I’ve crossed the river

So this is what it feels like to post after hours…

Music has always been a huge part of my life or more importantly our lives. Especially when you consider our glorious union is celebrating twenty years, come November.  It’s therefore kind of obvious that Dude and Princess would also turn out to be lovers of lyric and melody.

I’ve always pride myself in having an open mind.  I consider myself to be a “modern, hip, trendy” kind of dad.  The type of father who often embarrass his kids on purpose with quirky comments and the random use of the word “Dude”.  I am certainly not the type of parent who would refuse to listen to the music my kids find entertaining. I enjoy some modern bands. Some of the time.

But with the risk of being exposed to maniacs like Kanye, Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber who are also selling records; I deserve a medal for keeping an open mind on this battlefield of popular music. Maybe even a bag of them. Continue reading

An open letter to Vitalii Sediuk (or the guy who slapped Brad Pitt)

Dearest Vitalli.

You’re an idiot.  And I mean this in the kindest way possible.  But you are.  A self-proclaimed, personification of everything that is stupid about humans.  The missing link between primates and homo sapiens.

I’m surprised you haven’t been seriously injured by doing arbitraty stuff, like poking yourself in the eye with your toothbrush, or burning yourself with a toaster.

Let’s recap. Continue reading

Rapunzel, Ariel, Cinderella and Co. They’re all living in my house.

Yes, they're actually all one person

Yes, they’re actually all one person

Sugar and Spice and All things nice.  That’s what little girls are made of.  But let’s not forget about oestrogen.  The hormone that scares the hell out of every living man.

We understand that daughters are the Achilles heel of every dad.  It’s the weak spot in the armour of parenting, where the smallest hug is a lethal knife that penetrates into your heart and make the greatest warriors fall.

The best way to describe raising this lethal mix of sugar, spice and oestrogen, would be being locked up in a cell with the personifications of intrigue, interest, exhaustion, hilarity, love, passion, empathy, frustration and a few other unpronounceable characters.  Our daughters keeps us dazed and confused for most of the time.  Manipulating us with the greatest love known to man and a father’s twisted sense of protecting them against the cruel world.

As any father would happily admit, MY little Princess is the most beautiful girl in the world.  She’s the sweetest little complicated piece of work you’ll find south of the equator.  Because she’s unpredictable.  And once that hormone starts surging through their bodies, fathers just stand back, for there is no sense in trying to find any logic in their behaviour.  It’s like trying to understand how planes stay up in the air or why Kanye West is famous.

It’s good to know that this is an ancient mystery.  As long as little females were born, fathers were trying to make sense of the confusion and exhilleration and love that took over their lives.  The first people to document their experiences were Hans Christian Anderson and the Grimm brothers.  Cleverly disguising their comments as fairy tales.

It’s dusk.  The sun is rising lazily in the East, throwing a warm glow over the darkness below.  I step into her room, watching Sleeping Beauty lying in a circle of blond curls, serene and peaceful.  And I have to wake her.  I’m scared.  I walk closer and touch her face.  I call her name softly.  Twice.  She turns her head and groans.  I see her blue eyes, sleepily locked on mine. And I realise that I’ve just woken Malificent.

I leave the room quickly.

I pour the coffee, anxiously looking down the corridor for her to exit the room.  Should I dare call her again?  I decide not too.  As I finish the coffee, the girl from Brave walks out of her room, with a bright pink blanket in tow.  Her hair is all over the place.  She walks past me and slumps in the sofa.  Takes the remote and with the happy disposition of the Wicked Witch of the West, scans for the Disney Channel.

She finally locks onto the 17th repeat of some Disney show.  Like Aerial sitting in her cave day-dreaming about having feet, whilst cuddling a fork in her little cave surrounded by all the thing-a-ma-jigs she’s collected.  Lost in her own little dream landscape.  And I find myself sipping coffee and staring at her.  Seeing her composure dissolves whilst sipping on her hot chocolate.  Until she finally cracks a smile and Cinderella starts chatting about the things she needs to do today.

But then we need to move.  She needs to get dressed and eat and brush her teeth.  All those things cruel parents expect of their kids.  Like Rapunzel locked in a tower, forced to tie down her wild curls in a ponytail of sorts.  And she shifts momentarily into a grumpy Snow White, receiving no recognition for all the hard work she has to do everyday of her life.

A few minutes later little Red Riding Hood exits the bathroom, all skippy and jolly, ready with her basket of school books and a lunch box, eagerly waiting to get to school and share another amazing day.  Our own blonde Dorothy, eagerly waiting to meet the Wizard of Oz.  And off she goes.

Then the anticipation starts.  For we never know what the Wizard will tell her.  If it’s good news, Dorothy clicks her red heels and comes home with hugs and kisses and so much laughter that the whole house shakes.  But when the wizard tells her to go to hell, she basically does and returns with enough fire and brimstone to make dragons squirm.  Like a very pissed off Fiona.

My princess (with the help of Oestrogen) has the determination of Rapunzel, the sweetness of Snow White, the adventurous spirit of Pocahontas, the stubbornness of Merida, the curiosity of Ariel, the work-ethic of Cinderella, the beauty of Aurora, the sensitivity of Jasmine, the wisdom of Mulan, the love of Belle and the kindness of Tiana.  And I’m powerless.

What else can a father do with an ambush of hugs?  Or when she clings to me like she’s never letting me go?  Or when she cuddles in my lap and treats me like her very own Prince Charming?  What can I do?  I’m weak.  I’m stuck, motionless under her spell.  And I want to stay there forever.  Her hero.

But that’s why raising a girl is not a fairy tale, for you’ll fight to keep the dragons and witches at bay, until her real Prince Charming comes and steals her away.  And I’ll have to let her go.  I’ll have to open the door and release my Princess… Just like Hans and the Grimm brothers warned us, all those centuries ago.

But for know, she’s mine.  All mine.

This is 40…Final round

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I missed the deadline!  Relax, no-one’s getting fired and no-ones sitting in dark corner crying, at least I’m not expecting anyone too.  I’m not in a race against time, for I hate losing.  Besides “the Day” arrived and moved along, almost unknowingly if not for the major Birthday Bash that celebrated this event.  Surprisingly, no eerily long hair sprouted out of my nose and ears.  Turning forty came and went, without leaving any savage markings, unlike a few girls I tried dating in high school.  Anyhow, back to the BASH!, which is the reason for fumbling so close to the finish line.  I was aiming to finish all 40 tidbits of wisdom, but between all the invitations, decorations, considerations, celebrations and a little intoxications,  it wasn’t  realistic expectation to begin with.

Bu I have a real treat for you.  I am going to flood your senses like no meal shown on Masterchef ever would.  I am going to post the last ten snippets of wisdom in my series of forty, ALL AT ONCE! No more waiting in agony, no more checking your inboxes constantly.  When you reach #35, you can just scroll down, like one those awful tele-ads screaming “Wait there’s more!”  See what a nice guy I can be?  Unless of course you’ve read this blog before and you’re a fan of Kanye West and the atrocity that used to be Hannah Montana, you would know better, but enough of that.

So gather round, my amazing children, my trusted readers.  Get nice and comfy, yes grab a goblet of wine, (Why the hell not!) and lend me your ears.  Here’s the last ten.  Focus.

31. Respect people irrespective of their colour, religion, sexual orientation, age or gender.  I’m not saying you need to agree with people or even approve what they are doing, for that would just be stupid.  There are just to many oddities and such a wide variety of loonies running amok amongst the general populace it would actually be impossible.  I’m just saying respect people, for when you do, they might return the favour.

32. Don’t remain a victim in life.  If life brings out the big guns and blast you to smithereens and *insert drum roll* it most probably will happen at some point, you need to dust yourself off, scream “Screw you!” to whatever situation you might find yourself in and get up again.  It’s not about how hard you fall but how quickly you get up. (And I wouldn’t mind taking the credit for coining the phrase, but sometimes other people write great things too.)  Getting up remains the hardest thing to do, but once you’re up again and standing tall, there is just no better feeling in this world of ours.  Bad things happen to a lot of people, that’s life, all kinds of people get hurt, physically and emotionally, but moping and sulking and feeling sorry for yourself is not going to achieve anything.  Nor will it get you laid.  I mean dates.  I will not get you dates.

33. Always treasure the tender relationship you have with your grandparents.  Yes I know they might seem VERY old and may even start to smell weird, but hear this:  When you were still young and cute, they loved you more than they loved us, their own children.  They defended you, spoilt you and supported you with ever little clumsy step you took.  They might not be able throw a ball or run a marathon up the hill, but they love you just as much as that very first day.  Getting old just means you had a few more birthdays than the next guy.  I’m know I’m probably wasting space here, as you two are so absorbed with those  grandparents of yours, you’re forgetting they were our parents first.

34. Always wear clean underwear, or rather, always wear underwear.  You never know what situations you might find yourself in, and then when you end up getting your pants ripped off, you might end up showing a few short comings you never intended too.  Unless you’re that guy from Boogie Nights, but that’s a long shot.  (And a prosthesis, I keep telling myself.)  This lesson is both realistically and metaphorically speaking.  And whilst I’m on the subject, pull up your pants.  If I see those jeans hanging lower than your ass crack, so help me, I will give you a wedgy personally.  And that goes for all your friends, Son and (sigh) all the wannabe boyfriends too, my Princess.  Consider yourself informed.

35. Tattoo’s might seem like a good idea at the time.  It’s not.  It might even seem like the best way to honour/celebrate/eternalise a moment in your life, but before you plunge a coloured needle in your arm, remember.  No f*cking way!  Sorry that came out wrong.  If you consider getting an ink blot on your arm whilst living under my roof…No f*cking way.  Sorry I’m really messing this up with f-bombs, but whilst trying to be the sensitive, understanding parent, whilst dishing out advise, when it comes to tattoo’s I have a base programming error.  Maybe just remember “No f*cking way” and deal with it.

36.  Relationships is hard work.  And not in the romantic kind of way you see in Hollywood movies where two people can’t decide on which side of the bed to sleep or what colour to paint the room.  Even though you get those moments too.  It’s hard work based on good ole compromise, commitment and shit.  If it wasn’t difficult, divorce lawyers would not have been able to pay rent.  And half of the comedians on earth wouldn’t have any material to make us laugh.  But it’s worth it, the hard work.  It’s worth every drop of blood, sweat and tears I’ve ever lost.  What’s that love?  I meant to say it’s worth every piece of joy, happiness and bliss I’ve received.

37. I did mention that you need a great partner in life, but the lesson is so important I’m repeating it again.  (I’m trying to gain some browning points after number 36.) I’m sorry to mention the fact that you might never find another human as great and amazing as your mother, but be strong and hold on, for if you find someone who is even  half as wonderful and funny as she is, then you’ll still be the luckiest human alive.

38. Have faith.  And don’t worry I’m not getting preachy.  But I know and understand that believing in something unseen is one of the fundamentals of being human.  The Lord has carried me through some of the darkest moments of my life and even though I might not be His poster child,  I know that my belief gives me strength, it exposes hope and gives me a sanctuary from the daily struggles of life.  But God is a lot of things, but he is not a convenience store.  Don’t just run to Him in desperate time.  He’s a friend, a companion if you will (and not the awkward one, He’s the cool one.)  Just take my word for it.  He wants to be part of your life, so let Him.

39. and 40.  And these are the most important lessons of all.  It’s not really something I can tangibly explain, for the lessons are still being taught.  The teachers are my own two children.  Son and Princess.  You constitute my greatest success in life, it’s me reaching the Everest of humanity.  Your arrivals are both the greatest and most humbling things to ever happen to me.  I learn something from you every day, something about myself, things about life.  You inspire me to be more than a mere mortal man or a great father.  I’m committed to be the best father and greatest husband to have ever lived…  (Sorry, but I’ve only recovered from hysterics now, twenty minutes later, as this must be the funniest thing I’ve ever written!  Irony gets me very time!)  Anyhow you’ve exposed a love that I never knew existed or was even capable of.  And these series of posts is trying to return the favour…

So there it is, THIS IS 40, all done and dusted.  (Better late than never.)  The forty lessons I’ve learned in my life, thus far.  I’m just glad that I’m not fifty for I’m freshly out of any more advise.  Arriving at the end of these series of posts and pressing the publish button creates a bit of unexpected nostalgia.  Alas turning 40 is yesterday’s news.

I’m keen to return to more of my general ramblings on important, relevant, newsworthy and even controversial issues, like who was the sick idiot who decided to fund a movie like Grown ups 2, when there are millions starving across the globe, and even more people who now requires urgent counselling to try and erase that piece of crap from memory.

Ah dad’s open letter to Miley Cyrus

Dear Miley

What the hell were you thinking child?

But the backlash isn’t a surprise, is it?  You planned it carefully.  It was cold and calculated.  Your hands are soaked with her blood and you relish in it.  You wanted to kill Hannah Montana.  But in the end you not only delivered the gunshot to her head, you severed it with a blunt knife, then dozed her in petroleum, and while burning, pushed her off a cliff.  Filled with glee you cremated every trace of the Disney sweetheart.  You smilingly vaporised any memory that might still exist of the fact that the two of you were the same person.  It was premeditated death by twerking.

Why, my child, why?  Did you not earn enough money as the kid star?  Were your fan base not big enough? Did you despise being idolised by millions?

For this was your reality.  You became famous and moved out of the shadows of your father as a direct result of Hannah.  Most people have made decisions that we regret in one way or another, past actions that we are so ashamed of that we pray daily for it to remain buried deep in the sands of time.  Is this why you did it?  Were you ashamed of being seen as a nice American girl?

Thank you very much for putting me in a position where I have to explain to my 11 year-old daughter, why Miley Cyrus turned into a slut.  Fortunately for parents world-wide you have become almost unrecognisable from your alter ego with the blond wig.  Unfortunately your name pops up often and now I have to explain to my little girl why it is inappropriate to dance like that. Ever.

Kids grow up, I know, no-one said it would be easy.  No-one said you had to stay a prune forever, in fact no-one expected you too.  Glimpses of greatness was obvious with Party in the USA, and your latest song isn’t even half bad. So why oh why would you create such a spectacle of yourself in front of a gazillion people watching.  Were you high?  Honestly, please tell me, for it would be a much easier conversation with my daughter then trying to say “She was sober and just fucked up.”  And relax I will choose my words better in that conversation.

The upside of the whole debacle is the proof you supplied to my daughter that people will disappoint you, that finding role models and inspirational people is extremely difficult these days.  You enforced the idea that fame and money corrupts, something I don’t even have to discuss with her, she can just watch the Youtube video. And due to your unique interpretation of “things you can do with a rubber finger” I’m hoping she never has to.  The message you did put across, very successfully I might add, is that she needs to be her own hero and that finding and living her own dream is the only secret to happiness.  Thanks for that.

You are a grown woman and you can say whatever you want to.   But in the end I think you forgot about those innocent girls who is still idolising you.  The Hannah Montana girls whom you left behind.  The girls that adored you, that still wants to know everything you do.  Love it or hate it, normal people cannot separate their past from their present.  You’re obviously not normal, as the girl prancing on stage had NO resemblance whatsoever to the poster of the young woman my daughter has had on her wall.  That poster is what made you girl!

Your dad must be so proud after your amazingly agile stripper performance at the VMA’s on Sunday, as every Dad lives for that moment when their little princess becomes the sex-crazed slut they always wanted them to be.  I suppose no one can blame you for pushing your ass up into Robin Thicke’s crotch as he did resemble a barber pole in that outfit.

Congrats on being the most talked about thing of this year’s awards show, and for dethroning Kanye West as my biggest a-hole on TV.  And say Hi to your boyfriend, who must be super psyched knowing what everyone is going to be talking about when the two of you walk down the street.  You obviously have a lot of consideration for his views and beliefs.

In the end I am still left perplexed.  Why would anyone want to come of as a cheap, nympho?  I suppose it does require a certain lack of self-respect.

In the mean time, I’ll just stick with my current answer about you being…well you know what.

Yours sincerely

Ah dad…

Train

I really like Train, maybe love would be a better word, but not in a “want to have their babies, kind of way”.  Do I think that California 37 is one of the greatest albums released in 2012, naturally. If you are pondering as to the reason why; then please head over to my Stupid Question page and post your question there.

However, this post is not an album review it’s a celebration of people who don’t take themselves to seriously and Train could be the poster child.  (I am not famous, otherwise it could have been me.)

Just listening to “50 ways to say goodbye” with the incredible hook and hilarious lyrics, will enforce the level of genius from the band.  The awesome “You can finally meet my mom” is a perfect homage to people who has left us and “This could by my year” a celebration of life.  Then add to the mix the hits, “Drive by”, “Bruises” and another unknown jewel “Sing together” and you have a soundtrack for eternity.

But what really impress me about Train is the fact that they can joke with themselves, as is evident in the music video for 50 ways.  And. I. love. that.  They know who they are, they know how they got there, they know who keeps them there, and they seem to understand how frivolous the industry is.

They are obviously not the only real people in a very plastic industry.  Another singer who screams “I will do my own thing,  f#ck you very much” is P!nk.  She is so unique with tongue-in-cheek social commentary on most of her songs.  Expanding my list to other celebrities, Sandra Bullock, Julia Roberts, Meryl Streep, David Hasselhof (watch his roast!), Quintin Tarrantino, John Malkovich, Matt Damon, Jennifer Lawrence, Ellen and Jim Carrey.

These people seem to have an air of easiness around them.  They know who they are and they seem comfortable in their skin.  It may be an act…but leave me in my bubble of thinking that these people are only doing a job they love, a job that pay millions and get them on magazine covers, but a job nonetheless.  These guys accept the reality which implies that doesn’t matter who you are, we all eat, sleep and wipe ourselves after #2.

I don’t get the “I’m better than the next guy” vibe from them.  On the opposite side of the scale, tipping heavily would be the Diva’s.  Those deuchebags and airheads who wants to only drink fountain water from the Himalaya’s filtered through sand from some small island in the middle of nowhere.  And this group is not only limited to celebrities.  We all know them, we have them scattered throughout our community.  Those who think there purpose on earth is to be worshipped by us, the lesser human.  They probably have someone who wipe them constantly, as they are so full of sh#t.

If I start listing names of those I think belongs on this list, I will probably end up using all of my free space allocated by WordPress. (and get sued in the process!)  It’s easier to just go back to Train.

Their music makes my heart smile.  Isn’t that what music is supposed to do?  Music is powerful, but it’s even more powerful when the person making the music is not a duechebag or a freak or an airhead or a dick.  The aura of a song is only a reflection of the person who is singing the song.  It is not the voice, it is the essence that is captured in the music.

If you’re an asshole, doesn’t matter how well the song is written, I just can’t get myself to like the song.  I have a mental block, a build-in fortress, preventing my brain from enjoying the music.  I cannot get myself to be open-minded enough to separate the artist from the material.  Take note Lady Gaga and Chris Brown and Kanye West.

Or is it just me?