Had an interesting conversation with a couple friends yesterday about an internet phonomanananana.  (never knew how to spell that word).  The Internet Persona. dunt dunt daaah!!

(that was for dramatic effect.  or affect.  shut up. I don’t give a fuck)

Now, I’m not talking about those sleazy guys that cruise chat rooms on AOL pretending to be kids so they can meet kids.

And I’m not even talking about those people that are hairy and greasy and much too overweight cause they sit at the computer all day and they smell of cheese and mountain dew but then they tell the “hot” chic in the chat room that they have been told they look like a cross between Robert DeNiro and George Clooney – and send a picture of a total stranger that they pulled off of some guy’s Flickr site who happens to be named Grateful Clem.  (hey, it may have happened).  No.  Not talking about those guys either.

I’m talking about the people who have an internet “presence” – and they use that internet presence as an “out”.  They say something on the internet that is hateful or hurtful or damaging to someone in some way – then they say “well – ‘Mike Hunt’ isn’t the real me – that’s the “Internet” me, my real name is Ben Dover.  ‘Mike Hunt’ is just an act – intended to get people all riled up.  Like Howard Stern or Rush Limbaugh.  Or Squidward”

*cough*bullshit*cough*

Full Disclosure:  There’s a fine line here.  I have an internet “persona” too, I guess.  It was first really discussed HERE, (read the tags on the right side of the page) but since then has been discussed several times with friends and wives.  (trust me – she seems like more than one person sometimes).  So yeah – the online me is maybe a bit more of a flirt – and maybe uses harsher language – and maybe takes compromising pictures of himself for the attention and humor of it all.  But I try to be careful – mostly with the flirting – to make sure everyone knows it’s all just a joke.  A few people have been upset – but I’m fairly certain they were assholes anyway – and I know that no one was physically hurt or felt hated.  A couple may have fallen in love.  Ok, not really – that was Clem.

So I’ve been thinking about this for a loooooong time.  (long time in internet terms, which is like a couple hours or so).  And NO – I will not be giving specific examples here because I do not want to perpetuate the hate (I should start that Rap career, really).  But I think that it’s important to point out that it doesn’t fly with me.  I have a big problem with this.

I know – duh.

But my problem isn’t entirely with the persona-hider-behinder (I made that up.  You can use it).  Everyone has a problem with them.  My problem is with the nature of the internet groupie.  The people that follow this person on whatever outlet they are spewing (facebook, flickr, twitter, twatter, etc) who just blindly agree.  What is it about them that makes them feel like they have to say “oh god – I couldn’t agree more?” about things that are so obviously wrong.  For instance (and I AM TOTALLY making this up): persona-hiding-behinder© makes a post somewhere about how all those people in the Oklahoma City Bombing had it coming – cause well, hell – only idiots live in Oklahoma (and I have to pause here and say that I can’t even TYPE Oklahoma without breaking into a chorus of “Surrey With A Fringe On Top” – and yes I’m straight.  I think.).

I’m not exaggerating too much really.  The opinions expressed are sometimes that flat out stoopid.  So yeah – no one in their right mind really would think that – much less actually say it in public next to pictures of their grandma or kids.  Right?

Wrong.

They would and they do.  But possibly worse are the 50-300 people who agree, publicly.  Do they really?  Or are they just agreeing to agree – or are they just not really giving it thought – or are they just so needy for the feeling of fitting in with this person they think is so cool, that they just follow like so many cows?

I don’t know the answer – just the question.  You tell me.  Why do people do this?  Both the persona-hiding-behinder® and the follower.

Because really – the followers cause it to continue.  The persona-hiding-behinder® really does feed off of the attention.  Then come the intelligent but naive people  (of which I am one on occasion – naive, not intelligent – no wait…) who feel they need to say something for all humanity, and either throw out a one or two line argument, a one or two line “you’re a stupid moron” kinda response, or a well thought out, long point-counter-point short essay stating all the reasons the persona-hiding-behinder™ is wrong – with the hope of persuading him/her to see it their way, and thereby save the world.

Boy was he waiting for you to come along!  “Gasoline, meet fire.”  “Hi, Fire, nice to meet you – you’re kinda hot baby, mind if I move in a little closer, do you come here oft..SWOOSH!”

Yeah.  Don’t do that.  I learned the not-so-very-hard-but-not-so-very-fun way to take the high road in these cases whenever you can.  And by that I mean either 1) ignore it and eventually the persona-hiding-behinder© will piss off the followers, one by one until he is relegated to talking to himself and posting pictures of flowers – or, B) go find him and punch him in the throat.

Either way.

OK – that was kind of a downer.  So go watch this video – it’s the funniest thing I have found on the internet today.

Alternate Title:  ”Holy Mole”

Just a quick post to tell everyone that lives locally (ok – everyone “lives locally” – but I mean lives locally to me living locally) to try the new Mexican joint: Mole-Mole. Located in the old building that used to house The Sturgeon (the bar/restaurant, not the fish) – this place has fresh authentic Mexican food – and by that I mean “not-refried-beans-covered-in-cheese-served-on-a-plate-fresh-out-of-the-microwave” (*cough*Rositas*cough*).

I’m sorry Armadillo (what  is it with Kingston and naming restaurants after ugly animals?) – but it’s quite possible you have a true competitor – finally.

*gasp*

I can hear all the people of Kingston right now:  ”How DARE he compare some new place to Armadillo! – He must be drunk”.  No.  It’s 9 am.  Ok, whatever – I’m not drunk – I promise.

We were actually headed to Ugly Gus – 40 minute wait.  Same thing at Little Italy (Bill Maher was playing UPAC – stoopid-crowded)  s0 we headed for Savona’s.  But when we parked in front of this new place – we decided to give it a shot.  I was suddenly in the mood for a margarita.

No such luck.  No liquor license.  In fact – I was later told, by our very happy waiter, that neither of their other locations (both in Poughkeepsie) has or intends to get such a license.  It’s completely B.Y.O.C.o.T.  (“Bring Your Own Cerveza or Tequila”)

We started with homemade chips and salsa – best salsa around.  It’s not red, people – get over it.  It’s chunks of freshly cut tomatoes, onions, peppers and cilantro.  Then Kelly and I both had Tacos de Carnitas (perfectly cooked and crispy pork, on homemade soft-corn with nice fresh chunky peppers onions and cilantro) with “guacamole salad” (read: pico de gallo with slices of avocado) and lime.  Grace had her ol’ standby: quesadilla.

Grace kept begging me for “fried ice-cream” (stoopidest invention ever) – but I kept saying “no dessert”.  Next thing I knew the happy-waiter brought us over a “Dulce de Leche Chimichanga” – which may be the greatest invention ever.  Perfectly lightly fried flour tortilla, rolled in cinnamon/sugar - and filled with a cinnamon custard – with a butter/sugar/cinnamon dipping sauce.  I died.

Seriously – go.  Grab a six pack of Negro Modelo or bottle of Patrón and go.

And PLEASE tell them that you know a guy who can build them a decent website too.  Then give them my name.

Full Disclosure:  Simply because you see me in there on a regular basis, do not assume that I am affiliated with Mole Mole in any way.  I’m not.  But I did receive a complimentary dessert.

In other news.  Brady wasn’t with us.  He was being a goof ball at his “Thing’s” surprise birthday party:

Happy Birthday Zo.  :)

I love long weekends.

Which is a funny thing for guy who still considers himself to be unemployed to say.  I guess I’m not really unemployed anymore – I’m “building a new business“.  Yeah.  That’s what we’ll call it.

But I do love weekends like this.  A long weekend in the summer usually means more golf time, or more pool time – or maybe even a trip to the beach.  But basically it means a busy weekend.  But a long weekend in the winter can basically mean two things for the Perry family:  skiing, or just hanging out.  This weekend it meant both.  ”Took the day off” Friday to go skiing with a couple buddies – then dinner with them and their families (have I mentioned I make a kick ass ‘red sauce’?) on Friday night – then hanging out all day Saturday – cook up a nice steak and fingerling potatoes and wine for din-din – then stream a movie to the TV (oh how I love the Internet) – though I’m not sure Adam Sandler was a great choice for family time.

And then today.  ”What’s on the agenda today, Kell?”   “I’m making homemade pancakes and bacon”.

That’s the agenda.  I’m pretty sure it won’t take all day.  Which means I get to watch the NFL Playoffs – surf the web – play Wii with the kids – and just kinda veg.

And we get to do it all again tomorrow  :)

I know.  This will go into “Digg” under the category “candidates for most boring blog post” – but, well… I gotta go.

I smell bacon.

It started out pretty innocently really.  Salmon, rice, salad.  Dinner for five.

(B’s um, “Thing” was here.  They’re not boyfriend/girlfriend, you understand.  But they have a “thing”.  That’s what they say anyway.  Personally, I don’t have a “Thing” I lay around on the couch under a blanket in the dark with.  I have a wife, but not a “Thing”).

So yeah.  Dinner on a Tuesday at the Perry house.  No big deal.  B did something – I’m not really sure what – and someone called him a loser.  (probably his “Thing”).  So he said “no way man – I’m a WINNER”.  And of course – i’m a dork – so I said “that’s right – you are a wiener.”   Ha Ha – I’m so funny.  Eyes were rolled, groans were groaned.

But then it got fun.

‘Cause that’s when G started laughing and covering her mouth.  Kinda like she knew a secret.  I asked her what was so funny – and she said “I know what one of those is”.   “One of what honey?”  ”I know what a wiener is”.

Well – of course Kelly and Brady and “Thing” kinda snickered.  But I looked at G and said: “huh?  what?  what’s a wiener?”  More laughter from G.  ”No really honey – do you mean like a Dallas Hot Wiener?  With mustard and onion and sauce?”  (a reference to a local hot dog establishment here that if you ever get a chance – well – duh.)  So that’s how it went for about 10 minutes:  ”no daddy”.  ”oh – you mean like a ‘wiener dog’ – one of those long short dogs called dachshunds?”  (giggle) “No!”

So of course B and “Thing” are smiling a little, and Kelly is covering her mouth with her napkin trying (and failing miserably) to look like she’s not laughing – and of course G is getting embarrassed.

But that’s ok.  That’s all part of my plan.  See, I want her embarrassed a little – but I keep pushing and pushing until she feels she has to say something – regardless of the embarrassment.  The way I see it – if she, at 8, can get to the point where she can tell me what a “wiener” is, even if she’s embarrassed – then there might be a little hope that the communication channels will remain open later when we’re talking about more important things.  Like what boys like to do with their wieners.

So after some fun and joking – and a little bribe in the form of a carbohydrate she really wanted more of (yeah – I know – healthy – but ya gotta do what ya gotta do) – she decides that she can whisper it in my ear.  But only after B and “Thing” leave.  In fact – she even told “Thing” - ‘YOU have to get out of here’.  So finally…

whispered: “it’s what boys pee out of.”

Oh, no. Uh-uh.  It’s not enough to just hear it once.  Not if I’m your father will you get away with that just once.  So of course I tell her I didn’t hear her – “what?  you said something about pianos?  huh?”

She buries her head in her arms – and I see immediately that she’s done.  So I give in a bit and say “here – let me whisper it back and see if that’s what you said”.  So I did, and she said “yeah – that!”  (big smile)

So I asked her if she knows what one of those is REALLY called – what the “proper” name for it is…

Her answer:    ”Yeah – you know – ‘nuggets’…”

Ok.

Then I lost it.

Kelly may have blown a bit of salmon out of her nose,  I’m not really sure – but I remember her saying “WHAT???”.  And G proceeded to tell us: “well, that’s what some boys call it”.

Looks like there’s an anatomy lesson in our near future.   And I’m not sure I’ll ever offer the kids hot dogs and chicken nuggets again.

i got out of bed at 4:45 this morning cause I suffer from a bad case of ImTooFreakinStressedToSleep Disease.  I checked email and facebook and flickr while Kelly went to the gym.

By 6:03 I was standing on the side of the road looking at the damage to my car.

I was on my way to the gym, rounding that dark corner near Hillside Manor.  I saw him out of the corner of my eye, standing on the side of the road.  He wasn’t even looking at me, but I kinda slowed down to about 30 (which is the speed limit after all) and moved a bit to the left.  The dumb-ass jumped directly in front of my car.

And of course, that’s when it all goes into slow-mo-movie-mode.  Brakes applied… and then the following things either happened, or went flashing thru my mind – I’ll let you decide:

he stretched out to try to make it with an “oh shit” look in his eye – i worried that he was going to flip up and into the windshield – phoebe cates was climbing out of a pool – i saw hooves and fur flying everywhere as he struggled to avoid the dreaded “roll over” – my previous girlfriend was smiling in front of me – a baby cried – his little face appeared stretched up over the hood as he struggled to stay alive – flowers – i waited for the thump of the wheels which never came – dasher, dancer, prancer AND vixon – my heart stopped – kelly laughed at me – something about Twilight (the movie)…

i came to a stop, and all I saw were two big white fur-balls from the soft white underbelly (note: if anyone other than Mike Natoli can tell me who the Soft White Underbellies were without looking it up – I’ll give you $5 and sing your praises here.).  Nothing else – just the fur.  Then he kinda stumbled and rolled over.  Then again. He attempted to stand but couldn’t and fell to his side – belly facing me.  I remember looking to see if there was any blood and to see if he was breathing.  There wasn’t and he was.  Another attempt to stand, but only the back legs would work – so down again.  Then one more time, and I was brought back to that scene in Bambi when he tries to stand on the ice – legs all wobbly and unsteady – and who names a boy deer Bambi by the way – and finally he gets up and just trots away like nothing ever happened – doesn’t even look at me.

He walked up that hill by the Doctors’ offices – across from The Hillside – and stopped and turned.  I got out of my car and walked around to see the damage – but it was too dark so all I could see were tufts of hair sticking out of the grill and headlights.  Everything seemed to be completely intact – but I would find out later under the lights at the gym that the grill was all cracked and broken, but functional – wait, what is the function of a grill anyway – and there are no dents or broken glass or anything.

I looked up the hill and he was still standing there – staring at me.  Another car came and slowed but I waved him on – and still he stood.  I got back in the car – because standing on the side of the road in your shorts when it’s 13 degrees out kinda sucks – and he still stared.  I stared back.  I rolled down the window and kinda yelled a little – trying to get him to move to see if he would limp.  Nothing.  Just those eyes – staring.

After a couple minutes I decided to drive away, and as I was putting it in drive and rolling up the window, I swear someone whispered: “prick”.

What I’m about to say will not be a shock to my family and close friends…

I’m a fast eater.

No.  I mean really really fast.  Like so fast your fingers, and even toes may be in danger.  And when I’m done eating, trust me – the food on your plate is NOT SAFE.  The only other thing I do fast is work – but that can’t even compare to my eating.  Sex?  Slower is better.  Driving?  74 in a 65.  Reading?  Slow.  Typing?  40 words a minute.  Speaking?  Average.  Drinking?  Average.  Running? 6.5 mph on treadmill.  Eating?  Fucking land-speed-record fast.

I can’t get food into my mouth fast enough.

And of course – since I eat so quickly – I eat more.  I don’t realize the entire pizza is even gone until the box is empty.  This, of course, is why I carry around a couple extra pounds.  Well this and the fact that I seem to be allergic to the gym.

OK.  That’s not really true.  I like going to the gym most days.  In fact, last year I was able to lose 41 pounds.  Eating right, exercise, blah blah.  But then in April I busted up my ankle pretty badly – and then in August I lost my job.  The combination of injury and stress was enough to add 20 pounds back.  I’m determined to drop them now.

The injury is out of the way.

The stress is worse than ever.

But see, the real problem is this:  There’s a birthday cake sitting in the kitchen.  Kelly made it.  It’s really good.  Nice and moist (that was for you Carin) and yummy.  I can’t just walk past it.  I have to grab a fork.  And before you know it, the equivalent of two (ok, maybe 3) pieces is gone.  Just gone.  Not a crumb to be found.

So, I kinda need your help.  I’m at the cafe right now – slowly drinking my coffee.  The side door to the house is unlocked…

SOMEONE PLEASE GET RID OF THE FUCKING CAKE!!!!

Yeah – so new year.  new decade.  Like everyone else this time of year – I look back and look forward.  The turn of the calendar causes us all to reflect back on the past year.  but for me, there’s the added “bonus” that my son’s birthday is on January 2nd.  This encourages me (against my better judgement) to reflect deeper.  So I end up not only looking at what happened last year – what was good, what was bad, but also – an entire lifetime.  His.

I’m pretty sure every dad out there (and mom too, for that matter) knows the feeling that you’re totally fucking up your kid.  That something you did way back when has damaged them beyond repair and they are going to grow up and not only hate you – but write a scalding book about how horrible you were, which of course will become a Lifetime movie, and all your friends will talk behind your back and you’ll lose your job and you won’t be allowed to see your grandchildren and they will withhold your social security and you’ll die lonely and ashamed and they won’t even find your body laying on the kitchen floor for like a week which is fine cause you wanted the whole closed casket thing anyway but oh the disgrace.

What?  You don’t worry about that?  You probably should.

So add to all that – which is what I reflect on every year at this time – the fact that yesterday he turned 15.  FIFTEEN.  As in pimples, hormones, girls, sex, alcohol, drugs, sexting, high school, hickeys, the-ever-looming-driver’s-license, the-also-ever-looming-college-costs and of course a complete and total know-it-all attitude because you were never 15 so you have no idea what it’s all about and now you even have grey hair and smell like cheese.  Ok.  I made that cheese thing up – but you get the point.

HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!

Seriously.  I want to get off.

Ok.  Not really.  He’s actually a pretty cool kid – and I know that everyone else with a 15 year old is going thru this too.  Last year was kinda tough – but the road has actually been pretty smooth the past few months.  He went thru some tough shit in 2009 (such as losing a part of his finger) but he’s adjusted well, is learning to roll with the punches, and, most importantly, he’s teaching me a thing or two about patience, and how to hold on while letting go.

Of course, as I sit here in my office typing this, he’s in his room across the hall, playing Xbox live with his friends and yelling “dammit!  why are you laying in my way you faggot?! – you should have used ‘predator missile’ you dumbass! – just stop talking please… whispered: fuck”

Sigh.  Back to the drawing board.

Today I officially join the ranks of the bloggers.  I’m not 100% sure why, and I have no freakin’ idea where this will take me.  I just feel like maybe I need a place to be able to say stuff.  You know, just stuff.  The stuff I usually just talk to myself about (outloud, I might add) while driving in the car.  You pick your nose when you drive, I talk to myself.

I tell myself, when talking to myself, that the reason I talk to myself is because I need someone intelligent to talk to.  I’m not fooling myself though.  I don’t believe me for a minute.

So what kinda things do I talk about?  Well – you.  Probably, yeah.  If I know you, I probably talk about you.  Don’t be offended, it’s not always bad.  But don’t get excited, cause it ain’t always good either.  But you’re safe here.  I probably won’t talk about you HERE.  Well.  Not by name anyway.

I also tend to talk about my family.  Music.  Sex. The asshole that cut me off on the highway.  Sex.  The hot chic that really wasn’t looking at me, but I try to convince myself she was.  Sex.  Photography.  Sex.  Travel.  Food.  Wine.  Sex.  And that’s all in about 3 minutes.

So – we’ll see where it goes – or even IF it goes.  This entry could be very lonely here in this little blog.

We’ll see.