blackhockeyjesus (at)



First off, HUGE THANKS to my guests last week:

Stefanie and

I got a paid vacation without putting in 90 days. Nice. What a great group. I owe you all. And Jozet, I owe you for sure.

Second, Jackson turns the big 10 spot on Sunday, but Jenna's working (plus I wanna play with it) so we let him crack into his gift last night. Had to post these. Think he liked it?

Third, in honor of the day before Jackson turns 10, I'm going into the vault to post a short I wrote about bringing the little sucker home. So trippy & weird. Where did 10 years go? Good God. I have a 10-year-old kid. And he's still alive. Plus he's good people. [shaking my head... and... fade into story...]


He was a burrito. They said he liked it, that it made him feel secure. There were several philosophical problems with these statements but I would just listen and not be difficult.

“Then you fold this piece up and over aaaand over. See?”

“Yeah . Like an eggroll.” The connection brought a smile to my face. I could do this!

“No no. Like a burrito. It’s called the baby burrito.” The nurse looked at my blank face. Jenna fastened him in the car seat. I never made burritos.


We put him on the bed: a burrito, about as long as my forearm, with a tiny face. I had imagined him being more startled by his own new being but he was pretty sedate. We looked at him. He remained a burrito. We looked some more. The room was ripe with future.

“What do we do with this?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” she said. We giggled, parents.

“Can we take him outside and do stuff?”

“Sure.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Let’s take him to Ramone’s & get a taco.” We tentatively forged our way into being a trio.


I wondered from a psychological perspective about his initial contact with suchness taking place in a Mexican restaurant. Would he unconsciously be drawn to the Aztec’s pantheon of gods? How would this influence his relation to tequila and nachos? He just watched me. I was the first man he ever saw eating a taco. I thought about Shunryu Suzuki and shoshin, this notion that the enlightened mind was the beginner’s mind. My son didn’t appear to have any aversion or attraction to my eating the taco. He just let me-eating-the-taco shine forth in all of its man-eating-taconess.

“What’cha thinking about?” she asked. I saw Jenna like the first time I saw her in that bookstore. I forgot my plans.

“He’s no burrito.” I said, “He’s an eggroll.”


Charles Dickens IV

I am still in Sedona, but I'll be heading home this AM.

This week's Charles Dickens post is about the best & worst parts of my trip. Please feel free to write about your best trip moments and/or your worst trip moments. You don't have to do both. I can be flexible. I love my Fridays with you.

Lucy was swilling on Sour Orange Haterade all week. She supplied us with the worst of the trip, several worsts. The worst of the worst was her decision that the Best Western pool kicks the Grand Canyon's ass. She didn't want to leave, she threw a fit when we did leave, and flatly declared that she hates the Grand Canyon. We were 54 miles away. My daughter hated the Grand Canyon before we even got there.

She stuck to her word.

Not gonna look at the camera. Why? BECAUSE SHE HATES THE GRAND CANYON!


Do you remember when I wrote that post about my darling little Sweet Face? Well here's good old Sweet Face in a Korean restaurant.

You like that one? How about this one?

Hey Sweet Face. Cheer up & eat your fucking Bulgolgi.

The best part of the trip is tough to nail down. We did a lot of trip stuff, and we had big fun but my best part is a lot more mystical than your average good time. It requires me to first tell you about losing my sunglasses 2 minutes before we left and buying a pair of BluBlockers at Walgreens. Do you remember that fat black guy rapping about the BluBlockers on the infomercial? Shit was dope and you know this.

So anyway, I was driving down the highway. We were "vacationing", you know? We were leaving all those roles we call our lives behind us. Dropping them. Forgetting them. Except the roles we play for each other: Dad, Husband, Wife, Mom, Son, Daughter, Brother, Sister - those people we believe we mostly are. We don't shed those. We're driving down the highway. The kids are sleeping. Jenna's sleeping. Her bare feet are on the dash and her toenails are painted red and they catch the sun in a way that would cast a star shaped glare in a photograph. The Pixies are coming through the speakers. The earth spinningly exists in a relationship with the sun that allows for all these dreams of possibility. The desert shrubbery and the rusty rock formations shine through my BluBlockers in cartoon shades of blueless green and orange that smacks of a Chagall. We're driving down the highway. The Pixies. Her red toenails. And I feel like my life means something. You know? Like it was meant for something. I feel fated. I feel I feel I feel beyond myself, like "I" am not merely Black Hockey Jesus but rather "I" am this four-headed beast called "my family", in a car driving down the highway. My life isn't me, you know? But I'm actually these people; these people are who I am. And I want to wake them and tell them I love them, that I figured something out, but I don't because I'll stutter and I won't express it right and they'll think I started drinking again or that I've finally cracked or something. So I let them sleep. I glance at Jack & Lucy in the rearview. I listen to the Pixies. I look at Jenna's red toes.

And I just silently love these 3 people in my blueless world. That was the best part.


Newborn Identity Guest Post

The Newborn Identity's name is Mike. Shit. Was that a secret? Sorry Mike. Mike is one rad dude. In the morning, we wait for our wives to go to work. Then we kick email back & forth all day about how to convert Daddy Blogging into zillions of dollars. One of these days we're going to execute one of these ideas and you'll wish that you thought of it first. You'll wish that you were nicer to us. We'll be so powerful and our wives will just chill out and get their nails done. Me & Mike will laugh hearty laughs all the time and we'll take up cigar smoking. We'll buy stocks & shit too. Shut-up. You'll see.

Mike was kind enough to write me this post about getting molested in a bathroom. It is 33 kinds of kick ass. But don't stop here. Do me a favor. Get a box of Kleenex and start here. It's the first of 7 posts about the birth of his daughter, Maddie. Sound boring? Try me. Go read the first entry - it's like crack - and you'll see why the Spohrs are my heroes. Also, Mike's mom is a total loon. I couldn't find any context for that statement but it needed to be said. Thanks Mike!


For those of you who don’t know me, I have a pretty damn cute baby named Maddie. Take a look:

Unfortunately, at least to my eyes, she doesn’t resemble me all that much. Don’t get me wrong, she looks more like me than the mail man, but sometimes I stare at her and wonder what exactly I passed on to her. Yesterday, however, something happened that finally hit it home to me that Maddie is indeed my daughter…an Asian went ape shit over her.

Let me explain.

My whole life I have literally been catnip to Asian people. For reals. Asians freakin’ love me. All I had to do as a kid was walk into the dry cleaners and the ladies in the back would sprint to the front to pinch my cheeks, give me candy, and tell my mother how handsome I was. It wasn’t just older Asian women either. In junior high there were four Asian girls in my class, and when I moved away each of them sent me a letter confessing their secret love for me. ALL FOUR OF THEM!!! And this was back when none of the other girls would so much as even look at me on account of the fact I was a bit hefty.

I wasn’t exactly this kid…

…but you get the idea.

Now before you ask why Asians love me so much let me say up front that I have no idea. My sister used to say it was because my extra weight made me look like a little Buddha (thanks, sis…), but that can’t be it because even after I lost weight I still could cause a riot by strutting through Chinatown. Now, apparently, so can Maddie. This became clear at the market yesterday when this older Asian woman peered into Maddie’s stroller and practically started to speak in tongues upon seeing her. She was so excited she did a little jig right there in the cereal aisle.

Later I reflected on passing “the gift” on to Maddie, and it worried me a little. This is because, as Spiderman taught us, with great power comes great responsibility, and our gift to drive Asians wild can be a dangerous one. I certainly hope it doesn’t get Maddie into a situation like the one it got me into back in the fall of 1985 when I was a fat little ten-year-old and went to a Chinese restaurant with my family for dinner. Soon our waiter - a wiry Asian man with greasy hair and a sweating problem - appeared at our table. Upon setting eyes upon me he broke into a huge smile, but I was too busy scouring the menu for my beloved Moo Shoo Pork to notice.

After dinner was finished nature called, so, after finding the john in the back, I pushed through its door and strolled over to a urinal. As I undid my fly and began my stream I could hear the bathroom door swing open behind me, but I didn’t think anything of it until I suddenly felt two clammy hands sliding across my waist and onto my chubby root-beer belly. Startled, I whipped my head around and saw the waiter smiling at me with a lascivious twinkle in his eye. He then pressed his face against my cheek and cooed, “How you like the food, little boy?”

I cleared my throat, feeling very awkward.

“It’s uh…good.” And it was actually. I was pretty pleased with my dinner, in fact. I just wasn’t crazy about the creepy guy fondling me.

“That’s good,” the waiter said.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. A tense moment passed as the waiter kept his face pressed to mine and his hands on my stomach.

“Wow,” I thought. “This is really creepy. I can’t imagine this situation getting any weirder.”

“I noticed you ate all your Moo Shoo Pork, little boy,” The waiter said breathlessly. “You like Moo Shoo Pork, don’t you?” He then patted my stomach and chuckled.

“Well, I stand corrected,” I thought. “This definitely got weirder.”

After an interminably long moment the waiter finally slid his hands off my belly and stepped over to the next urinal. As his stream began I quickly zipped up and flushed, although to be honest there was little reason to as I had peed anywhere but in the urinal, you know, on account of being molested and all. I then hurried out without washing my hands.

I sat down next to my Mom and told her that we had to leave immediately.

“But we haven’t ordered dessert yet. Don’t you want to stay for dessert?”

Now a normal person would have said, “Hell, no. I just want to get the mothertrucker out of here!” I, however, was a fat kid, and a fat kid always wants dessert no matter the situation. I guarantee you a couple chubby kids went down with the Titanic because they were too busy polishing off that night’s dessert to get on a raft. Jack had Rose, fat kids had cake.

Anyway, the waiter soon brought out our dessert and set my bowl of ice cream in front of me with a big smile. I found this very creepy and felt very uneasy, but again, I was a fat kid, so I cleaned the bowl.

When we got home I told my mom what happened and she flipped out. She called the restaurant, screaming, then called the cops. I even had to get on the phone with an officer so and so and repeat the whole horrible story to him.

As you clearly can see, the “gift” that Maddie and I possess is strong, and I never want her to get into a situation like the one described above…or worse. As traumatizing as my experience with the waiter may have been, at least the weirdo never slid his hands South, if you know what I mean. Perhaps my belly was too big for him to reach the crown jewels. In any event, Maddie needs to be careful. Of course, on the bright side, she may be the Queen of Thailand one day. And if she is she has no one to thank but dear old Dad.


Baby On Bored Guest Post

Stefanie Wilder-Taylor is awesome. When she put my name in blue (underlined) on her blog, my head exploded. Seriously. Jenna was like "Aw pick up your head pieces, dude. There's blood and brains all over the living room." I was logged into StatCounter all day long. It was surreal: Spain. Australia. Iceland. WTF? She patiently answered my millions of questions about blogging and now she's currently answering my millions of questions about book publishing (wink). She's my awesome writing mentor! Even though I've only known her for 2 months and we've never met in person, I feel like she's my protective big sister showing me the ropes (she's like 15 years older than me or something).

Go buy her books. They're funny as hell and they're not filled with a bunch of stupid parenting crap like the stuff that surrounds her on the shelves. IN BARNES & NOBLE. AND BORDERS. ETC!

This is a picture of her when she was little. She's so enthusiastic. Thanks Stefanie.

Hi, I'm not Black Hockey Jesus. But isn't everyone these days? The blogging world seems to be divided into "Black Hockey Jesus" and the rest of us, "NOT Black Hockey Jesus." He's that good. I'm especially excited about being asked to guest post today because in a small way I feel like I got in with BHJ on the ground floor. He wrote funny comment after funny comment on my blog until I couldn't contain myself and had to write him and gush about his genius, hilarity, intelligence...and a monster was created. A gifted monster. And now, I'm just riding on his coattails. Thanks BHJ!

Baby On Bored’s Tips for Fame.

Everyone wants a lot of readers for their blog. Everyone, especially BHJ is obsessed with comments. Why? Because we want to be famous in real life. We want to be special. Well, getting blog-notice is one of the basic tenets of stardom and as you’ve probably already noticed, it doesn’t take talent so much as hard work. So, I’ve put together some tips to apply to your everyday blogging which may just help you transition from anonymous blogger to STAR!

· Every few months tell your readers it’s your birthday.

· Wear a name tag with your URL everywhere you go. That way people will refer to you by your blog name and it will appear that everyone knows of you. Pick up some “Hi my name is” tags and write your blog name on all of them.

· Have an interesting spelling for your commenter’s name. If your name is Tom, try spelling it Thomb or if it’s Jill go by Jillll. Get indignant when people ask about it.

· Wear really weird crazy outfits to an event. Because later you may show up in a “Would You Be Caught Dead In This Outfit?” column. Would I be caught dead in a National Publication? Yes I would!

· Admitting to being out of your mind is preferable to being boring. Who’s more memorable: Schizomomia or Heartfelt Mom ?

· Pretend your blog is huge in another country. Americans are very egocentric. No one knows anything about people in England or Germany for that matter. Who’s going to argue with you?

· Constantly refer to yourself in the third person. Say “Stefanie is an excellent writer” Later, people won’t remember who told them that they just remember Stefanie is an excellent writer.

· Have an angle and spin it for maximum benefit. Come up with something like that whole “Jewel being homeless thing” Take your story to lunch a few times before you start blogging about it all the time. Focus group it.

· If you’re posting pictures of yourself, you have to be too something. If you’re gonna be fat, you gotta be Carnie Wilson FAT. Everyone knows who she is. You don’t hear a lot about Jenny Smith from that show on the WB. You know who I’m talking about? No. Exactly. If you’re going to be thin, be anorexic. Make Nicole Richie look like a fat ass next to you.

· Suddenly have a disease. Not Parkinsons. Too overdone. But always tell people that “they’re very close to a cure” Stay positive. Try being a survivor of an interesting yet fatal disease. Although…

· Don’t put a button on your blog asking for donations to help cure your fake disease. Apparently…this is illegal.

· Never underestimate how far a bad childhood can get you. The appropriate time to bring up your bad childhood is anytime you can’t think of something to blog about.


MetroDad Guest Post

MetroDad is a pimp and you know this. Back when I decided to be a blogger, I set aside a week to just read blogs so I could see what was what. When I started reading MetroDad, I immediately knew he was the man. I decided that we must beome allies or he would destroy me. I wondered if he could backflip. The fact that he's writing on my blog 2 months later is a big deal to me. I felt good about his post when I read it: funny and touching, a tough blend to pull off. When I got on the highway to Sedona, I reflected on it some more and it dawned on me that he had compared me to a drunk who shits on the sidewalk. This time my eyes got moist. There's no higher compliment to me (and I bet he knows this). "Addiction is devotion. Look it up." Thanks Metro!

“The Fraternity of Fatherhood”

Fatherhood does funny things to a man.

After becoming a father, your perspective on life changes far more more dramatically than you would have ever thought possible. Some men become more emotionally sensitive. Others may become more protective of the world around them. Those who have daughters may find themselves much less misogynistic.

Then, you have guys like BHJ who used to run over pigeons for fun but, since becoming a dad, now feels pangs of remorse.

What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah...the "fraternity of fatherhood." Let me tell you a story about that fraternity.

I live in downtown Manhattan. Having lived here most of my life, I'm sympathetic to the city's urban homeless situation and I deeply empathize with those unfortunate souls who have fallen through the cracks of society. I donate money to homeless organizations. I drop off old clothing at shelters. And when I eat out at a restaurant, I always take the leftover food and try to find someone in need of a decent meal.

However, like most selfish New Yorkers, I often wonder if my charitable generosity is meant to alleviate my middle-class guilt. Sure, everyone wants to help the homeless but let's face it. Nobody wants to see them.

And therein lies my problem.

My building has three homeless men who literally sleep in front of our building every night. The worst is a guy in his late 50's. He's one of the shittiest drunks I've ever seen. When he's liquored up, he's not only a mean old bastard but also a crazy lunatic. He'll pull down his pants and literally crap on the sidewalk. He'll pee in a Gatorade bottle and chuck it at people. He'll scream obscenities at residents as they enter the building. And more than once, he's scared my babysitter so badly that I'll have to go out and walk her to the subway.

The problem is that when he's sober, he's a really nice guy. He notices how much I enjoy spending a lot of quality time with my daughter and whenever he sees me (even if he's in the middle of an insane rage,) he'll stop and say, "Hey, Papa. How you doing? How's the little girl? They grow up so fast, don't they?"

If I'm walking with my daughter, his face will light up and he'll softly coo nice words to her. "You're looking very pretty today, little girl. Be sure and always listen to your daddy, ok? Now, run along and have a great day!"

We've spoken many times and, although he won't go into all the details, it's clear that he's got several children whom he cares about very deeply. When he speaks to me or my daughter in his raspy voice, I hear these deep-seated pangs of regret and remorse that always surprise me. I don't know much about his life story or how he ended up sleeping outside my building every night. All I know is that he's a dad and he loves his kids.

And you know what? That's good enough for me.

Look, I'm a pretty involved dad and having a daughter is one of the greatest joys of my life. I've made fatherhood one of the top priorities in my life and I love spending as much time with her as possible. I really don't allow anything to get in the way of being there for her on a constant basis.

These days, it's a lot more common to find fathers like me. Our generation is so different from those that preceded us. So when I meet men who share a similar sentiment, it's very easy to form an immediate bond with them. As it turns out, being an involved dad is a fairly strong bonding connection.

As it goes in the real world so it does in the world of blogging.

Although I've had the pleasure of meeting many bloggers in person, I've never met BHJ. However, I do know we share many similarities. He's one of the few guys who reads as much as I do. We both enjoy writing (although he's far better at it.) We share common interests in Bob Dylan, Pearl Jam, and hip-hop. And needless to say, we both have a twisted sense of humor and a profane admiration for the art of cursing like a fucking sailor.

When I first started reading his blog, I spent most of the time laughing my ass off and snorting milk out my nose (even though I stopped drinking milk about 5 years ago.) His humor was smart, refreshing, and hysterical. However, despite all the laughs, it immediately became clear that he was a great dad with a unique approach to fatherhood. Here was a dad with whom I could connect with immediately.

Of course, he's sometimes delusional and talks to imaginary friends. And sure, he thinks he's a grown-up white version of Gary Coleman. And yeah, I admit that I sometimes worry about his sanity as he attempts to single-handedly take over the blogosphere and challenge every major mommy blogger to backflip competitions or arm-wrestling contests. Say what you want about my new friend but you have to admit that he's one hell of a dad and he's madly in love with his kids.

And you know what? That's good enough for me.

Rock on, BHJ!


The Spohrs Are Multiplying Guest Post

Heather was like the 3rd person to read The Wind In Your Vagina and her support has been greatly appreciated. She was even appointed President of the The Wind In Your Vagina fanclub without her permission. She has an inspirational story in her daughter, Maddie, and a great blog. My Mom reads Heather's blog first thing with her coffee. You should too. She's funny as hell, hates feet, and she's a trapeze artist. What more do you want?

O and that picture isn't Heather. That's her co-worker, Rage, and Rage loves hot-dogs. Thanks Heather! Rage on.

Hey there. My name is Heather, and I normally blog over at The Spohrs Are Multiplying… If you're especially observant, you might have noticed that BHJ has a little haven over in his side bar for me and my husband. And if you are super duper crazy observant, you've noticed I am one of the few people who gets away with telling BHJ when he sucks without him starting Blog War III with me. So, you're probably wondering why I have so much clout with the dude. Well, I'll tell you why.

BHJ and I grew up next door to each other.

BHJ's real name is James Black. We grew up in the San Fernando Valley, a legendary part of Los Angeles famous for hot weather and porn. Jimmy is a few years older than me, and you'd think that he'd completely ignore a younger girl but for some reason, he took a shine to me. He acted like my big brother and that was cool. It was a good thing, too, because he was kind of an aloof dick to everyone else. I KNOW, right? Total shocker.

Jimmy was always talking about the blurred lines between reality and fantasy, about nihilism and the paradigm of Newtonian physics, and Buddhism. The kind of stuff that makes typical teenagers say, "huuuuuh?" When I was a kid I didn't understand half of what he said, but the older girls? They ate that shit up. They couldn't get enough of his deep thinking. Did they understand it? Doubtful. But they'd always be coming by his house, asking him to tell them the meaning of life. Girls always wanted to hang out at my house because they knew Jimmy was my friend. When a new girl would come over, she'd pretty much sit at the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jimmy and his long hair. Jimmy was totally the man...

...except when it came to sports. He was totally crap at anything involving exercise and coordination. Now he runs marathons and can do flips on a trampoline with ease, but back then he was a skinny 6' 3" kid that had no control over his body. You should have seen him try to play basketball. Total crap. And volleyball? Forget it.

Rollerblades hit our street HARD. EVERYONE had them. When I got my first pair, I ran outside to put them on, only to find Jimmy sitting under a tree on his lawn reading the Tripitaka.

"Look at my new blades, Jimmy!"

“The way is not in the sky, Heather," he replied. "The way is in your heart."

I crinkled up my nose.

"Erm, what? I asked you about my blades."


Jimmy examined my blades, then nodded slightly.

"They seem as pleasing as an earthly possession can be."

"Hell, yeah!"

"But earthly possessions alone will never bring you joy."

"EVERYONE has blades now, Jimmy. When are you going to get some?"

At that moment, three impossibly pretty cheerleaders from the high school skated by on their new blades. "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii Jimmy!"

"I think I'm going to go get some blades right now."

I was still a bit wobbly on my feet when Jimmy came back from the store with his new blades. I skated over and watched him sit down under the tree and strap on his skates. When he stood up, I held my breath...and to my surprise, he didn't fall. He managed to glide around on his driveway with relative ease. I could tell he was as surprised as I was.

There were a lot of kids in our neighborhood, plenty to play team sports. Once everyone had rollerblades, it was one side of the street versus the other in street hockey. The first time we all played, some of the guys on the other team started laughing when Jimmy said he was going to join us. I mean, this is the guy that managed to spike a volleyball into his own face.

"You're going to play, Jimmy? And not just sit under a tree reading a book?" asked the boys as they doubled over, cackling.

“Of course," Jimmy replied as he stretched into the Revolved Half Moon Pose. "To keep the body in good health is a duty...otherwise we shall not be able to keep our mind strong and clear. Plus I just bought these kick-ass blades.”

To everyone's shock, Jimmy was really good at street hockey. He was weaving in and out of the defenders and even managed to score a couple goals. The neighborhood girls, of course, were falling all over themselves about it. I was on the sideline with the other girls, waiting for my turn, when Jimmy made an impossible shot and scored. He spun around and skated towards us, his long hair flowing behind him.

The girls around me all gasped. One of them cried out, "He looks like JESUS!!!" Another agreed, "yeah, if Jesus played hockey, he would totally look like Jimmy." All the guys in the neighborhood started snickering.

Then Jimmy hit a rock in the street, and skidded across the ground on his stomach. All the girls screamed. When he stood up, his clothing was black like the asphalt.

"Look at Jimmy!" one of the guys shouted, "He's blacker than his last name!"

"Yeah!" I said, trying to be funny, "He's a Black Hockey Jesus now!"

And that is how Jimmy became BHJ.


Halushki Guest Post

"Born in the north and sworn to entertain ya. Cause I’m down for the state of Pennsylvania." I felt compelled to quote Anthony Kiedis today because my guest post is from Jozet at Halushki. If you don't read Halushki, you're crazy. She's smart and funny and she can sing her ass off. My only beef with her is that she's a touch insane. She dissed Gonzo.

But I'm gonna bury the hatchet and just say "Thanks Jozet! This post is all kinds of funny. And your video kills."

The Meta Meta Blog Post of All Time

Thank you so much. Thank you all.

Well, this isn't exactly the blog post I'd normally write, but I sure like the company.

To Black Hockey Jesus’ readers, to all those who normally read Halushki, to the hung-over women of BlogHer now reading this post on mojito-stained laptops;

To those who have borne witness to the so-called “silly season” of blogging wherein I have done my best to provide hard-working, salt-of-the-earth humor which rarely strays from fourth-grade English or references to guns and religion and beer, while Black Hockey Jesus was a big fat show off when he guest-posted on my blog and made me look bad with his Latin quotes and references to philosophy junk that I didn't understand because I didn’t go to some fancy prep school in Latinvania or wherever;

To everyone, oh, just everyone:

My commitment to you and to the hard-working chuckles we seek is unyielding; my commitment to humor without elitist, smarty-pants references to Nietzsche - and you know that Black Hockey Jesus only mentioned Nietzsche because no matter how you pronounce Nietzsche, he gets to roll his eyes and say “it’s pronounced NZZZTTCHSSYA” (or some other conveniently made-up pronunciation) - my commitment to all that stuff is solid.

You have touched me with your comments and you have humbled me with your white-knight offers to clobber Black Hockey Jesus with institutional-sized cans of pudding after he called me an idiot during a guest post on my own freaking blog.

This was no gaffe, my friends, oh no. This after he and I had bonded over Oliver from the Brady Bunch! This after he downloaded a copyrighted photo of me dressed as a crack-headed soul singer in a bikini and posted it to his own blog for his own fame and glory! This after I loaned him my bar of butter so he could grease the sides of head and fit one more blog into the room with the rest of us!

And yet, it is upon this last note that I must again turn. For, in spite of all his recent divisive and abrasive behavior toward me, for all the butter and feeling badder, not better; for all this, and in spite of all this, do not yet call me "bitter".

For I do - in fact - empathize:

Blogging is a solitary road upon which we public journalers sometimes think we must walk down single file. As if there is no room for us to be fabulous and awesome skipping together with elbows locked and matching knee-socks like French schoolgirls. As if we must instead beat each other aside with ridiculous, tiresome, ugly-ass Muppets when we should instead be raising keyboards and voices as one!

For Change! For Hope! For Unity in the Blogosphere!

And so, with a humble heart - and three margaritas in me - I hereby re-extend my hand in friendship and camaraderie even as I martyr myself upon the altar of false humility and the stage of painfully cringe-worthy public performance.

For as one of us rocks and rules, so do we all.

As we lift each other up, so we lift up ourselves.

Let not the site meters guide our souls nor our plaintive song cry out Ledo mihi infantia unus magis vices! Sing not “Hit me, baby, one more time!” as some artists of our time. Instead, sing Yes! Yes! to the genuinely fabulous people we get to be online! For whether or not we are black, whether or not we have a vagina, whether or not we can slap a puck -

We can all save the world. One blog at a time. Together. Starting now.

Thank you.


Pink Halushki Bono


Jenny The Bloggess! Guest Post

Jenny The Bloggess! rules so many galaxies that I can't write her name without an exclamation point. She's filled with mosquitoes, she's a Sasquatch hunter, and there's no rhyme or reason for the way her prose jingles and jangles, which means you can never see where she's taking you. You just sit on the edge of your seat and go where she leads. And it's always fun. Or something.

Even though she's in a blackout in San Francisco, she's agreed to guest post for me today. Thanks Jenny The Bloggess!

In the past few months a mysterious stranger appeared in Blogoslovakia and created quite a stir. Within the first weeks of his arrival my email box was flooded with letters all talking about Black Hockey Jesus. They were all from Black Hockey Jesus. He was loud, brash and awesome in the way that two-headed lambs are; totally fascinating but disconcerting in that way that you kind of wish that they'd die so you can taxidermy them and poke them without guilt.

Black Hockey Jesus is a liar. If he emails you he will do it under an assumed name, and then he'll try to tell you his real name but don't you believe it because he is a liar. However, I've always preferred the company of dangerous liars to honest bores so I'm along for the ride. About a month into knowing him, Black Hockey Jesus tried to tell me his real name. I think it was Devo or Watson or something. I don't really remember because blog people aren't allowed to have real names in my head, and also because I had already figured out who Black Hockey Jesus actually is. Several months earlier, I started getting foul but intriguing emails from Dick Masterson. I suspected he was a pornographer but it turns out he's the author of "Men Are Better than Women" and was the featured misogynist on Dr. Phil's reality show. Equal parts vile and hysterical, he entertained me, accused me of treason and answered a basic life question that has hounded me for years.

Me: "So what's Dr. Phil like? Molesty? He looks molesty."

Dick Masterson: "Dr. Phil is as molesty as the makeup he's got caked around his pedophile mustache. He's seriously a dick."

I knew it. Much like I knew that Black Hockey Jesus was actually Dick Masterson. Their writing style, their propensity to play dirty with the details and their ability to make me laugh at shit I shouldn’t laugh at. Black Hockey Jesus will say he isn't Dick Masterson and is willing to steal pictures of small children off the internet to pretend they are his, but he is a schemer and is not to be trusted.

In closing, next time you look at a Black Hockey Jesus post, give it a critical eye and I suspect that you will say to yourself, “My God! Jenny the Bloggess was right. This has Dick all over it”. But does that mean we should vilify Black Hockey Jesus? Should we rip him to bloody pieces in a gladiator-style, post-apocalyptic type battle for lying about who he really is? Probably, because that would be cool to watch. But then we would miss his bizarre non-sequiturs and related odd, two-headed lamb awesomeness. And that would be a very sad thing indeed.