California Beer T-Shirt Design

I Fear I've Been Gone Too Long.

How to begin?
How about; sometimes fears are justified.
   My old house isn't selling, California is twice as expensive, I make less money than before, I'm living with in-laws, and I haven't written in four months. The jury is out on me turning into my father, and/or ruining my children. When I catch Ebola, I'll have completed the fear trifecta. (I know I listed more than three things, but octo-fecta isn't a thing. Stop being so literal.)
   I guess the only solution is to stay fantastically drunk. Although that might actually cause several of my other fears to manifest, I will be too bombed to care.

So here's to my fears, 

I'll drown 'em with beers. 

It's time to draw and write

and get on with life.

This is still not what I imagined as the personification of facing my fears, but it's closer than the last one.

I'm afraid you're stuck with me.

I Don't Know If I'm Getting Older Or If The Doctors Are Getting Younger.

Hey dude, what's uOH MY GOD, YOU'RE BLEEDING!

I know. I just got back from the doctor. I had a rash, and he treated it for me.

TREATED IT?! It looks like he ran a cheese grater over your arm and then rubbed dirt on it.

That's exactly it. You must be a patient of Doctor Toddler as well.

Not likely. There's no way I would go to your Doctor Mengele.

His methods might be a little unorthodox, but he gets results.

Results?! Like the time he took out your molars with a ball peen hammer?

I admit, that hurt a lot. BUT, I don't have problem with impacted wisdom teeth anymore.

Yeah, and you still eat your steaks through a straw.

Every cure has side effects.

And how about that vasectomy?

It was a bloodless, non invasive, in-patient office visit.

He and his "intern" kicked you in the crotch for thirty minutes. 

Everybody is a little sore afterwards... 

You sat on frozen peas for six months. 

And?…

AND. You had another kid, you idiot. It didn't even work.

There are no guarantees in science.

There kinda are. I guarantee you'll hit the floor if you throw yourself at it. Gravity is automatic.

You make it seem like I am the first guy to have a kid after a vasectomy.

No. Just the first one to let his "doctor," and I use the word loosely, play soccer with his testicles.

You live and you learn.

You're going to be learning about this one for another eighteen years. Are you sure he's even a doctor?

Well, he does have a stethoscope and a white lab coat.

Those are not qualifications. Doctors have to go to medical school, not just a supply closet.

And he's very persuasive. And bossy. 

So is my wife. And I don't go to her for my medical emergencies. 

Of course not, that would be silly. 

She would probably dispense better medical advice than Doctor Toddler. What kind of name is that anyways? Toddler. French? Russian? Thai? What?

I'm pretty sure it's just regular old American.

Really? The only time I've heard toddler in American English, is referring to a child.

Yeah, that's it.

Your doctor is a child?

Yup. Practically a baby. Five or something.

That would explain the odd remedies. What? Is he a genius? Some kind of Doogie Howser? 

Nah, he's more of your basic kindergartner, kind of an idiot, really. 

Then why in the world are you going to him?

Because, he said I have tons of cooties, and the best way to fight cooties, was to drink LOTS of beer. As much as I want! I finally found a doctor that says I should drink more, instead of less. So I might have another kid or two, and I might lose a little blood now and then, but I don't care, I'm half drunk all the time anyway. Yeah, swollen testicles suck, but it's a small price to pay for unlimited, prescribed beer. I've never been so happy in all my life.

That is the stupidest thing I have ever… all the beer you want? …heard… um, do you know if he is accepting new patients?

I Don't Always Drink Beer...

Which is why we're on a break, beer and I. 

Weird Beard.

I miss writing. Even if it's just for me. I'm back. 

Nutritionist To The Rich And Famous.

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.

Because I am slender, people will frequently ask if they can buy some meth off of me. When I tell them that I don't actually use meth, they frequently pull a gun on me, and demand that I produce, said meth. (After all, I live in Albuquerque, the celebrated meth paradise of AMC's Breaking Bad.) Seven times out of ten, I don't get pistol whipped, and the conversation invariably turns to my diet regimen. After enduring countless inquiries on my caloric intake, I decided to publish my diet. One, because I believe in helping your fellow man, and two, to make some sweet cash. Here is my diet in a nutshell, please send money. Which I may or may not use to buy beer with.
   1) Breakfast: Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Make sure to have a balanced diet of coffee. Unless you're on vacation, then a beer is a suitable substitute. A beer is also OK on an extended weekend. Or a regular one. Or if you don't have anything particularly pressing to do at work that day. Mondays. Mondays are almost always an acceptable day for beer breakfasts. But for goodness sake don't skip breakfast, 'cause it's like really important or something.
   2) Lunch: I prefer to eat healthy for lunch. Usually I just have a beer or two, and a stick of gum. The beers are for me, the gum is for my customers. You should save the gum for after the beers, otherwise it defeats the purpose. And since gum has almost NO calories, you can probably afford another beer.
   3) Dinner: At this point you should have some actual solid food.  A day old pizza or a Taco Bell burrito or a cigarette. AND THEN a beer. You don't want to deprive yourself, that's when you fall off the wagon. And the key to my diet, is rewarding yourself for making sensible diet decisions. But mostly beer.
   4) Dessert: I don't know... try a beer.

*In all likelihood your liver will decide to relocate to a less toxic location, say Chernobyl. To combat this, question your liver's manhood and call it a bi-atch. That almost always works. If not, have a beer and sign up for an organ transplant. At least you'll be thin.

A Black Eye For St. Patrick's Day.

How Are These Mid-Life Crisis Thingies Supposed To Work?

I am feeling the pressure of decades of unrelenting responsibility and the crush of daily minutiae. (Minutiae always crushes, right?) I think I am going to have a mid-life crisis. I'm just not sure how it goes, I've never done this before. What do other people do?

   OK, first I need to buy a little red sports car. Hmmh. I can't really get all my crap into a sports car, there just isn't enough room in those things. Where are the kids and the coolers and the toys and the luggage and all my miscellany, supposed to go? And the guys driving those cars always look slightly desperate, like people that laugh a little too long and maniacally at a moderately funny joke. I'll just stick with my good old dependable mini-van.

   I'm supposed to get a twenty-something girlfriend. Seriously? I have nothing in common with those girls. I loathe all things LOL an OMG. (Gag me with a spoon.) I love my wife, and she loves me. What's more, I LIKE my wife. She puts up with my foibles, neurosis and outright character flaws. Our relationship has never been better. (Wink, wink, nudge nudge.) Besides, I've got almost teen kids, I have a feeling I'll get my fill of teen culture in the coming years. I'm not leaving my wife for some vacant young thing.

   Get stylish clothes, haircut and/or combover/toupee. I look ridiculous in baggy jeans. I look terrible in skinny jeans. Laughable in skinny jeans worn under my buttcheeks. Don't get me started on how heinous I look in expensive jeans with appliques on 'em. Or dragons. Plus I'm a good decade or so past getting frosted tips in my hair. (Hair. I remember hair.) And nobody really looks good in toupees or comb overs. To tell you the truth I kinda dig my Rasputin, channeling Don Quixote look. Nah, I'm not gonna try and be stylish.

   Quit my job and pursue my lifelong passion, that I just recently discovered I've always had. I kinda like my stuff. I like my house. And my car. And computers, TV's, books Nooks and Kindles, I like my big comfy bed, and my garage full of tools. I like being warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I like my microwave oven and my big maintenance intensive backyard. The time to be a starving artist has passed by a good two decades. When I retire maybe I'll start "doing" art fulltime, but for now I'll just show up to work.

   In order to fight off feelings of my impending mortality, I'll become a gym rat. Hmmmh. Nah. I'm in decent enough shape. I can keep up with my kids, and I am reasonably active. I weigh the same as I did 15 years ago; isn't that why people work out in the first place? I quit smoking years ago, but I like my beer.  I think I'll just watch some sports, I'll be athlete through osmosis.

   So, in conclusion: I'm keeping my wife, car, job, and appearance. If I have to change something, I'll change the amount of beer I drink. Phew, crisis averted. My life is much better already. Although that could just be my four beer buzz talking.

    

Beer Taste Tester.

I think the key to making money, is to do something you love. And there is one thing I love more than anything else; beer. (Yeah, yeah, my family. I love my family... sorta. But they aren't beer, are they?) My life would be perfect if I could have a career that involved drinking beer. Luckily I know a guy. A guy that happened to be a private investigator and had a packet of photos featuring the head of the brewery, two clowns, some balloon animals, and a kids swimming pool full of pudding.

   Surprisingly, I got the job. It was the best day of my life. (Yeah, yeah, my wedding day, birth of children, blah blah, blah.) I showed up early, excited for work. Within minutes I ran out of the brewery screaming. It wasn't the best job, it was a nightmare. I was shocked. I was sick to my stomach. The taste taste testers spit the beer out when they are done tasting it! Oh the humanity!

A Black Eye For Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays of the year. I love gathering together with family and friends, eating food and giving thanks, or whatever. And watching football, and sitting around with a full belly and my pants unbuttoned. (Or off.) And having a few beers. (Or a few more beers.) And then going out in the yard and having a friendly game of football. And getting into a fight because they think that it's not OK give my 13 year old niece the fore-arm shiver as she comes across the middle of the defense. (Hey, if you don't want to play with the big dogs, stay on the porch.) And then going back into the house and having some dessert and some wine and watching some more football. (Where did I put my pants?) And then getting into a fight with Cousin Lou, because he has the audacity to think that maybe we have watched enough football and that we could help the women clean up the kitchen. (Pansy.) And then later, standing on the front porch and lovingly bidding my family farewell until next year. (Or that's how I remember it. According to my wife I stumbled out, yelled some obscenities at Grandma, puked, and then pitched forward into the begonias.)

   For some odd reason my wife doesn't share my enthusiasm for Thanksgiving. I guess she doesn't care about family and giving thanks and stuff. Next year she says we're celebrating it in Cancun. Oh, correction. Next year SHE is celebrating it in Cancun.
   What?

A Black Eye For My Anniversary.

Today was my 16 year anniversary. There isn't a list of what to get someone when you've been married for 16 years. My wife has always told me I need to be more romantic, like she is. For instance on my 40th birthday she gave me 40 tickets to the local baseball team. Now my wife doesn't like sports, but she does like shopping. I know, I'll give her a $16 gift card to Wal-Mart. But that's not enough, what else can I get her?

     Beer. This Budweiser I'm drinking is in a 16oz. can. I'll save one for her. That's a good start. Oooh, and we could have dinner at McDonald's. If we both got a Double Quarter-Pounder that would add up to 16oz's of hot tasty beef. Genius. I'm on to something with this pound theme. Now what else comes in 1 lb. increments?
     Chocolate. Only, they don't have 1lb. boxes of chocolates except on Valentines Day. But chocolate chips come in 16oz. bags. That's awesome. I just need some flowers, to complete the whole romantic vibe. Wait, my wife doesn't really like flowers. Flower, flour. I could buy her a pound of flour and combine it with her chocolate chips and make her some cookies. I am great at this!

UPDATE: Well, things didn't go so well. Apparently McDonald's is not a good anniversary restaurant. To top it off, I accidentally drank the beer that I was going to give my wife, and remembered that I can't bake. In the end, I learned that giving your wife a $16 Gift card to Wal-Mart and asking her to make her own cookies will earn you a romantic night... for one, at the local emergency room.

Mr. Topper Multitasks.

Ask Mr. Topper

Dear Mr. Topper, did you hear that the new improved smart phones can multi-task? Pretty cool huh?

  -  P. Brownell

Big deal. iDad performed all the following tasks during halftime, while watching football this Sunday.

Discovered a small paper from San Luis Obisbo, California.

I subscribed because it's awesome. All excerpts used without permission. 

When Is A Party Not A Party?

Yesterday morning my wife told me we had "Spring Fest" that night. Woohoo! Party! It's been years since we went to an honest to goodness hootenanny, a good old fashioned pub crawl. I tried to remember when the last time I saw my beer helmet or my toga. The kids had used the beer helmet to catch and store tadpoles, and I'm sure my toga just cleaned the toilet last week. It's time to innovate. I will use duct tape and attach a couple of beers to my hard hat and press the kids unused Spongebob sheets into service as my new party toga.

   I show up at "Spring Fest" at the appointed time and it appears that I am the only one drinking so far. That's not unusual, I often start drinking before any one else; what is unusual, is the number of children present. It's really tacky to allow children to an event where people are partying. I say as much to a severe looking woman standing next to me, as I hand her a beer.

   She tells me, "This isn't a pubcrawl. This is the school fundraiser. YOU are the only one drinking. And I suppose this explains a thing or two. I am your oldest child's teacher, Mrs. Lyodda"

   "Hmmh. My bad. And just because I made a mistake and showed up to a school event in a toga, you can't make a snap judgement about what kind of father I am."

   "It's true, every one makes mistakes. But, this is the third year in a row."

   "So does that mean you aren't going to have that beer with me, 'cause I want it back if you don't want it."

   "I'm going to call the cops."

   "Don't do that. I'm sure they have more important things to do than to drink with me."

   "Tell you what, get rid of the beers and the toga, and we won't have to kick you out."

   So, I got rid of my beers and my toga, just like she asked. And was she happy?! No. She started screaming about how I couldn't walk around drunk in my underwear. Man you just can't please some people.

Sarcasm Meets Sanctimony.

By nature I am not a sarcastic person. I love to laugh, but I prefer bizarre nonsensical stuff like “The Jerk” or “Monty Python” to the caustic humor of “Seinfeld” or “The Office”. But we all joke around with our friends, and that often takes a sarcastic tone. The problem is that sarcasm doesn't translate well in the digital form, (I'm the first person to postulate this). This was demonstrated to me recently in a hilarious back and forth.

     First, some background on what led to the conversation. I have a buddy from the Marines Corps that I have stayed in touch with throughout the years. His family has always been in the restaurant biz, and when he got out, he opened up a little pub. He wanted to have a place where it was possible to have a conversation, so he didn't install any TV's. He figured if you wanted to watch TV you could stay at home. His wife of many years played a large part in him not being just another “bar”.

     Last year he was accused of being a front for a mafia money laundering operation. It was an utterly ridiculous accusation from a rival bar owner, but it floated out there for a couple of weeks. Most people didn't give it much credence, but I thought it was pretty funny for my buddy to be accused of something so egregious. So I decided to tease him about it. (That's what you do to a friend, right?)

     Now, I have spent many an hour inside the confines of the neighborhood sportsbar. I love a beer and watching one of my teams on a BIG TV. That being said, I enjoy meeting friends at my buddy's bar. It is a nice grownup place with good food and beer and fully clothed waitresses. I don't really want him to put in TV's, but I like to play the “Ugly American” whenever possible, so I texted him.

Me: “For a million dollars you would think you could spring for a TV or two. Geeze.”

Funny, right?

Brian: “I bought a restaurant in the heights, no $ for televisions”

The second restaurant is right near my house and I even helped a tiny bit, so I know this.

Me: “There is always an excuse. TV needs to come first. What about the children Brian?”

In what universe could this possibly be taken seriously?

Brian: “There are planters and fountains and stairs and bar stools and and other people to play with. What kind of negligent parent uses a tv to babysit their kids? This is June...”

Wow,where did that come from? That's my friend's wife and either she is sarcastic at a whole other level than me or she is annoyingly sincere.

My first instinct is to apologize and say “I'm only kidding” But...

Come on, really?! OK, here.

Me: “The children. Nobody ever thinks about the children. The children are our future.”

And after that offering, I text:

Me: “You're not saying bar stools make better sitters than a TVs? That's just silly. Or are you saying that my kids can play in the fountain? Cause that's pretty cool.”

It IS a pretty nice fountain, for what it's worth.

June: “I'm saying that our future will be dependent on mechanical pacifiers if we don't intervene and teach our children about the necessity of creating a healthy community through example. Which is why Brian O'Brians was created with no tv's. NO WHINING”

Wha??? She is really taking this seriously. Probably wrote a thesis on the subject. I should really tell her I was joking. But can't reasonable people tell I was?

Here we go again. Am I being too subtle? Is that it?

Me: “You're not subscribing to the extreme notion I should spend time with my OWN children? Barbarian.”

Laying it on thick.

June: “No, you have a wife. And I'm sure there are other adults (and probably children) capable of educating your children so you can watch tv.”

Is she firing back with her own sarcasm? Ooh, and patronization also.

Me: “...and drink. See? We're finally on the same page. Now about those TVs?”

He shoots. He scores.

June: “Brian is giving that sportsbar idea some thought, 2 pacifiers at once... he will keep you posted.”

Sarcasm met Sanctimony... and kicked it's ass.

     Isn't it funny how the people that know best how to raise kids don't have any of their own? Childless people are often so positive that if your kids watch TV they are morons and you are a child abuser. Let them have had a crazy day of screaming kids and hectic schedules and see if they still feel so indignant about letting little Johnny watch TV while they pick toys up off the floor or read an email. (Sometimes, while having a beer).

     For the record, both of my older kids watch more TV than they should. Both would play on the computer from now until doomsday if I let them. BUT they are both borderline gifted, and my wife and I read to them every night before bed (since birth). And yes, we occasionally even throw them outside. But what do I know? (See, did you catch that? That was Sarcasm.)