To Steal a Line from Pre-Republican Dennis Miller, “I don’t want to get off on a rant here.”

These next few months offer changes a plenty.

Obviously the biggest and most important change is the oncoming birth of the new baby Bohaagon. But slightly less known but still fairly important is the seemingly more impending and much welcomed move out of our apartment and into an actual house.

It is in that second big looming change that I find inspiration for today’s blog.

Moving from an apartment and into a house is cause for major lifestyle alterations. And while a move does mean a sacrafice of some amenities... for the sake of this blog, we’ll ignore those perks and concentrate on what I absolutely will not miss…

First up, the hippies:
Tree hug all you want. I myself am in favor of saving the planet and all. And hell... a good chunk of us have packed our bags, ate some mushrooms, and enjoyed the ensuing trip. But eventually we grew up. And hanging out on the grassy areas of our complex is fine. But can’t you play ultimate Frisbee or even just zone. Watching you stare at the sky as a group and discuss how the shapes of the clouds make you feel on a spiritual level just creeps me the hell out.

And as for you Mr. Wandering Hippie Minstrel; if you walk by my apartment again, strumming your guitar and humming some “ditty” you wrote… I’m going to punch you right in the damn throat.

The pool party crashers:
On any given day during the summer I could find anywhere from twenty to upwards of eighty people chillin’ at the pool. And while when I was a younger more less attached man I would have popped open a brew dog and kicked it with a good chunk of you, as a dad wanting to teach his kid to swim… I feel like punching the half or more of you that don’t ACTUALLY live here right in the damn throat.

And that brings us to the posers:
Guys, while at the pool, you are not allowed to show your tribal tattoos, have bleached hair, and use assorted tanning oils AND still try and pick up chicks while oozing pre packaged manliness. It just comes off as false bravado and only the slowest and drunkest of the female heard will fall privy to it.

And most of those females are fat… so happy hunting.

The toddler Hell’s Angels:
All of the kids that ride their bikes in the parking lot while traffic comes to screeching halts and swerves to and fro to avoid kiddy splatter will most certainly not be missed. Every time I see them out there I feel like reminding their parents that “not a year goes by, not a year, that I don't hear about some bicycle accident involving some bastard kid which could have easily been avoided had some parent, I don't care which one, but some parent conditioned them to fear and respect that parking lot.”

But instead I am overwhelmed with the urge to encourage the kids out into Dorsett Rd. to drag race cars and read license plates.

The cliché noisy upstairs neighbor:
Nothing witty here, I just want you to know that I will not miss the heard of buffalo that live above us.

And lastly, the laundry room:
Not enough can be said about this den of pure unfiltered annoyance. Everything from the three or four hundred foot walk to the occasional “out of order” change machine needles at my last nerve. Some highlights of previous laundry days include a busted water main and no note indicating the room being out of order, mysterious shutting off of washers and driers, and clothes removed from machines seemingly all on their own.

I'm sure you can no doubt surmise that if I were to catch someone in the act of laundry shenanigans… I would punch them right in the damn throat.

So as you can see, moving is imperative for my sanity. I simply don’t have the time or the energy to go around punching people in the throat all day. I greatly welcome the serenity of landscaping and do-it-yourself home improvement.

And although there have been some good things about living here, this past year has been a strain. Perhaps the evolution of our family dynamic has brought to surface the urge to make a REAL home. Maybe it’s the fact that three (plus one) of us and the mini horse dog are just getting too crowded. Or maybe you can chart the decline of our mood with vacating of the Benders.

I tend to blame John the Neighbor.

No matter what, I can’t think of anyway living here could wear on my nerves any more than it does now... except for maybe zombie Nazis moving next door.

You just can’t live near zombie Nazis - J

More Comfortable Then Making Love in the Back of a Volkswagen

This blog will be short.

Many a time I have mentioned that I am beginning to feel the strain of time on my psyche. But in spite of my slowly approaching expiration date, I still dig the occasional use of penises and flatulence as a vehicle for laughter.

I bring this up because tonight I find myself sitting in front of my TV watching Mallrats...arguably Kevin Smith’s most sophomoric film. This may be my kabillionth time watching it and like Bettlejuice said, “It keeps getting funnier every time I see it!”

For real…

I can’t think of many movies outside of Smith’s that always leave me reminiscing about the good ol’ days of late high school and early college with such fond reflection. It illuminates some of the best memories I had of those time periods.

Not chasing skirts. Not swilling barley and hops. And not rounding the bases after saying “buh-bye” to Mr. Softball.

Nope, some of the best times I can reflect on were laughing and discussing Smith-ian dialogue and Tarantino’s intentionally missing plot threads with the likes of Big D and Carter.

And regardless of Smith’s ever expanding waist band and over blown since of geeky divinity… I will always like him and the other directors like Robert Rodriguez, Tarantino, and David Fincher. They are what kept me going to the movies and inspired me to enjoy more depth in my stories then I would have thought entertaining just short years earlier.

So I guess I am trying to say thanks to tuba tubby for making the films that can still remind me what it feels like to relax, laugh, and enjoy when relaxing, laughing, and enjoying were really all we had to most days.

Blog over, slightly shorter then Smith’s time on Southwest Airlines… BONG!!! - J

Caffeinated Snobbery

As recent as four or five years ago I would go to bed with calm anticipation for the next morning’s predetermined offerings.

Some days I would be looking forward to things like softball tournaments. Other days it would be to hit the hard court for some day long basketball. Sometimes crazy nights led to morning after trips to my favorite greasy spoon for breakfast (that was Colonel’s for all you people familiar with Joplin MO). Most days it would just be a lackadaisical wake up to watch Sports Center.

Last night before bed, I pointed out to my wife the further realization that I am getting up there in age.

Because now, every Friday and Saturday night when I go to bed with my wife… I think to myself, “I cannot wait to wake up tomorrow and make a full pot of MY coffee.” And what makes me feel so much older then those four of five years ago is that as much as I liked those things and looked forward to them… it doesn’t hold a candle to how I feel about that pot of coffee.

In all of it’s pretentiously priced caffeinated goodness.

And it can’t be just any coffee. Monday through Friday doesn't cut it because I’m drinking work coffee… a far inferior blend. It must always be whatever coffee I pick out from the gourmet section of my local grocery store.

Not only has my aging papillae habituated toward that little brown bean, but they’ve became quite the little “budding” snobs.

The awful play on words aside… this is proof that the older we get, the more life’s simpler things become the most fulfilling.

Luckily for me my wife is going through the same thing with men - J