I am a bad blogger. Bad.

I've been scrambling for freelance work and I've finally hit my stride, so that's good.

Now, blog:

Ruby was playing dress up today with... a crutch.

She was putting on scarves, underwear and old baby clothes on this crutch.

Here's her monologue: "Yes, don't worry Mrs. Jones... our clothes will cover your boobies AND your vagina. Our clothes are very good."


Also:
I am working on an animated short, starring none other than our good friend the Nude Fat Man Eating Cookie Dough. A commercial producer friend of mine forwarded Mr. Nude's entry on to an animator, and he's a fan. So we developed a six minute script, and it looks like it's happening.

Which terrifies me. I don't know why. But it does.

In which the boy urinates on me.

c. 6:00 am

Owen, sleeping next to me: "Could you open the window, please?"

I chuckle to myself: "Meh, talking in his sleep. Meh. Wait a sec? Why am I all wet?"

I am giving Ruby the gift of knowledge about primordial dwarves and giant creme brulees

The lucky, undeserving little brat is getting the finest reference known to man: The Full Color Guinness Book of World Records (16 pages in 3D!).

I don't know how it was for you as a snubbin, but when I was a grade schooler, the Guinness Book of World Records was the pinnacle of Western thought.

Dwarves! The World's Fattest Twins (The McCrarys. See above.)! Longest beard on a woman! Most supernumery nipples!

The full rich physiognomic pageant was right there, in tiny type on cheap Earl Grey-tinted paper. It was a platonic freakshow, with only the most superlative aberrations. And unlike previous generations, I didn't have to wait for the circus to wheel into town with it's icky carnies and scary clowns. I just had to head to the school library at lunch, grab a matt and relish the horror of those seedy little black and white smudged photographs.

There was also an aspirational, Horatio Alger aspect to it: if I work hard, someday I'll be able to avail myself of the sublime comfort of a mink-lined golf shoes with ruby tipped cleats (The Most Expensive Golf Shoes In the World), or the complete Canon system (Most Extensive Photographic System In The World).

I would own the Bugatti, Hearst Castle, a case of 1945 Mouton. Yep, Guinness was teaching me how to be a huge douche.

I walked away from Guinness when I discovered The People's Almanac, a foot-thick doorstop filled with articles about ghosts, strange weapons of WWII, strange political and religious screeds, and the sexual practices of dead celebrities. In other words, it was the Internet in book form.

All this came flooding back when Ruby started expounding this new book she had found in her school library, full of bearded ladies and tiny people.

This year, I am initiating her into the temple of corn dog wisdom that is Guinness. And it's in 3-D, so it's even more classy than it was when I was a kid.

Awesome!

Owen's amazingly well crafted joke.

Owen, 5, made up this cracker today:

Q: Why did the turd cross the road?

A: To go to the TURD sanctuary.

Pure gold.

Ruby and Owen discuss the Sexual Practices of the Human Grown Up

(Note: I've always been weary of simply quoting my kids here. It seems lazy. But, goddamn it, they say some funny ass crap.)

Owen: What do grown up do when they're in love?

Ruby: They are in sex with each other.

Owen: What's that?

Ruby: That's when they show each other their butts.

Innocence, enemy of Tact

Kids are watching Shrek.

Ruby: "Dad, you remind me of Shrek."

Me: "Oh, yeah? Why?"

Ruby: "Well, Shrek is fat... but you're not fat."

Me: "I'm sorta fat."

Ruby: "No! No, you're not!"

Owen: "You're the best!"

Ruby: "Anyway, Shrek is ugly. But you're not ugly."

Me: "So, if I'm not fat and not ugly, what qualities do I have that reminds of Shrek?"

Ruby: "Other... things... that are part of his character."

Ruby's last words before night-night.

The other night, I was hanging out with Ruby waiting for her to go to sleep so I could go watch some swearing TV.

Her eyes were fluttering at half mast and she began to talk in a sweet, sleepy voice:

"Daaaaad.... today at school...."

"Yes? What happened?"

"... I farted during circle time and didn't say anything so everyone would think someone else did it."

And with that, she slept.

Owen annoys medical professionals.

My long suffering wife is fighting some sort of cold or something. She had a pretty bad sore throat for a couple of days, and so went to the doctor to get swabbed for strep. The only appointment she could get was after the kids got out of school, so she had to take the little animals with her to her appointment.

Owen, 5, for reasons of his own, decided to call the doctor "Old Man Jenkins" repeatedly. "Hey, Old Man Jenkins! You're Old Man Jenkins! Haha! Old MAN JENKINS!!!"

The doctor took it in stride.

She got her results back today:

Chewie's destiny, forever altered by Frankie Muniz!

As you may recall,Chewie had a nasty tangle with a little boy recently.

Things were looking grim for the plump little turd, and all last week Paula and I dragged our feet. Whenever we'd look at Chewie, and his stupid little tail would flick, we would shutter. He was probably thinking "As sure as hell did something RIGHT, because the humans are all into me this week, petting me, feeding the good scraps. Yep, you got it Chewie. You are right up on top now, like goddamn Freddy Mercury."

Anyway, it was like an episode of "Murder She Wrote", the way stuff went down. This past weekend, the kid that was bitten by Chewie was also bitten by his own dog, because he was teasing the much bigger and sort of scarier looking dog (who is really very sweet) much like he had teased Chewie. (Just to be clear, Chewie IS sort of an asshole, and he shouldn't be biting kids. But that's what his crate is for.)

AND, when I tried to take Chewie to the SPCA, they were full up with other child biting dogs and couldn't take him in.

"So let's see how he does this week, and maybe we'll keep him" was the consensus.

Now, here is were the Gods of Justice pull out the stops. On Sunday, I took the brats to the shitty ass video store (as opposed to the good one) and we rented a raft full of trashy kids movies. Out of pangs of quality control, I grab My Dog Skip, which has a decent cast and has a funny picture of a terrier looking at toilet.

So of course we watch all the crappy kids movies first -- sub-muppets, shitty product tie-in franchises, even a stealth Christian parable that looks like it was made with pirated North Korean animation software. Tonight, Ruby suggested we watch "My Dog Skip".

It was then Chewie was bared on the wings of eagles to Eschaton, which is an entirely horrible metaphor, because it sounds like he died, but I don't recall you laying down any money to read this thing, so maybe you should calm your ass down, Roger Ebert.

Anyway, in "My Dog Skip", Malcolm in the Middle's own Frankie Muniz plays a sensitive young egghead in the South during WWII, and he gets a dog called Skip, and along the way he learns about love, and racism, and honor, and justice, and dignity, and gas, and feminine itching, and syphilis, and he gets his first pair of Caprezios and meets a rough handed Corsican roustabout named Nunzio who teaches him how to wrestle (made that up), and bleh, and bleh, and bleh, and you're read the short story and you've seen the Hallmark Special and you've watched the Waltons Episode, and FEH!!!

Anyway, some moonshiners club Skip at the cemetery, and the alcoholic Army deserter redeems himself by rescuing Skip. The final scenes are the now college age narrator leaving Mississippi to go to FUCKING OXFORD, and Skip passing on quietly, with great dignity on his beloved master's now childish bed.

Of course, the kids are eating this shit up, and pretty soon I have a mini Pieta on my hands, with Owen rocking the supine, ham-like toneless body of a very much alive and bewildered Chewie, bawling "Cheeewieeeeeee! Oh, Cheeeewieeeeeee! I (SOB) LOVE (HUP) MY (SNURK) DOG!!!!!"

So, it looks like Chewie is staying. I may have to track down some Malcolm in the Middle dvds. Very effective actor, that Frankie.

PS -- Owen's goddamn feet reek like summertime abattoir. I have washing them with RUBBING ALCOHOL, and all that does is make his feet stick like a chemistry set found in a recently abandoned abattoir.

THE MUMMY!!!!

Paula's dad can and will fall asleep anywhere. Here he is on our floor. Ruby, always enterprising, piled a bunch of shit around him, and then went around asking if anyone wanted to "tour the mummy's tomb".

(All those boxes in back are our attempt at storage before construction starts on our house)

Want to hear what my house is like?

Interlude: Talkin' nature with Owen

Me: Owen, where d'you think rocks come from?

Owen: Trees crap them.

The Rise of Chuy: Scourge of the Undead

Chuy, the dog, HATES squirrels. Hates them with the fire of a thousand suns.

He especially hates squirrels of the UNDEAD variety.

This is what happened:

Paula, Owen, and Chuy were boulevarding one afternoon last week, taking in the air and observe the civic heart of our city in the midday bustle.

Chuy, being small and curious, regularly peels off his sidewalk skim to dive into the warrens you’d observe under bushes if you were as short as he was. For a small dog, the world is a series of small hutches filled with goblins.

On this afternoon, he growled, then barked (something he never does), then dove into a bush on a busy sidewalk. After a few minutes of the bush shaking violently, Chuy bounded out of the bush with the still-moist carcass of a disemboweled squirrel.
(He wasn’t the disemboweller and I’m sure that irked him)

He shook that squirrel corpse like a money maker, and the resultant offal spray caused Paula, Owen and two teenagers skateboarding nearby to start screaming.

Owen (a animal lover) was screeching “Chuy! Stop killing nature!”

Paula managed to still Chuy’s bloodlust long enough to convince him to drop the desiccated romper toy. He was flecked with gore however, so needed a bath at home.

Owen told Paula: “I hate Chuy. He kills nature.”

Since that day, Owen has made peace with Chuy's nature. He knows the squirrel was already demised and Chuy was merely having a lark.

And all the while Chuy dreamt on, imagine a mountain of squirrel skulls, with Chuy himself tucked into a pile of warm laundry at the top.

Chuy is not to be trifled with.

I am forced to go to the Ruby Mills content well once more

Lately Ruby has been bringing glass marbles into her bath for god knows what reason.

Tonight, I asked her about it.

Me: Ruby, why do you bring marbles into the bath?

Ruby: I like the way they look when they're wet.

Me: Well, don't bring them in, because they might go down the drain or you could slip on them or something.

Ruby: They get sucked up or YOU get fucked up.

That's gold right there. 24 karat.

Ruby's complicated theology

(Note: we have a silly little garden buddha is our semi-wild planter)

Ruby: Dad, I was praying.

Not being a particularly religious family, I am perplexed.

Me: Who were you praying to?

Ruby: Buddha! And the fairies.

Me: Ah. Is Buddha a friend of the fairies?

Ruby: Yes. The fairies do Buddha good works in the spirit world.

Me: I had no idea.

Ruby: Remember that cat that disappeared in the bushes?

(We have a neighbor cat that likes to lurk behind a giant fern we have.)

Me: Yes.

Ruby: Buddha ordered the fairies to carry the cat to the spirit world.

Me: He's dead?

Ruby: Who?

Me: The cat.

Ruby: No, he's alive! He's living in paradise as a living cat.

Me: Like Elijah.

Ruby: I don't know. I gave Buddha money.

Me: I don't think Buddha really needs any money.

Ruby: He uses it buy treats for his fairy servants. Buddha also asked me to show him THIS flower once a year, every year.

(Shows me a strange orange flower that she found growing in some ground cover succulents we have in front)

At this point, Ruby wanders off, singing "Iko Iko" to the tune of "La Cucucaracha".

She's a prophet.

Ruby asks a question I am not prepared for

Ruby: They made Frankenstein out of parts from dead people, right?

Me: I believe that's what the story says, yes.

Ruby: So did Frankenstein have some dead person's penis?

Me: I don't think the author got into that in the book.

Ethnic Confusion and Fun with the Mills Kids

As I've noted elsewhere, my wife and I don't share the same pigment. She's has darker skin, being of Mexican and Mediterranean extraction, while I have a complexion closer to Moby Dick, i.e. very white.

So Ruby is cursed with my Albion shade, and Owen's relative darkness is endless fascinating to her.

The result is odd conversation like this one that transpired today in the bathroom:

Ruby: "Owen, Abraham Lincoln saved your life."

Owen: "Why?"

Ruby: "He made you free, because he made dark people not be slaves."

Owen: "I'm not a slave, Ruby."

Ruby: "If it weren't for Abraham Lincoln, you wouldn't even be allow to live with us."

Ruby has been learning about the Civil Rights movement in school, and it's interesting to see her apply her new knowledge.

For example, she was sitting on the heater vent one cold morning a few weeks ago. Owen wanted a turn and since she had been sitting on it for most of the before school morning routine, it seemed fair that Owen got a shot at it. Plus he was dressed and she was still in her damn PJs.

Me: "Ruby, get up, Owen gets a now, okay?"

Ruby shakes her head with big soulful eyes.

Me: "C'mon, Ru."

Ruby: "I shall not be moved."

No more Wu-Tang in the house.

When I came home tonight, Owen greeted me with "Konichiwa, puta."

"Where'd you learn the word puta?"

"I just made it up."

"Okay, but it's sort of not a nice word."

"Oh."

He looks up at me with a wide smile.

"What about konichiwa bitches?"

I will remember this date as long as I live

Historical dates, like July 4, 1776, or October 14, 1066, are actually the mark of a half-life, some dialectical mid-point in the shift from one historical trend to another.

I recently experienced a reminder of historical flux, thanks to an email thread. See below:

From Peter C. to Greg Mills
Subject: Metal!
10/13/07

Both Boris and Om at Amoeba SF tomorrow at 2:00. Interested? Lost me cell (and with it your number). Our house phone is xxx-xxx-xxxx

Best, Peter

***

From Greg Mills to Peter C.
Subject: RE: Metal!
10/13/07

Pete --

Dude, I can't. I gotta take the kids to a 5K Fun Run, then we have to go to a playdate.

Mills

It’s all happening at the zoo. Really. And it’s disgusting.

Something is in the water at the Oakland zoo. Something… libidinal.

Took Owen today to see what we could see, and what we saw were a lot of animals getting busy – with each other and, more problematically, themselves.

The usual suspects – the baboons and the chimp – were doing their jobs. But so were the elks. And the tigers. And…. the fruit bats?

With the fruit bats, there were mechanics in play that I just hadn’t considered before. The hanging upside down, the… never mind. It’s was truly horrific. The word prehensile comes in handy here.

The most priceless moment was watching a Sikh gentleman’s jaw drop in front of the bat enclosure. In a split-second he had corralled up his two school-age daughter and had them marching double-time to the pot-bellied pigpen down the slope.

Animals: they nasty.