Optimus Prime Time

Optimus Prime is the leader of the Autobots. Who are the Autobots, you ask? Well, if you're asking that, then you either weren't around in the 80s, or spent the better part of the last twenty years following CNN News Headlines such as the OJ Trial.

Let's start again, shall we? Optimus Prime is the leader of the Autobots. The Autobots are the good-guy Transformers. You know, robots in disguise. For many of us that grew up in the 80s, Optimus Prime represents a father figure for us. Sure, it's a Saturday Morning father figure, and one that stands several thousand feet tall, but many of us created our moral foundation based on the adventures of Optimus and his gang of Autobots.

The Transformers came to Earth millions of years ago. The Decepticons (those are the bad guys) led by the evil, power hungry, Megatron hijacked Optimus' spaceship and they crash landed on our planet. Optimus was on a mission to find some Energon to power their home planet of Cybertron. Yeah, there's a lot of funny words in that sentence. Basically, both the good and bad Transformers were stuck on Earth with no way to get home and us puny humans were caught up in their war.

Optimus Prime represents leadership. Diplomatic at times, and often seen as being hesitant for action, Optimus was not afraid to do battle when it was the only option left. Possibly the most noble of all of Prime's attributes is the fact that he shows no fear when putting himself in danger to protect his own comrades. Whenever that sissy little Bumblebee was in danger, Optimus would stick his neck out to protect him from Megatron. For a robot, Optimus is one compassionate mother fucker.

Optimus Prime transforms into a big friggin' truck. That's cool.

Optimus even went so far as to let a girl on the team. He recognizes that in the future women have rights too, and if a woman wants to be a robot in disguise, well that's just swell to him. Personally I think he let Arcee on the team just so he could show her off as some kind of trophy wife to all the other Autobots.

Optimus Prime is a fair and honest leader, but deep down he is a guy. And we all love showing off our ladies so the less desirable can be jealous. Really now, would Arcee go for a guy who could Transform into a bicycle when she could go with Optimus and his wicked truck? Nope.

Maybe a sports car though...

Why are Optimus and Megatron such bitter enemies? Well, I heard that they were actually buddies back in Robot College. One night after several turns on the beer-bong at a party Optimus started feeling ill. He puked everywhere. Below you'll see the photo of Megatron actually pointing and laughing at Optimus on his knees after just barfing on the floor. Megatron hates Optimus for not being able to keep down that case of beer he bought. There was some whiskey involved too.  At least that's what I'm told.  So Megatron vowed to get revenge on Optimus for wasting the $40. And that's how the bitter war between them started.  True story, I think.

Inside Optimus is the Autobot Matrix of leadership. He carried this thing around with him for years without letting any of us know, because it was meant to light the Autobots' darkest hour. Well, he never got to use it because he died fighting Megatron. Optimus passed on the Matrix to his good pal Ultra Magnus. Now, we all know that the most qualified Transformer for the job was Hot Rod. After all, he had flames on the side of his car. But Optimus found out about Arcee's secret love affair with Hot Rod and couldn't bring himself to pass the Matrix on to him. That is where we can all relate with the great leader of the Autobots. Deep down he is just as much of a human as we are.

The more I think about it, if it were up to me, I would have passed on the Autobot Matrix of leadership to Jazz.  Hands down, the coolest Transformer ever.

So let's remember Optimus Prime as the great leader he was. Hero. Friend. Soldier. Idol. French Fry Enthusiast. Dana, The Lovely Wife, nixed the notion of naming our first born child Optimus. She just doesn't understand.  We named her Ryleigh instead.

Here's a quick haiku for our hero, Optimus Prime: 
Autobot leader
Inspiration to us all
Transform and roll out

Thanks for reading!
- ryan

The Earring

I was a pretty girl.  A pretty ugly one.

I have one piercing.  A simple little hoop earring in my left ear.  It's old school.  It used to be pretty rock n' roll.  It doesn't really represent or mean anything or than I wanted an earring when I was nineteen.

I got my ear pierced just after my nineteenth birthday.  The summer of '99.  Maybe I was killing time because I was young and restless and needed to unwind.  No wait, that would have been the summer of '69.  I get them confused sometimes.

I waited for my parents to be out of town before getting my ear pierced.  They're a bit old fashioned.  They wouldn't have disallowed me to get an earring, but there would have been thirty questions designed to make me change my mind about it.

"Well, why would you want to go and get an earring?"
"Well, is this something that you think you really need to do?"
"Well, have you heard that earrings can lead to diseases..."
"Well, why not just get a fake one?"

So my parents were in Winnipeg visiting my sister, and I was still celebrating being nineteen.  Just a few days earlier I had spent a lovely evening at a strip club.  But that's a story for another day, if I haven't already blogged about it.  I was working that summer at an art camp, teaching art to children and showing them how to be a cool teenager.  They thought I was the bees knees.

After work one day, on my way home I stopped by the mall to get a hole punched in my ear.

"Hi, I'd like to get my ear pierced," I said.
"Just one?"
I had forgotten that many dudes were getting both ears pierced at that time.  It was a cool thing to do. "Yeah, just one," I replied as she sat me down in the chair.
"...so which one?"
"Which one am I supposed to get?" I asked, raising an eyebrow in my patented way much like The Rock had stolen from me.

I miss that GnFnR t-shirt.

The nice girl just stared at me for a moment.  She looked at my long hair, my red jeans, my leopard print shirt.  I knew what she was thinking, but it was also the late nineties and people weren't as forward about such things back then.

"Just give me a second," she said, and then poked her head out of the store to yell at her friend in the clothing store across the hall.  "Hey, I've got a guy here who wants just one ear pierced! Do you know which one is the one I'm supposed to do?"

From across the way I heard a little bit of silence and then a louder girl's voice. "Is he queer?"
"I don't think so!" She looked at me and didn't ask, but lifted both of her eyebrows in an curious manner.
"I'm not," I said. "Don't let the clothes fool you.  I just really want to be Steven Tyler."
"He's not," she shouted back to her friend.
"Then do the left one!"

A couple minutes later I had a hole in my ear.  And it's still there today.  I ended up having to get a gold hoop to wear in it because, as it turns out, I'm allergic to most metals.  The cheap earrings I was buying had studs made of cheap metal that were eating away at the back of my ear lobe.  Pretty gross, huh?

A week or so went by and my parents came home from their vacation.  It was late at night and I was in bed, but not asleep.  They came in separately to visit but knew I had to wake up early for work, so our chat was quick.  After my dad said goodnight I could hear him in the living room, all the way from my bedroom.

"Your son got an earring."

Thanks for reading!
-ryan

Superman IV Isn't So Bad

Was Batman V. Superman too much for you? Too gritty? Too violent?

Were you expecting a Superman who believes in people and does good for the sake of doing it?

Well, that Superman can be found in the old Superman flicks. I showed my son Superman IV: The Quest For Peace the other day and he loved it. He's only fifteen months old, and was glued to it.  I can remember being seven years old in the 80s and just loving this movie.  As I got older, jaded, and far more cynical that I started to believe all the negativity about The Quest For Peace.  But seven year old me, and 15 month old Grayson love this movie.  Maybe Superman IV ain't so bad after all.

Okay, yes Superman IV is pretty bad. And here's why most people say so:

• The visual effects are total bullshit 
• There are numerous plot holes
• People breathe in space without dying
• Nuclear Man looks ridiculous 

But, and remember this is from a kid's point of view, there are some great things about Superman IV.

"Ladies and gentlemen... the ladies of GLOW Wrestling!"

Christopher Reeve still owns the role
One of the best things about Reeve's performance as the Man of Steel is that he's simply a gentleman and a friend.  He doesn't overly dissect the character to make him cool or trendy.  He's just a super guy.

me in the 80s

The music is fantastic 
John Williams wrote some new music for this movie and it was adapted by Alexander Courage.  While not as good as the original Superman movie score, it's still awesome to hear that theme play when Superman is doing something super.  It brings you into the movie and along for the action.

The movie is visually bright and colorful 
Even compared to the first three installments of the series, Superman IV is the one that looks most like a comic book.  It's bright, kind of campy, and sometimes over-the-top looking.  Just look at Nuclear Man's awful costume.  Yeah, it's pretty ridiculous, but so were super heroes and villains in the 80s.

We actually see Superman fight somebody 
Sure, the actual fighting sequences between Superman and Nuclear Man are pretty shoddily choreographed, and the visual effects certainly don't help, BUT we actually see Superman in a fight all over the world and on the moon.  With a better budget, script, dialogue, and effects, this could have been a pretty cool slug-fest to see on the big screen.  

Luthor is a mad genius trying to destroy Superman

Luthor's appearances in Superman and Superman II mostly show him as being obsessed with owning land.  But if you look back at many of the comics over the years, Luthor was an evil genius always coming up with new ways to try and destroy the Man of Steel.  The idea of Luthor sending Superman's DNA into the sun with a bullshit computer program isn't as far-fetched as you may have believed.  Nor are the notions of him shrinking Superman with a shrink-ray gun or swapping his mind with Superman's.

"My eyes are up here, Luthor."

Mariel Hemingway is pretty fun

Okay, Margot Kidder was definitely past her prime for this movie which is probably why sexy Mariel Hemingway was brought in as a love interest for Clark.  Back then they knew you don't mess with the Superman/Lois relationship... but Clark was technically considered a different person back then.  Hemingway's character (Lacy Warfield) was actually lots of fun.  The only thing she was missing was a set of L.L. initials.  

This movie features Superman more than any other Superman movie.

Say what?  You heard me.  In the original Superman movie  we don't even see Superman on screen until about the 45-minute mark.  Then, in Superman II, he spends a good portion of the movie powerless and out of the costume.  Superman III?  The less said about it the better, but again, Superman takes a backseat to Clark Kent and Richard Pryor.  Superman IV actually has more scenes involving Superman (by percentage of the movie) than any other in the series.  Heck, let's even throw Superman Returns in there for good measure.  So here, you can see why kids really like Superman IV - they aren't focusing so much on the quality and little details, they're just excited to see Superman being Superman.

So there you have it.
Superman IV: The Quest For Peace ain't so bad because kids like it.  And their opinion about a Superman movie is what should be important.

Thanks for reading!
- ryan

a picture in picture of my little guy watching Superman IV and loving it.

We Saw Raffi LIVE!

Yesterday, as a late birthday present for our daughter Ryleigh, we took her to see Raffi live in concert.

If you asked my daughter what her favorite Raffi song was, she might be able to say "Baby Beluga" or "Mr. Sun", but she definitely couldn't list his entire catalogue.  It was pretty clear this Raffi concert was more for The Lovely Wife and myself.

Raffi.  The Man.

Oh, don't worry, Ryleigh knows "Bananaphone."  We're not terrible parents.

We loaded in to the Kingston Grand Theatre with about a half hour before the start of the show.  We saw some friends there, and they also admitted they were half there for themselves.

I was there for Bananaphone.

I'm not joking.  Bananaphone is one of my very favorite songs.  It's so catchy and ridiculous that you just can't help but love it.  Before the show started, I leaned over to The Lovely Wife and said, "If he doesn't play Bananaphone I'm going to be seriously pissed off."

If you're like me and you like to look at yummy-mummies, then a Raffi concert is the place to be.  But almost just as important was seeing how many of these yummy-mummies were married to ugly dudes.  It made me proud and happy for these guys, knowing that they were able to marry some beautiful ladies.  I tried not to think about too many of the details, but it just goes to show you that love isn't based solely on looks.  There's also clearly lots of alcohol involved.

Anyway, back to Raffi.

Raffi introduced himself and started playing some songs, getting the kids and adults involved.  It was great.  On the stage I saw a chair with a bunch of bananas on it.  Heck yes, I thought to myself.  This clearly had to be some sweet, sweet foreshadowing. And then he grabbed some of the bananas...

And yes, here it came...

It was time for Bananaphone...

And...

Nope.  Just some jokes about bananas and some banana based puns.

My smile quickly dropped into a look that wasn't very amused.  So Raffi played some other songs, "Tingalayo", "Anasi", and under my breath I said, "Bananaphone.  I want me some Bananaphone."

And then like a flash of lightning, Raffi burst into Bananaphone!

If you were there in the crowd with me, you heard me.  I was the guy who shouted "Wooooooooo" louder than Raffi's amplified up acoustic guitar.  It was time for Bananaphone.

Me n' The Lovely Wife, waiting for Raffi to take the stage

This might sound selfish, but I'd like to think Raffi made eye contract with me in the darkened crowd during this number.  Almost like he was singing Bananaphone just for me.  And, like you're supposed to do at a Raffi concert, I sang along and knew all the words.

Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, bananaphone!
Boop-bup-ba-doop-boop!

It felt good. I'm not gonna lie.  I'd like to think my life is complete now that I've seen Raffi sing Bananaphone live.  I'd put it right up there with seeing Aerosmith perform "Dream On", or being at premiere of Star Wars Episode I.  Yeah, I know The Phantom Menace sucked, but it was still a big life event to just be there.

I saw Raffi sing Bananaphone.  And not just half-ass it either.  After that song he had to put the guitar down and wipe some sweat off his head and face.  He really gave Bananaphone his all.  And for that I was grateful.

If you have kids and you ever get the chance to take them to Raffi, do so.  Just make sure they're old enough to actually be there.  This couple brought their toddler who couldn't have been more than 13 months old, and they spent the entire show trying to keep their kid occupied because the baby certainly didn't want to be there.  At forty dollars per ticket, they could have done that at home.

But, for those of you with kids old enough to pay attention and enjoy the show, it's definitely worth going.  Raffi's show is charming and touching.  It's pretty clear he loves what does and he loves making children happy through his music.

Thanks for reading.
- ryan

...and here, listen to one of my all-time favorite songs...

The Vasectomy

me, pre-vasectomy

You know, I wasn't going to write about this.  But then a couple of people pointed out how much they enjoyed my blog post about The Inside-Outside Penis Fiasco, and thought I should really over-share about my vasectomy experience too.

So I guess you can consider yourselves lucky, maybe, that's up to you, that here we are again talking about my junk and the trauma it has been put through.  Why you enjoy this kinda shit is beyond me, but if having my penis on your mind is the only way to have it somehow inside of you then I guess a blog post will have to do.

I decided last summer that I wanted a vasectomy.  I have two wonderful children - they're smart, beautiful, funny, creative, and loving.  They're also expensive, loud, and in serious need of finding the means to earn their own keep.  I love them so much that I couldn't imagine having any more.

Plus, after talking it over with a good friend of mine who had already gone under the blade, I learned that I would get a free shave of my manly area.  Fellas, if you aren't already keeping that area neat n' tidy, you really should.  If you're expecting a girl to put her face down there, it's just the polite thing to do.

But I digress.

I really had no idea what I was doing.  I thought getting a vasectomy would be a simple nut job - in and out, so I went to see my family doctor.  She had to make me an appointment with a specialist.  She didn't even want to see my penis and testicles.  Trust me, I asked.  I had given my balls a good clean shave to be prepared (and by the way, I wholeheartedly recommend the Intuition razor for such a job.  You may feel silly going to the drug store to purchase a lady razor, but when it comes to your balls, it's the best, smoothest, safest feeling shave you'll ever have.  They didn't pay me to say this, but if they need a dude to endorse their product to other men, I'd do it for them).

So a few weeks later I went to see the specialist.  Again, I shaved up nice and good.  My thinking on this was pretty simple - even though I had been told I'd get a free shave anyway, I wanted to be a gentleman about it.  If you were having a first meeting with a new lady friend, or a job interview, you'd clean yourself up in an appropriate manner.  The first time my balls are going to meet someone new, they're going to be shaved.  Simple as that.

Well, unless I was really drunk.

Anyway, this trip to the Vasectomy Specialist was pretty uneventful.  There were no sharp objects in the room, no plans to do any slicing and dicing, and he didn't want to see my penis either.  As it turned out, this was just a consultation.  It was more like an interview than anything.

me, the morning of the vasectomy

"So I hear you want to have a vasectomy."
"Yeah.  I hear they're all the rage."
"Do you have kids already?"
"I have two. A beautiful girl and a wonderful boy."
"Makes sense to me, let's cut you up."

He drew me a little diagram to show me what he was going to do.  It was both technical and rudimentary at the same time.  It wasn't to scale.  It was done on scrap paper.  It wasn't even done with a nice mechanical pencil or calligraphy pen.  The diagram Chris Morris gave me of the clitoris in 1998 was a more professional work than the diagram of my testicles.

"Sorry, I'm not much of an artist."
"I am.  I once drew my penis for a triage nurse."
"Really?"
"Yeah, it turned inside-out once."
".....Oh."

 We shook hands and I left the consultation.  I'm happy to say the doctor had a good, strong handshake.  It made me feel good about the fact that he'd be holding sharp knives and blades around my little buddy.  I was actually a little disappointed with the consultation, simply because I thought I'd be getting the operation right there and then.  I went home empty handed.  But still full-balled.

My actual operation was then scheduled to be in another three months or so.

It's like they were giving me plenty of time to change my mind.  Like, maybe over the Christmas holidays I'd decide that I wanted to father another ten or twelve kids over the next three years.    Or maybe it was just a jerk thing to do.  Because we all know that during those three months I'd likely have sex approximately three times with The Lovely Wife.  Those of you who are married will understand the math there.  Those of you not married - don't get married.  Don't bother doing the math, just don't get married.

Finally, the day came.  I had been trying for the days leading up to it to get some action from The Lovely Wife, thinking I could give her a little going away present.  It was very genuine and thoughtful, offering to give her something she would never be able to have again.  She politely declined for womanly reasons.  I argued that just because the monkey had a bloody nose didn't mean the circus wasn't in town.

No dice.

My father took me for surgery.  It was pretty cool to have him there.  It was like a royal funeral or something.  I'm the only male in my family to have produced a boy offspring, so because of me my family name will continue.  The trumpets blared as we said good-bye to my sperm.  Okay, it was nothing like that.  But it would've been cool if it was.

Actually, there was another D-list celebrity just like me waiting there to get a vasectomy.  I'm not going to name names because his business is his business, but it was pretty cool to know that we sorta had each others' backs.  When I mentioned this to The Lovely Wife she said, "if he's a D-list celebrity, then you must be an X-list celebrity."  I'd like to think she meant that I'd be a great porno star if I put my mind to it.

The doctor and nurse were finally ready to see my penis, and the accompanying testicles.  It's sort of a two-for-one deal, you know.  Naturally, I kept everything neat and tidy down there for them.  Respect, I tell you, respect.

The pain of the operation was... well, my testicles were invaded by complete strangers and they put clamps down inside to stop any sperm from going the distance.  Yeah, it hurt, but I'm not going to sit here and make an allegory for it.  Use your imagination.  It fucking hurt.  Luckily, I had just the right amount of freezing, a nurse from another area of the hospital who didn't normally do vasectomies, and one of my favorite Aerosmith songs on the radio to help distract me from the pain.

One thing that surprised me though, was that nobody asked me to leave a sample of my perfectly good sperm.  I always thought they kept a sample of it just in case.  Not in case I ever want to have a baby, but in case I lose a finger or something and they need some of my DNA to grow a new one.  Or if, like, Taylor Swift wants to be artificially inseminated.  My sperm would have totally been there for her.  But nope, they didn't ask for one.  And believe it or not, that kind of made me sad.  It had always been a dream of mine to have a pretty nurse ask me to jerk off for her.

They cleaned up some blood and told me to get dressed because they were done looking at my penis.  They recommended using a bag of frozen peas to deal with the swelling, and gave me some Tylenol-3s to deal with any pain.  I didn't actually use the pills.  I think I'll save them for something more painful, like if Scott Bryan ever figures out a way to defeat me in Monopoly.

this was actually a pretty decent read.

As I was leaving, the nurse handed me a little doggy-bag sort of thing with a lovely brochure entitled, "After Your Vasectomy".  The title seemed a little personal. Was everyone getting the same brochure about MY vasectomy?  She also sent me home with a little cup and bio hazard bag for me to bring back a sample of my semen after three months.  Awwwww yeah, she wanted me to jerk off after all.

Did you know that after a vasectomy you can still knock a girl up for up to three months?  That's right, folks.  I've insisted upon the slogan of, "up the bum - no babies" and The Lovely Wife keeps insisting that she's really tired and has been working a lot of late nights.

Recovering from a vasectomy is different for everyone.  Some people actually go back to work that day.  Some people take a few days.  I asked the doctor how long I should wait until I had hanky-panky again.  And yes, I referred to it as "hanky-panky".  After giving me the speech about the three month wait, I assured him I just wanted to make sure I didn't break anything.  "Wait a week or so," he said.  "You won't want to do anything with that for a few days."

I didn't know what he meant until day four of recovery.  Recovery for me was pretty good.  The pain was gone by day two, the swelling only lasted the first day, and I have a whole bag of frozen peas in the freezer that I can either use for a Sheppard's Pie or hold on to for the next time I have a vasectomy.  The bruising, however, took me by surprise.  The doctor wasn't kidding about not wanting to do anything for a few days.  My junk was so bruised up that it pretty much retreated back to basic training.  On day four, I woke up - typically - with morning wood.  No big deal.  Ask any guy, it's pretty much a daily occurrence.

not actually my penis

But I decided to take a look down there, knowing full well that I was bruised up pretty good.  I knew my dick would look like it had taken a beating, and not the type of beating you'd want your dick to take, but I wasn't prepared to look down there and see Two-Face from the Batman comics.  One side of the dick was totally normal, and the other side was bruised and purple and flipping a coin.

Two weeks passed, and I was all healed up.  I was happy.  Happy because I knew I wasn't about to have any more children.  Then The Lovely Wife started oddly craving Pepsi and puked her guts out with a sickness in the early morning.  As I brought her up a glass of water, she looked up at me as if to say, "uh-fucking-oh."

The Clear Blue pregnancy test came back as "Not Pregnant", which was great because:
A) we definitely weren't having more kids
B) I didn't have to throw my back out by throwing her down the stairs
C) I'm not a big fan of irony
D) all of the above

I was so excited that I almost went out and bought her a cake with "Congrats You're Not Pregnant" on it.

Thanks for reading.  I'm going to end today's blog post with a little Improexophonophelia.

vasectomy

by ryan matthew ewing

vasectomy, vasectomy, vasectomy

free health care, free health care, free health care

vasectomy, vasectomy, Vasectomy

one vasectomy is still cheaper than ten abortions

vasectomy

me, post-vasectomy

Don't Wanna Kiss Your Thing

Back in Spring 1998, at the lustful age of seventeen, I was sitting in my Creative Arts class, working on a large drawing of all my Scourge characters. I had become absolutely obsessed with Aerosmith. It seemed like I couldn't have a conversation without bringing up one of their songs. Steven Tyler was my hero, and sometimes I'd refer to him as my "spiritual father".

We were listening to the radio in class when suddenly I could hear Tyler's signature voice. Could this be their new single from Nine Lives? I thought to myself. Nope, I'd listened to that album at least one hundred times and told my friend's Rebekah and Laura everything about the album at least two hundred times. I would've recognized a song sooner. I had all their albums, so the only logical explanation was that this song was something completely new.

I waited by the radio until I got the chance to hear it again and tape it off the radio.

I Don't Want To Miss A Thing is a beautiful song. The lyrics, the melody... I really thought Steven had outdone himself with this one. Then, as it gained more airplay, the CD became available. The Armageddon Soundtrack which had enough Aerosmith songs to pretty much be an Aerosmith album, was pretty solid as far as soundtracks go.

Pretty soon though, "IDWTMAT" started getting lots of backlash. But why? Aerosmith had done love songs before and they were huge hits. People loved Angel, Crazy, and the best of them all, What It Takes. Were people just sick and tired of the formulaic "Aerosmith Ballad"?

Then the news broke: Oh my God, this song wasn't written by the Tyler/Perry songwriting combo. No, the Toxic Twins had nothing to do with it. IDWTMAT was written by Dianne Warren. And she was best known for Celine Dion songs. Celine Fucking Dion.

Before you knew it, a country singer also recorded the song and people were saying things like "Did you hear Aerosmith's remake of that country song?" Suddenly people were referring to the band as sell-outs, calling them Aero Supply, and making it hard for anyone to be an Aerosmith fan. Even Steven Tyler himself has referred to the song as I Don't Want To Kiss Your Thing. Is this the song that made Aerosmith so jaded? Yes, that pun was intentional. You might even say that IDWTMAT was "Hey, Over-Play-ded". Okay, that wasn't quite as funny.

So where does the song stand all these years later? Some people really hate it. And I mean absolutely loathe it. But when you think of how many married couples had their first dance to this song, and how many children were probably conceived to this song, it kinda lightens it all up a bit. Call me a softy, but I don't really mind this song at all. Mind you, being the obsessed Aerosmith fan that I am, I do have a harder rock mix of it, and that's the one I tend to listen to.

It's also a different song when listened to from different perspectives.  Mostly these days when I hear this song it's because I'm singing it to my daughter as one of her lullabies.   Don't get me wrong, she loves "Dream On", and her favorite Aerosmith song is "Livin' On The Edge", but when it's lullaby time, she really wants to hear  that song from the movie about the asteroid.

I guess it all comes down to personal taste. I mean, there will always be crappy music that is popular while some real artists are over-looked. Even Aerosmith themselves are victims of it. While their popular songs like IDWTMAT, Crazy, Jaded, Cryin', and Pink flourished on the radio, some of their real gems of the same time period like Eat The Rich, Beyond Beautiful, Taste Of India, and Hangman Jury are barely recognizable to the public. I'm not going to pass down a judgement that is set in stone, but I will say if you like the song, good for you. If you don't, and you don't mind missing a thing, then that's no problem either.

Thanks for reading!
- ryan

Kids: The Worst Roommates

First, I love my kids dearly.  With all my heart.  They're pretty awesome kids.

As far as roommates go... you know, just people you have to live with.... kids are pretty shitty roommates.
Some days The Lovely Wife and I consider dropping them off at the nearest orphanage.

I used to live with this guy, Joshua Lindsey Mercer Clements, and he was a pretty good roommate.  He wasn't perfect; he'd cut his toenails and leave them on the living room table, and he'd dip his toast in ketchup, and I used to have to hide boxes of Lucky Charms under my bed so he wouldn't eat them.  But he had a darn good VHS collection and used to steal nachos from the pub he worked at, so we always had something to eat and watch.

But kids... man, if the person you shared an apartment with tried pulling half the stuff kids do, you'd be kicking them out as soon as the month's rent was paid.

They leave their shit everywhere.  I mean everywhere.  And everything.  Toys, socks, snacks... you name it.  If you had a roommate who just left their shit lying on the floor, you'd be pretty pissed off.  And you know what?  Sure, you can tell them to clean it up - but usually you notice it when they're either at school or sleeping.  Did the guy you live with leave a tiny Barbie shoe on the floor for you to step on in the dark?  Nope?  Oh, poor you.  If it were a roommate, then you might just get sick of it and throw their shit in the garbage.  Take that, you fucking slob!  But the kids? It's pretty likely you paid for that shit with your hard earned money.  Sure, all parents have used the line, "if you don't pick up these toys then I'm throwing them in the garbage," but we don't follow through with it.  That Barbie was, like, fifteen bucks.  I'm not about to just throw fifteen smackeroos in the trash to prove a point.  If you throw away your roommates junk, you might get a punch in the head, but you won't be out fifteen dollars.

Speaking of wasting money, kids waste food.  Food ain't cheap.  When you live with friends, there's no wasted food.  You need to save every extra nickel for beer.  Roommates take all the leftover food and throw it in a pan to make random stir fry.  Case in point, you may remember me blogging about Superman cereal and Batman cereal recently.  They were tasty.  But it should be known that I only bought the Batman cereal because my daughter begged me for it after she loved the Superman cereal.  Then she didn't like the Batman cereal at all.  And neither did I.  But I ate that shit, because I'll be damned if four dollars I spent on cereal was going to waste.

"I don't like this.  It tastes yucky."
"Eat it.  It's good for you."
"But I'm full."
"No you're not.  You've only had two bites."
"My tummy hurts."
"No it doesn't.  Fine.  Eat two more bites then it's straight to bed."
...ten minutes after dinner...
"Can I have a snack?"

Also, have you ever had that one roommate that rambles on about stuff you don't understand at all and really don't know if you care or not?  You know, that one friend that always talks about this other friend you've met maybe once or twice but she talks about them like you're best friends with them too.  Kids are kinda like that.  Some days I have no idea what my daughter is talking about.  And since she started kindergarten, it's gotten worse because she has these friends with really exciting, important lives that I apparently need to know all the details about.  And it's all the most important bullshit in the world.

"And Daddy, my friend at school...he says that there are really aliens in outer space because on the weekend he went to the moon and saw them."

She told me this while I was cooking Kraft Dinner one day.  There was no lead in or reason for me to know this.

Kids.

They cry about nothing at all and they eat their own boogers, but do so in such an elaborate way that you can't see them do it, but you can totally see them doing it.  And when you call them out on it, they wipe their nose on their sleeve when the box of tissues is literally right beside them.

Do you know all the words to "Let It Go"?  I sure do, because I've heard that song at least three hundred times now.  I even know the different versions, whether it's Edina Minzel of Demi Lovato.  Yeah, that's my life now.  The funny thing is, my daughter knows all the words too.  But these days when she's sauntering around the house singing it, she changes the words and insists they're right.  And then when I correct her she tells me I'm wrong and that she knows the words.  I shouldn't argue.  I shouldn't let it get to me.  I should just... I dunno... let it go.  But there I am, arguing with a little four year old about the stupid lyrics of a stupid fucking Disney song.  Seriously.

I know she's changing the words on purpose.  Roommates have done similar things since the dawn of time to try and get the other person to move out.  Doing something obnoxious on purpose is the oldest trick in the book.  Towards the end of living with Joshua Lindesy Mercer Clements, I used to rearrange his CD collection while he was at work.  Not because I wanted him to move out, but because I was just kind of an asshole and liked to see him lose his shit when one CD had been moved out from alphabetical order and swapped with another one.  I tinkered with the idea of swapping all the actual discs with other cases, so when he went to listen to Pearl Jam he'd end up with The Nylons instead.  But I enjoyed being alive and didn't want him to murder me.

Still, I had it pretty good living with Joshua Lindsey Mercer Clements.  I never had to deal with his poo.

Just the other night, my darling daughter called to me from upstairs...

"Daddy, you need to come fix the toilet."
"What's wrong?"
"It won't flush.  You need to come and fix it."
"What do you mean it won't flush?"
"I had a big poo and it won't flush and now you need to fix it."

It's a good thing I love my kids. It's also a good thing I got a vasectomy.  I wonder if those events are related... we may never know.

I guess my point is, if you need a roommate and you're putting a want ad in the paper for one or something, just be careful.  You don't want to end up living with one of your own children by mistake.

Thanks for reading!
- ryan

Top 11 TV Dads

Being a dad is hard work.  Luckily, I have a really great dad who role modeled how important being a dad is.  Also, I watched a lot of family sitcoms growing up.  So, when you add these eleven dads with mine, you might say I have the best of twelve worlds.

	#11 - Danny Tanner TV show: Full House While I may be the biggest fan of this show in the world, and I wait anxiously for season seven to be released on DVD, Danny was a clean freak who needed help from Uncle Jesse and Joey Gladstone. Danny couldn't do it on his own.
	#10 - Willie Tanner TV show: ALF Hey Willie!  There's two Tanners on this list!  I wonder if they're related?  Willie the type of dad who would let their kids bring home the pets they found in the park.  And it just so happens his kids found an alien in the garage.
	#9 - Carl Winslow TV show: Family Matters While putting up with the whining of Steve Urkel, Carl managed to be a police officer... and it's rumored he sold cocaine on the side to make ends meet.
	#8 - Tim "The Toolman" Taylor TV show: Home Improvement Was Jill really sleeping with Al Borland? I mean Tim's heart was always in the right place, but really man do you need to go to Wilson for everything?
	#7 - Alan Matthews TV show: Boy Meets World Mr. Feeney was the real father... Al is only here cause I think the mom on that show was hot. I know, I'm a sick, sick man.
	#6 - Nick Russo TV show: Blossom This rock n' roll guy married a hot British chick, and never once did he crack and murder his son Joey for shouting "Whoa!"
	#5 - Jason Seaver TV show: Growing Pains Not only did he have a typical "dad" haircut, but he also did Woolco advertisements. Yeah, hardly seems fair to get number five.
	#4 - Steven Keaton TV show: Family Ties Much like Russo, Steven here never snapped from hearing "Yo Mallory!" everyday, and that's much more harsh on the ears. He was a dirty hippy who had to deal with a capitalist son.
	#3 - Al Bundy TV show: Married... With Children Scored four touchdowns in one game. 'Nuff said.
	#2 - Dan Conner TV show: Roseanne He was a real dad. The type of dad that real people have. He wanted to murder all of his daughters' boyfriends. And that's what real dads want to do.
	#1 - Dr. Heathcliff Huxtable TV show: The Cosby Show With everything that's come to light about the Cos over the last couple years, I think it's important to remember Dr. Heathcliff Huxtable as the ultimate dad.  There's no reason we should let reality alter our perceptions of the family life the Huxtables had. I know it's hard, but really - search your soul and you'll see - Dr. Huxtable was the dad we all wanted to have.  With his Jello pudding, Kodak film, jazz music, and rape drugs.  I mean, wait... what.

Thanks for reading!
- ryan

Our Kids Get Away With Shit

The other night we went out for a little family dinner.  Nothing too fancy, mind you, or nothing very chic either.  We had burgers at Kelsey's.  The point, though, is that we weren't at home.  We were out in public.  Among other people.

And Grayson took a big shit at the dinner table.

And then a part of me actually thought to myself, Must be nice.  Why can't I just take a big ol' shit at the dinner table and get away with it?

I mean, he did it right at the table!  Grunted, pushed, and turned his face red as he squeezed out a monster turd.  And we actually encouraged it like it was cute.  "Uh-oh, someone's having a big poopie," we said.  Other people in the restaurant looked over and made cute faces at him when they should've been disgusted by what he was doing.  If I just up and shit myself at the table those old people would have had me arrested.

So I got to thinking about all the crazy shit kids can get away with that us grown-ups can't.

Like, the shitting in public is a pretty obvious one, but what about talking back to people of authority?  Back in the day you wouldn't think twice about smacking a kid for being out of line.  These days, you can't do that though.  Kids today actually have rights, and they don't even pay taxes yet.  They can talk back to their parents or other authority figures and what do they get?  A talking to, a timeout, or maybe their toys are taken away for an hour or so.

If we talked back to our bosses with attitude, or gave police officers a hard time, we'd be fired.  Or shots would be fired. Either way, the outcome wouldn't be so good.

I've seen kids fucking pick their nose and eat it.  EAT IT! They eat it like it was second nature.  Like they were marooned on an island and it was the only thing possibly available to eat.  The wild animals were already hunted, the trees were no longer producing coconuts, so might as well eat some boogers.  Now, let's not kid ourselves here - everyone picks their nose, even adults - but if you even try to put one of those snot balls in your mouth and someone saw you there would only be one possible solution.  Nobody would ever kiss you again.  And yet, we still kiss our children goodnight, even though we've all seen proof that they have, at one time or another, had boogers in their mouths.

And what about those naps?  When I'm tired I can't throw a shit fit full of tears and screaming.  Nope.  Not allowed.  Do I get to have a nap?  No, I get to have a coffee.  Maybe we should start giving kids coffee.

At Ryleigh's bus stop the other day, this kid tripped as he was getting on the bus.  Sure, it hurts a little.  Maybe he scraped his knee, I don't know.  But you'd think that by the way he was crying and screaming and carrying on that his feet had suddenly fallen off or something.   Now that would hurt.  He didn't suck it up like a champ and take his seat on the school bus either.  He cried in the doorway of the bus while his mom coddled him and babied him.  You can imagine what that did to the line up of cars behind the school bus.  You're right - that line of cars didn't get any smaller.  Or more patient.  If that were an adult... if that were me... causing everyone to be late for work or appointments or affairs, someone would have gotten out of their car and punched me in the fucking face.  Then they would have told me to suck it up and take a seat on the goddam bus.

Amid all this rambling I'm still full aware that it's okay to have dessert even if you don't finish your dinner.  That's still okay.  That'll probably never change, no matter the generation, which political party is in power, or which different group of people are being unfairly singled out as terrorists because their clothes are different.

But something really needs to be done about all these kids taking shits at the table.  If they keep that up, how will they ever learn which fork is for the salad and which is for the entree?

- ryan

Birth Control

I have two wonderful children whom I love dearly.

But that's plenty, thank you.

Recently there were some weirdo protestors in my area flashing pictures of dead baby fetuses to make a point about abortion.  Gross shit.  And really, nobody wants to see it.  There are better ways of getting your point across.  Some people say abortion is wrong and others say it's the woman's choice.  While I do believe it is the woman's final choice to have an abortion, my complex opinion really doesn't matter because I'm not the one with a baby growing inside me.

So I got to thinking about birth control. 

Since having our second child in December of last year, my wife has been on birth control.  There were so many options to choose from.  Choosing the best birth control method must be like picking out new curtains.  Choose wisely, because you'll be stuck with them for a while, and you don't want to see them every morning and regret your choice.

this looks more like the Popomatic Trouble game.

There's pills, needles, patches, a lightning rod that goes up the vagina, or the option of just cutting my penis off. 

Yeah, I kinda like my penis where it is.

Whatever happened to the good old days when you could just tell a girl to jump up and down after sex and she wouldn't get pregnant?  Those were simpler times to be sure. 

Condoms are a great option, though not 100% effective, and after being married for half a decade wearing a condom again for the first time in years is like finding your favorite pair of ripped jeans hidden by your wife in a box in the basement.  Or your old, comfy Aerosmith tour shirt from when you were seventeen.  You worry about what it'll be like to put it on... will it still fit after all these years.... will it look awful with your more modern hairstyle... or maybe it's one of those cool retro things that has come back in style.  But maybe wearing condoms again is like seeing that favorite band today, twenty years later - they're older, a little out of breath, and still doing the same songs, tricks, and moves they were doing twenty years ago - and you end up just a little disappointed. Like you didn't get your full money's worth.  But let's be realistic, any Aerosmith concert is better than no concert at all.

Before somebody brings up the notion of abstinence as a means of birth control, let me just politely tell you to fuck off.  Let's see you eat three quarters of a bag of chips and not want to finish.

Anal sex is another option, but it's risky.  I'm not talking about the possibility of disease, but rather the probability of evolution.  Let's suppose every woman on the planet started insisting on anal sex, 100% of the time - eventually, over a span of a thousand years or so, the human body would evolve and change and we would start reproducing Bum-Babies instead of regular babies.  And no matter how cute and adorable that child might be, he or she will always smell just a little bit like a bumhole.


The whole problem of birth control could easily be solved if women would just encourage their men to put the almond explosion on their faces.  That would fix everything.  But for some strange reason they never consider it.

- ryan

Being a Parent Really Does Change You

They told you it would happen.  They told me too.

Being a parent will change the way you look at everything.

And sure, there's the way you look at the economy, and the neighborhood you live in, and don't get me started on worrying about public schools or the other idiot kids your child wants to be friends with.

The Lovely Wife and Grayson

Let's start with the basics.

Poop.

It wasn't that long ago that having a conversation about poop was frowned upon in my relationship.  If I ran out from the washroom to let the lovely wife know about the half-footer I unloaded in the toilet, she'd just stare at me as if to say, "Really, and somehow you think you're going to get laid tonight after telling me that?"

I can remember this one time I got in shit from her (pun not intended) because we were at her parent's place for Thanksgiving dinner and I left to go drop a deuce.  I was in the bathroom for, like, fifteen minutes, and apparently it wasn't appropriate for me to do the most basic of bodily functions while all of her aunts, uncles, and cousins were visiting.  Oops.

But here we are, happily married, with two wonderful children - and we often talk about poop.  We keep it a regular conversation.

"Did Ryleigh poop today?"
"Has Grayson pooped yet today?"
"Ooooh, the baby made a smelly poop.  He must be YOUR son."

Heaven forbid I manage to go a few days without changing a dirty diaper.  That's when I'm reminded, by the lovely wife, just how much my six-month old son really loves me, and how he's missed me while I was at work, and how he'd like nothing more than for me to wipe up the smelly poop that has somehow journeyed up to the middle of his back like settlers looking for spices in India.

Ryleigh and me.

We can be at the mall, and Ryleigh - who keep in mind is only four years old - will start a conversation by letting me know about the poop she had the day before.  And sometimes there's no more to the story.  It wasn't an adventure to get the poop out.  Nor was it a freeing experience that inspired a haiku.  Nope.  Simply, "Daddy.. and yesterday I just went poop."  Whoa, surprise ending.

And nowhere is sacred anymore.  If I let a little fart out at the dinner table by accident, I'm condemned to the likes of Hitler, Stalin, and Palpatine.  But just three feet away from me, Grayson grunts and turns his face redder than the devil himself as he fills his diaper with our new dinnertime conversation.  "Oh, somebody's having a big, stinky poop," the lovely wife will say as I shovel another round of mashed potatoes and gravy into my food-hole.  I can't say I blame the boy though, if I were allowed to shit at the dinner table I probably would too - if anything just to see what would happen.

So there you have it.  Poop.  It's what's for dinner.

- ryan

Another Mother's Day

Another Mother's Day is upon us, a day in which we are supposed to dote upon the woman who gave birth to us, cooked for us, and raised us into the responsible adults we're supposed to be.  Flower shops all go in the black, restaurants have huge line ups from 8am to noon, and the producers of macaroni work double-time to keep up with the supply/demand problems from all the art that will be made by children.

My mother passed away in 2012, and not a day goes by that I don't think of her.

This isn't going to be one of those sappy, miss-my-mommy blogs.  We all know that's not my style. 

I do, however, find the humor in the odd places that I find myself thinking of my mother.  I can't go for a walk downtown without reminiscing about the donuts we'd get at Kreske's Department store or the hours on end she'd patiently wait for me while inside Cosmic Comics as I perused the 25 cent bins.

I can't hear Blind Melon's "No Rain" without thinking of mom.  I know, that's kind of odd, and given that my mother was a fairly conservative woman (this was the woman who asked my wife what a water bong was at the mall while looking at a display of them) if she'd known a bit more about Blind Melon she probably wouldn't have liked them at all.  But, my mom would watch the Coca-Cola Countdown with me Fridays on Much Music, and she thought the little girl in the bee costume was, "just really cute."  So she liked the song. This is also the same woman who thought the lyrics "Stayin' Alive" were, "ah-ah-ah-ah., staying the night, staying the night."  Beautiful.

I'm one of those guys who lets my computer screen saver shuffle through all the photos on my monitor, so sometimes when passing by I might see an old photo of mom and me on there from when I was a kid.  It can be a little odd too, considering the next photo in rotation could likely be Aerosmith, Superman, or even Lexi Belle, but I like the randomness of it all.

My mom made the best pancakes too.  Not too thick, not overly fluffy, and they were stacked in a circular motion.  They were the best.  I've tried and tried, and I just can't make them the same way.  I've gotten close, but I also don't want to crack that code because it gives me something to long for. 

I see a lot of my mom in my daughter Ryleigh.  Sometimes the faces she makes, especially when she smiles - an I mean really smiles - I can't help but see my mom there.

And now that I'm a parent myself, I understand so much more.  I understand how much more the little things must have meant to her, all the little things that growing up I took for granted - and I'm sure many of you did too.  I remember the day I cut off all my long hair, and how my first stop was to see mom and show her.  The look on her face was so excited, and at the time I thought, okay, she's happy I'm conforming to society again, but really I know she was just happy to see her little boy's face again.  Corny, right?  But if you have kids of your own you'll know what I mean.

My mom was pretty awesome.  She worked full-time as a telephone operator, made sure supper was ready by 5pm every day, kept the house and laundry clean, taught me morals and respect, and she even had a wicked rap song in the early 2000s.  My mom could do it all.

So, call your mom.  For no reason at all.  It would mean a lot to her.

- ryan

I Was A Fat Kid

I was a fat kid.

It's not something I talk about overly much, but I was a fucking fat kid.  And I was picked on a lot too.  No biggie, right?  Happens to a lot of us growing up.  Some might even say they are who they are today because of the way they were treated by their schoolyard chums.  Like the caterpillar to the butterfly.  I'm sorry, I can't help but laugh at myself as I type that last sentence.

I was a fat kid with a really short brush cut.  The other kids called me Pugsley, like the fucking fat kid from the Addams Family movie.  I distinctly remember this one time in Grade 7 that one of my friends pointed out how I actually had bigger titties than most of the girls in class.  Granted, theirs hadn't quite come in yet.  So I guess I kinda looked like your stereotypical dyke with an affinity for eating chips and drinking Pepsi.

Grade 8 Graduation.

I'm not telling this story today to garner any sympathy, or help anyone else out.  I can guarantee you that somewhere else is a boy or girl getting picked on for being fat.  And maybe it's their fault or maybe it's not.  That's not my place to say.  I'm not in charge of the world.

I have two children of my own now - two beautiful children who I encourage to be whatever they want to be.  My son Grayson, at four months old, already eats like a champ and is going to be a thick boy.  I predict a future WWF Champion in my family.  My daughter Ryleigh, only four years old recently had her first experience of not feeling like she was beautiful enough at someone else's hands.  Just hearing about it tore me apart.

I was a fat kid.  And I was also a lazy kid.  I liked reading books, drawing Superman comics, watching Star Wars, playing Super Mario Bros. 3, and trading O-Pee-Chee hockey cards.  When I did get my exercise, which was road hockey, I usually played goalie because I didn't want to run.  I was a fat, lazy, pimply kid who could down an entire 2L bottle of Pepsi while watching TGIF.  At the age of twelve I could easily knock off an entire Godfatha pizza while watching the Coca Cola Countdown on Much Music. 

That's when I decided I wanted to grow my hair long, from my early interests in rock music, but I knew I'd probably look like the singer Meat Loaf.  It was bad enough that everyone already called me Pugsley.  I had a hard enough time getting girls to like me without the other boys telling me that I'd likely do anything for love. 

Grade 9 photo

How was gym class, you ask?  Not bad.  You learn how much time you have to let your mind wander when you're always picked last.  I did some of my best daydreaming during gym class.  I even created a few super-heroes while there. 

I was fifteen when I decided enough was enough.  I was sick of people thinking my name was actually Pugsley because they didn't even know me.  I was a fat kid, and a lazy kid, and a shy kid because I didn't want to be seen by anyone.  For all anyone knew, my name really was Pugsley.  They'd hum that theme song, and ironically, I couldn't even snap my fingers to try and lighten up the mood.  So I created a very green diet.

This diet was so green that all it consisted of was Iceberg Lettuce and Lime Kool-Aid.  And that's pretty much all I ate for a few months.  I'm not proud of it, but I did lose a lot of weight in a short time.  People have large worded terms and conditions and disorders for these types of things nowadays.  I never made myself throw up; I hate vomiting more than just about anything.

Now I'm not trying to tell anyone a quick way to lose weight here, because listen to me, doing something like eating only lettuce and drinking Kool-Aid will fuck you up really good.  But you know what?  We live in a really fucked up world.  Nobody ever thinks they're good enough, no matter how truly great they are.  Fucked.  Up.

I had become friends in high school with a girl, Angie, who told me. "Ryan, nobody else can love you until you learn to love yourself."  Not sure if she got that from a Jewel song, but it's something that's always stuck with me. 

All kidding aside, this shirt was fucking awesome.

What really sucks is now, as an adult with kids of my own, I see all these stories about bullying and obesity and it's clear that the real problem is and has always been that nobody teaches their kids to fucking stand up for themselves anymore.  Yeah, I was a fat, lazy kid who got picked on a lot - but I also didn't stand up for myself when I should have.  I didn't know how.  It's one thing to be a pansy-ass and go cry in the corner until you starve yourself and then it's another to do something about it. 

Parents, please, you can teach your kids all you want about anti-bullying but you're really better off teaching your child how to stand up to those bullies and make them go away.  Sure, they'll probably get hurt a few times in the process, but it might just be worth it.  And I'm not talking about them telling a teacher, or writing a poem about their feelings - teach your kids to punch someone right between the eyes.  Hard.  Seriously.

As for me, I'm not a kid anymore.  I'm a little round in the belly, and yet I get more exercise these days than ever.  I've replaced the 2L Pepsi bottles with a few pints of Banana Bread Beer.  I can eat a whole Tata's pizza if I want to, but I like to save some for lunch the next day.  I'll change the TV channel if the Addams Family is on because it makes me emotional.  I still enjoy salad, but ninety-nine percent of the time I put something on it so it's not just lettuce.  I can't remember the last time I had green Kool-Aid, and that's fine.  I've learned to love so much about myself (hence why I have my own fan club), but there's parts of me that I don't truly believe I can ever come to terms with.

I guess some part of me will always be that fat kid.  And I bet you're the same, in your own way.
Fucked up, eh?

- ryan

Ryleigh and Grayson; my two exceptionally awesome kids.

The Bone Tribute Edition

Bone (by Jeff Smith) has, for a long time now, been my very favorite comic.  The first time I read an issue of Bone was in the year 2000.  I found a few reprints of the first six issues at a flea market for a buck a piece.  It was something I had read about in Wizard Magazine (remember that?) and knew I wanted to read it, but the original issues were fetching a pretty penny.  I've always been more interested in reading comics than turning a profit on them, so getting reprints cheap was no big deal for me.

I fell in love with the storytelling of Bone right after the very first issue.  I was hooked on the charm and humor as soon as the snow fell on the valley, suprizing little lost Fone Bone with that long winter.

Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about with those details, and that's okay, because Scholastic has just released a new Tribute Edition in hardcover of the first Bone story arc, Out From Boneville.  If you've never read Bone, and you're a fan of comics then you should check it out.  These days, it can easily be found in the children's section, but but that's only because it's kid-friendly.  The Bone saga was never really intended to be for kids, it just so happens that it crossed over to public schools really easily.

If you have read Bone before, then why is the Tribute edition for you?  Maybe it's the new poem, "Ode to a Quiche" by the Stupid, Stupid, Rat Creatures.  Maybe it's the gallery of Bone artwork from other great artists to accompany the story.

Or maybe, you're like me and never bought the colorized Scholastic paperbacks of Bone because you've got the classic, black and white, 1300-page, one-volume edition that recounts the entire saga.  I used to shy away from the Scholastic paperbacks because of the coloring.  To me, Bone was best enjoyed in it's purest form.

My sketch of Fone Bone, to contribute to the tribute.

But when I saw this Tribute Edition was coming out, I just had to have it... but, why?  I know the story.  I must have read those first few reprints a good fifty times.  For me, this new Tribute Edition is a new chance to enjoy Bone for the first time again - this time with my daughter Ryleigh. And she loves it too.  Reading it with her is so much fun, because she gets right into it - she's even a little scared of the Stupid, Stupid, Rat Creatures and their leader Kingdok.

Re-reading it with Ryleigh almost zaps me back to the first time I read Bone, and felt that wonder and amazement that Jeff Smith has created on the page.  I've never met Mr. Smith (though he recently re-tweeted one of my tweets and I felt like a schoolgirl) but if I do I'll shake his hand and thank him for giving my family one of the most enjoyable stories I've ever come across.

- ryan of the ryan fan club

Fone Bone's affections for Thorn will have you reminiscing about your first childhood crush.

The Dastardly Villainy of My Youth

me, around 1988 or so.

When I was just a Lil' Ryan, I had a friend named Dale.  Growing up, he was a lot of fun and one of my best friends during grade school.  Dale was an interesting kid.  My mom thought he was weird, as did many of the other moms I'm sure.

We used to ride our bikes all over the neighborhood, play Super Mario Bros., and draw comics together.  Dale was a lot of fun because he was fucking crazy.

Dale was great at getting me in trouble too.  It's not like we committed first degree murder or anything, but stupid shit that kids get in trouble for.

There was a girl who lived down the street from me.  I think her name was Amanda, but honestly, it was over twenty-five years ago and that detail totally escapes me.  For sake of argument, we'll call her AmandaGlasses.  We didn't like her because she had nerdy glasses.

You can start typing all the hate mail you want.  I was, like, six years old and this was the mid-80s when it was quite common for kids with glasses to be made fun of.  And if you were a girl with glasses you got it worse than anyone else.

Dale and I just didn't like AmandaGlasses.  Maybe it was her glasses or maybe she had been mean to us in the park.  I don't know.  It was probably something to do with her glasses.  Did I mention she wore glasses?

Because she did.  She wore glasses.  It was terrible.

Dale and I decided we had been wronged by AmanadaGlasses for one reason or another (most likely because she was a girl with glasses and we didn't like her) and we needed to get back at her.  So we pooled our villainy together and did the most devious and dastardly thing we could think of.

We let the air out of her bike tires.

And then we dropped the caps from the wheels down the sewer.

Evil!

Dale and I goofing off like crazy mischievous little snot-balls are supposed to.

Now, we may have been acting like rotten kids but we did have a conscience.  Not enough of a conscience to turn ourselves in though.  Like all evil masterminds, we didn't want to be caught and thrown in prison for our villainy so we decided we needed to go into hiding in case AmandaGlasses or worse, her parents, came looking for us.

So we raided the box in my closet marked "winter clothes" and got some large coats and scarves so we could be incognito.  We didn't want our faces to be seen by anyone either, so we got our Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Hallowe'en masks out too.  And that's how we walked around the neighborhood for a couple hours or so.

Oh, and this was the middle of summertime too.  The weather report wasn't calling for winter jackets.

It wasn't long before AmandaGlasses figured us out and told on us to my mother.

If there's a moral to this story, it's that justice should always prevail.  Instead of buying AmandaGlasses new bike tires, she agreed to let Dale give her his own bike.  Days and weeks went by and Dale never did give her that bike.  And AmandaGlasses moved out of the neighborhood shortly after.

Evil wins!

- ryan of the ryan fan club

...and this was us plotting our next tirade of villainy!