interior design stuff? I still have a Metallica Ride The Lightning poster in my office.

Anyway, you've been warned. Let's get to the copying modeling. I'm gonna call this Saturday bit: "Weekly Pan". Hold up hold up. I understand that Dooce has this thing called "Daily Chuck". But, hear me out, "Chuck" is a dog and "Daily" is, well, daily. Pan, and this is a major major distinction, is a cat, and I'm not taking a photo of my ghetto ass cat every day, so it's "Weekly".

This is a photo of my tiny little cat, Pan, wearing a very large sombrero:

El Pan es muy loco.