There's almost nothing worse than coming into work to find that we're playing The Rolling Stones or CCR on the stereo. Kids these days; they gots no respect for my own lack of respect for the so-called classics.
We've got a very short window right now between the HILJ collapsing into a drunk-baby coma and waking fully into a feeding frenzy. I swear, it'd be easier if we strapped a feedbag onto that kid...
2. I'd written Weezer off, considering their last few albums were utter shite, but I can't deny that this song rawks (and the video's pretty funny, too.)
Now I must go apply heat to certain chemicals to certain liquids so that my tiny homonculus won't expire of tuberculosis or consumption or, I dunno, bad air.
This is kinda like one of those 'Overheard In New York' things, only it was overheard at Beano, and by overheard I mean it was said to me directly after two different customers inquired as to the sexual preference of one of our newest employees: See, sometimes you just gotta share that shit with the world.
Also: I can no longer tell if I am going too far: People were mostly confused by these ones, but every now and then someone would do a double-take, their features contorting in sheer horror of what they thought we were doing to the beans when no one was looking.
Honestly: it's just a joke. Really. I mean, I'm a Dad now. I'm not allowed to lie anymore, unless it's to children under five years of age.
I've been lax in posting, I know, but that's what happens when your life is invaded by a seven-pound howler monkey: your blogging goes right down the toilet.
I know: priorities, right? Obviously, the internet came first, so it's only fair that that's where my loyalties lie, but I'm kinda legally obligated to make sure this live-action squeak-toy doesn't accidentally choke on her own fist (as she seems bound and determined to accomplish), seeing as I'm kinda sorta her Dad, y'know?
Fun Baby Fact: apparently it's normal for newborns to spasm uncontrollably in their sleep, as it's merely their nervous system discovering which neurons connect to their corresponding muscle fibres, and is by no means reason for terrified parents to call up emergency services and inquire about postnatal epilepsy and/or demonic possession.
Anyway: gotta make this quick, as I'm doing this all with one hand, the other arm presently being occupied by Her Majesty as she poops in her sleep (this is called 'multitasking'...):
1. The Mountain Goats, "Lovecraft In Brooklyn (AesopRemix)" - I hate The Mountain Goats. I really, really hate them. They sound like a bunch of rich kids who all bought the same Billy Bragg album and then decided to preach to the unwashed (y'know, us...) about the evils of Nestle and the merits of designer hemp clothing and soy colonic enemas.
Aesop Rock, however, is awesome, and proves it here by making The Mountain Goats somewhat listenable.
2. The Cure, "The Only One" - as much as I love them, the last few Cure albums have really been exercises in stagnancy, leaving me to wish that Robert Smith would one day just commit to one of his many promises to End The Band. This, however, gives me a bit of hope.
4. David Lynch and Werner Herzog are teaming up to film My Son, a film about...y'know what? It doesn't matter, because Lynch and Herzog are TEAMING UP, which means that this movie will scare the shit outta you even though you will have no fucking clue as to what it's about.
Okay, Chunky Soup here just filled her diaper with the equivalent of her own body weight of, well, stuff, so I must don my radiation suit and douse her with all manner of cleaning agents and powders, and then wait for her to do it again in about forty-five minutes, because that is what Fathers do. I think.
So, we're at the clinic, taking Hazel in for her first check-up, and we decide it'd be a good idea to see if she needs changing before the doctor pokes and prods and checks for scurvy and whatnot, and sure enough, she's got a greenish load for us to send out the airlock, so I'm cleaning and wiping and making sure my daughter's got the cleanest bum in the world, when she decides to shoot another load of greenish surprise right up my sleeve.
Seriously. It reached my elbow.
We're just gonna chalk that one up to 'Joys Of Parenthood', and save it for when she's twelve and asking me why she can't get a tattoo of Justin Timberlake (who by then I expect to be the future version of...well, Justin Timberlake...) on the small of her back, and I'll say, "Dude. You owe me."
So, yes: five days in. Did I mention that we had our kid? I apologize if I haven't, as the last five days have blurred into one long Lynchian montage of sleep deprivation, hospital food, engorged breasts, diabolical maternity nurses, and strange words like 'bilirubin'.
Oh, and my daughter keeps peeing on me.
Still, we're happy. We may be tired, frustrated, bewildered and at times quite frightened, but both the Ladyfriend and the Little Miss came through this experience healthy and in one piece, and though our sanity seems to be put to the test, we seem to be maintaining. It helps that we have so many awesome friends and family members who are generous and thoughtful and don't seem to mind the fact that we smell of meconium and breastmilk. Each and every one of you rock, and we can't thank you enough for your support and your love. (Of course, we'd thank you more if y'all pitched in and bought us a mail-order robot nanny, one who would not only cook and clean and change diapers, but would also rub our feet and feed us grapes and tell us how pretty we are when we were feeling blue...of course, I do realize that we'd ultimately have to destroy it when the inevitable Mechanized Revolution happened and our willing slave morphed into a sleek killing machine with chainsaws for hands and laser vision, but we've all got our dreams, right?)
Anywho; I'd like to take this opportunity to officially welcome into the world the fruit of our loins and the Future Zombie-Space-Queen Of The World (whom I've lately taken to calling 'Chunky Soup' for no other reason than my sleep-deprived brain just feels like it...): Hazel Indiana Lee Janzen.
Touch her and die, mofo. Seriously, I will eff you up but good if you make her cry.
Now send us food, foolish mortals, and be quick about it! We hunger for tater-tot casseroles and frozen lasagna!
I WAS gonna write something about how the new Roots album is OF COURSE awesome and how the new Black Francis sounds exactly like what Frank Black should've been doing as soon as he left the Pixies and how the new Portishead is amazing if a tad reminiscent of Nine Inch Nails (which isn't a bad thing, just surprising) and how the new Boris makes me all warm inside as only Japanese metal can, and how the new Madonna sucks harder than a tranny in a four-way despite having the help of Pharell, Timbaland, Justin Timberlake AND Kanye West, and why the hell is she trying to look like Peaches when she's so much better looking just as herself...
...um, it looks like the kid's coming out. Kinda.
So, we're just gonna sit here and breathe and watch screaming dancing bunnies on the TV and wait for the little critter to let us know when it's time for me to put on the diving suit and jump into the Ladyfriend's cervix and pull that little lady out.
Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy crap.
More as it happens.
Oh, and also: even if it wasn't a Cthulhu movie, Cloverfield fucking rocked. So there.
There's almost nothing worse than coming into work to find that we're playing The Rolling Stones or CCR on the stereo. Kids these days; they gots no respect for my own lack of respect for the so-called classics. 
