Soft As Silk.

So, Sunday night, Hazel's finally dropped into a coma after screaming bloody murder for three straight hours, The Ladyfriend's napping, and I decide: I need chocolate. The nearest store is only three blocks away, and I encounter these on my way there:




Sometimes, it's like the universe is giving me a great big hug (but, y'know, only to cop a feel of my butt, but that's the way I like it...).

1000 Types of Grumpy.

So, yes, Jamie Fooks and I made a teenager cry; we didn't mean to, but it started with some confusion over a non-existent twenty-dollar bill and ended with a hot chocolate left cold and lonely on the bar for about an hour while this tiny girl sobbed in the corner as she waited for her parents to come pick her up. We are officially JERKS.

Also: you haven't lived until you've heard Fooks yell out, "My chin's gonna come over there and fuck you in the ass!" (No, she didn't say that to the teenager; I will say, however, that if you get the chance to spend any amount of time in a van with Jane Vain & The Dark Matter, you should do so, as it is better than LSD.)

Anyway: hey, I guess it's been some time, huh? I know, most of you can barely face the day without a dose of my online wit and wisdom (mostly concerning the fact that I have better taste in music than all of y'all, and occasionally regarding videos of wetbrained skate-jocks putting their feet through a woodchipper in order to gain fleeting internet fame...), but I've been apparently busy teaching my daughter how to projectile poop at the most inappropriate times, i.e., every time I remove her diaper.

It's a laugh. Really. Also: inserting suppositories into a constipated baby? Way to make me feel like a chump, Medical Science, and my daughter also thanks you for that gelatin brick that's lodged in her butt.

The sad fact is, though, that my updates are probably going to be few and far between for a little while, as making sure Hazel doesn't swallow her own fist and then headbutt the neighbour's dog has to be my first priority; besides, coming up with something witty to say about the new My Morning Jacket at 4:00 a.m. with only one hand free and vaseline lining your nasal cavity from the last time you changed the diaper and she kicked you in the nose is just HARD, y'know?

"But, Chris," you cry, "What the hell does any of this have to do with the title of the post, 1000 Types Of Grumpy?"

Oh, right, forgot about that...see, I work at a place where I have to deal with , well, assholes, and I have a tendency to sometimes treat customers gruffly, because, y'know, they're basically children and need to be scolded as such. There are times, also, when said people call me on my surly demeanour, an occasion that happened a few days back when Mads referred to me as Beano's token surly employee and a yuppie douchebag decided to inform me that I was 'missing out on a great path' and that the Buddhists had mapped out 1000 different types of bliss.

Because I'm a jerk and I can't keep my mouth shut, I replied, "Well, I've got 1000 types of grumpy."

After some more useless banter, which pretty much consisted of the two of us trying to out-clever each other and failing miserably, he said he was interested in seeing this list, which obviously I don't have, because ONLY BUDDHISTS SEEM TO HAVE THE TIME TO SIT AROUND AND KEEP TRACK OF HOW HAPPY THEY ARE. But, y'know, I said I'd get it to him, and now I've gotta come up with a list of the different ways I hate all of you. It's okay, though, because I've already got the first one: Oppositional Grumpiness, which occurs when someone decides to make it their business to try to cheer you up, resulting in your bad mood souring even further.

Hey, that was actually kinda easy. I might just enjoy this.

But, hey, what would a post of mine be without (ahem) stuff:

1. Penguin Books' amazing new advertising campaign.

2. I'm not sure about the new My Morning Jacket. Half of it is this weird 80's r&b vibe, while the other half is...not. I'm not saying it's bad - I'm just saying that I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL THIS IS.

3. David Lynch is awesome.

4. Death of a cel phone. (honestly, this is the creepiest thing I've seen in a long time; I swear to god, that's a demon that comes out of the wreckage...)

(Oh, hey - the new Indiana Jones? Aside from the putrid CGI squirrels at the beginning and the horrid tarzan scene, it was FANTASTIC. 'Nuff said.)

5. CD's you should own: J-Live's Then What Happened? (solid no-nonsense hip-hop), The Herbaliser's Same As It Never Was (ridiculously good funk/breakbeat/hip-hop/soul fusion, as always), The Notwist's The Devil, You & Me (electronic indie pop that has nothing to do with Ben Gibbard and therefore isn't sentimental beyond belief but will still break your heart at certain moments...).

6. TV shows you should avoid at all costs: Veronica Mars. No, really. Fuck. This. Shit.

7. I want to be Benjamin Linus when I grow up.

I think that's it for now. Like I said, updates on here might be spotty for the time being, although I'm actually thinking of just posting guerilla-style updates, for those times when you absolutely HAVE to know about NASA greeting aliens with Dorito ads. We'll see.

Go away. I have Surliness to document.

Goddamn You, Rivers Cuomo. Stop Sucking So Hard.

There are only two songs that you need to hear off of the new Weezer album: 'Troublemaker' and 'Pork and Beans' (watch the video here, as it is all kinds of good). Both will remind you just how awesome Weezer used to be, back when you used to belt out 'SayIt Ain't So' at your high school dance or wherever.

The rest of the album, however, is utter garbage. So, steal this CD, rip those two songs, then throw the CD away, as keeping it will only invite demons into your house.

Next: 1000 Types of Grumpy.

Rock 'n' Roll Is Fat & Ugly

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...

Anyway; stuffs:

1. John Carpenter's The Thing, redone in lego.

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.)

3. Phillip Tolenado takes purty pictures.

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.

Why I Work Where I Work Despite My Overwhelming Hatred For Customer Service.

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.

Quickly.

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.

Also: Porl Thompson is a freak.

3. Pelican guitarist Laurent Schroeder-Lebec explains why his band isn't 'post-metal'; and seriously, the next member of the Skinny Jeans Brigade to describe a band as 'post-anything' gets a punch in the face.

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.

It will be GLORIOUS.

To celebrate: Lynch's piece from Lumiere and Company. Holy CRAP.

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.

It's either that, or drink lots of gin.

The HILJ: Day 5.

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."

Yes. I will call my daughter 'dude'. I think it's much saner than, say, proclaiming her a modern saint and charging people money to undergo faith-healing by praying at her bedside.

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!