Well, you probably remember how my Uncle Bill Spaeth is always being forgetful with doing things in life because I write about that like every other post.
He did it again with these money guys who want to smelt aluminum and he’s dropping the ball on getting them their permission slips.
These business presidents bought that factory and every day he doesn’t let them smelt old cars it’s messed up for sure.
The June 9 letter was addressed to the City Council, Mayor Bob Burr, City Manager Brian Dissette and Zoning Administrator Bill Spaeth.
Spaeth is on vacation and was not available to comment on whether the smelting operation would be an allowed use under current zoning.
Way to go chief, this is like the time you didn’t mail my application to go on Here Comes the Bachelor in time to get to meet all those babes and go in hot tubs.
Now I’ll be alone forever and those smelting people are with me on how that one happened.
You have to let them smelt the aluminum or it’s messed up just like my life and how I’m not a famous TV stud.
Stop playing golfing.
Sometimes when Father’s Day comes I like to help celebrate with all the fathers I know.
I don’t have children that I got told about yet so until those cool confrontations happen I make do with other baby-daddy guys.
Well yesterday was a really special one because I pretended I had brand-new amnesia all day and there were things like this that happened:
Me: Oh no I can’t remember who I am.
Dad: Why are you acting like that.
Me: It is so scary being a blank slate.
Dad: I am not playing this game with you.
Me: Have I always had these cool muscles.
Then I would touch daddy’s face like I was blind even though I was laughing through all of that and it went on for three hours of me wondering how my muscles got on my skeleton.
After awhile Spider-Man 3 came on and I could not keep up the act and had to admit about how that one did not get gold stars for me.
Also Toy Story 3 gave my tears so many places they could go, like one of those places was all over my face.
So here is something my sister said at me in email.
I’m usually craving popcorn and steak at all times.
My instincts tell me just to leave that be and go away.
The truth is I’m thinking of running this long race in Las Vegas this October and they call that a marathon if you need to know.
This quote was from Kristen Spaeth training protocols. She’s been running these marathons for years now on her legs.
Running long distances is something I hate by nature because of my ADD and also my sprinting and jumping muscles.
I dunked this weekend – it was a basketball and that’s a way for you to know how much explosive power I carry in my legs still.
If the marathon falls through the high jumping contest is in Vegas that weekend and also some restaurants. Check Yelp or Google Maps and you can find them.
Last year, for reasons of my own, I taught my nieces a new mantra for Easter.
It was a simple and joyful, “EASTER IN YOUR FACE!”
They were three at the time – in retrospect, perhaps it was immature of me to do this to (for?) them.
Being that they’re almost four, it’s time to tell them how adults celebrate Easter joy with a new phrase, “EASTER ALL NIGHT!”
It’s not so much a phrase as a party anthem.
Imagine the Black Eyed Peas taking these words and turning them into a song, and you’ll get what I’ll be going for.
Like Fergie sings the first part and then Waylon or Wilbie or whatever their names are sings the after-shout portion.
EASTER ALL NIGHT! (EGGS)
EASTER ALL NIGHT! (EGGS)
EASTER ALL NIGHT! (EGGS)
EASTER ALL NIGHT! (EGGS GOTTA GET EM)
Like all their songs, that’s all there is to it, and it goes on for ten minutes and sells a zillion copies.
I’m told that last year EASTER IN YOUR FACE! came out at completely inappropriate times, and this is why I’m the best uncle ever, and probably shouldn’t consider fatherhood anytime soon.
Also, I like hockey now.
If you’ve read my stuff for any length of time, you know the vividly horrific story behind my shoulder tattoo, and my embarrassed self-loathing I do at myself whenever anyone sees it.
If you’re new or whatever, this is it, all oiled up and stuff for you.
The time has come, at long last, to finish this mistake once and for all.
I’ve talked to people several times over the years about what to do about this monstrosity.
The removal options are bad – since it’s been done three times already and there’s scarring to boot, it just won’t look right.
I asked one tattoo artist about putting a roman numeral XIV over it, the rationale being that I could make up different stories every time someone asked me about the deep, hidden meaning of my ancient number tattoo.
This wasn’t going to be doable either, and every other tattoo artist suggested things that just wouldn’t work for me.
I always make this clear before these conversations – my number one option would be for it to not be there at all anymore.
Starting from there, I’m not sure how these people come to, “How about like a cool snake that’s on fire and goes from your shoulder all the way around your chest, and then is flowing into a skull that’s on your back, and it’s the skull of a naked booty stripper?”
Anyway, after many years and much thought, I am giving up…and that’s what this new version of the tattoo will represent.
Inevitably, someone will try and make it artistic or special or whatever.
No, no, nay, nay, booty.
I don’t want it planned or artistic or meaningful – I want it to look like someone scribbled over it in frustration…like which is what I feel about it with my special heart that is inside me.
(Yes, I’m excited about the Google Phone. Rumored January release and supported by T-Mobile for once.
Also, Calvin Stadiums has been blogging over at Yardbarker for a couple weeks now, and look for some Who Shot Mamba? blooper reels on the Facebook Page this week.)
Some years back my mom started sending those “here’s what everyone is up to” letters with her Merry Christmas cards.
I immediately insisted on control over any part of the content that referenced me, so each December I submit my own section for her to include.
(My brother does this too – perhaps he can post the 2009 edition, as his are excellent.)
Alas, this is what I sent her over the weekend.
I’m still writing and acting and producing and trying to get new projects together.
I’ve never touched a guitar before. Also, I stopped using question marks this year for awhile. Isn’t that weird.
Oops! Lost my car keys again! LOL
Do you use gmail?
Your pal,
Brian Spaeth
P.S. My sole goal in writing this was to have my mother say something like, “I am not sending this!” and I guarantee she did exactly that after I emailed it to her.
Sent via my Blackberri Tornado II From T-Marbles
Movie – www.whoshotmamba.com
Twitter – www.twitter.com/brianspaeth
Facebook – www.facebook.com/brianspaeth
Website – www.brian23.com
P.P.S. Mom, make sure to include these links, cause like that’s part of the joke for this section of the letter.
P.P.P.S Also include all of these PS’s – including this one. These are also part of the joke.
P.P.P.P.S. Sorry for not taking your Merry Christmas Letter 2010 seriously. :(
I have to admit, I can’t see a day where I ever send Christmas cards or letters of any kind myself.
Like I get them from friends of mine who are married already, and I’m always thinking, “Why did you send me this and why is it signed The Jones Family? I don’t know what one of those is – why don’t you just email or call me? Yeah, I know I don’t answer my phone ever, but why did you get married?”
Do you or your family send these type of Christmas letters? Do you send Christmas cards? Do you believe in Merry Christmas Trees and why.
So my sister did some photoshoot for a friend last week, and I just got my eyes on the pictures.
If you have no idea what a Two Gun Girl might be, go watch this Two Gun Guy thing.
Anyway, most of this week has been spent brooding and being happy about how sad and happy I am. Also, lots of self-important writing.
Over at AOL Fanhouse, I wrote up my problems with LeBron James, and did a podcast with Brett Pollakoff, wherein I talked about LeBron’s Dancing Crisis, Bill Simmons’ basketball book, and of course some Who Shot Mamba? plugging.
At Yahoo!’s Ball Don’t Lie, there’s a small essay about the logistics and fun of shooting at Bill Walton’s house. Couple cool behind-the-scenes pics – I think in that one I’m trying to explain what an Orange Roundie is.
LOL!
What.
At CT Kingston’s blog – otherwise known as @CTK1, I did maybe my favorite Photoshop work I’ve ever done for part of her mega-super-2009-roundup-post.
Thanks also to @DennyMayo, @mfeige, @cjrider, and @thegnc for joining me in that Matt Bullard-based Houston Rockets chat, helping to bring Calvin Stadiums, Petey Skippen, Sherpa, Peter Ovaire, Brad Radby, Russell Slanteer, Monstero, and others to vivid life.
Keep in mind we are twins, but I’ma go ahead and say it – do you want to date my sister?
I spent a good four or five hours in a Borders on Saturday, reading my own book, Prelude to a Super Airplane.
(My ego isn’t that crazy – something I’m working on has a a few loose tie-ins, and I wanted to make sure my continuity wasn’t getting screwy.
That said, I’ve read it purely for pleasure something like 27 times.)
In any case, I didn’t get much reading actually done, since the two elderly ladies over my knee there spent lengthy amounts of time talking about the merits of Nick Cannon, whom one of them referred to as, “that colored fella from America’s Talent Show“.
As if that – and my need to IM everything I was hearing to a friend – wasn’t enough, at a tumultuous moment, the following seven people came in and sat at a nearby table.
- white female/21
- white male/52
- latino male/16
- white male/28
- white male/48
- latino female/58
- white female/35
This was an amazingly odd grouping of people, because they didn’t seem to know each other at all.
Book club? No books.
Parent-teacher thing? No – there was a lot of introductory conversation, and the mix wasn’t right.
Fellow Nick Cannon enthusiasts? No mention of Nick Cannon.
It was really starting to bother me – there were no logical scenarios.
My IM companion said I should go sit down and apologize for being late, which I considered, along with simply asking them, “WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU HERE, YOU SOBs. ALSO DO YOU WANT TO BUY MY BOOK.”
You may think I wouldn’t do this – I assure you I would, minus the SOB-calling and book-selling.
I didn’t have to though, because the 16-year old boy was squeezing the 21-year old girl’s leg under the table. She smiled, and had braces – I reasoned she wasn’t 22 at all, but rather 15 or 16 herself.
Then a flurry of info came forth – 35-year old whitey has infertility issues. She said this with a conviction and volume that amazed the entire cafe section. 52-year old white male runs down his family’s health history.
Adoption and “staying in the baby’s life” are discussed.
28-year old whitey – now reasoned to be in his mid-30s – tries to discuss Madden 2010 with the boy. He’s full of wonderment about how, “All the real players are in the game now…wow, how neat.” Buddy, they had that 20 years ago when you were growing up – did you only play Metroid and Zelda.
In any case…these teens were pregnant, and having a nice meeting about giving the baby away.
At BORDERS.
By the way, if you go to that Borders, there’s now a signed copy of PTSA randomly placed in the Cooking section. Where would you have your baby-momma adoption meeting.
by Brian on October 1, 2009
in Family
So like I was somehow watching the final scene of Alias this morning, and what happens is Vaughn and Sydney’s kid see their old partner Agent Dixon walking on the beach.
She’s like, “Uncle Dixon! Uncle Dixon!”
It’s all awkward and stuff, because “Dixon” is his last name, but even moreso, my thoughts turn to what happens when this girl turns of legal age, and is no longer required to refer to him as “Uncle”.
Isn’t the precedent too ingrained at that point.
She’ll likely be cornered into an awkward transitional moment, like what occurred with myself and one of my uncles. I was like sixteen, we were playing pool in his basement, and I just went with his name, and no “Uncle”.
Everyone – and I remember my brother’s face more than anyone’s – shot me a “WHAT IN GOD’S NAME DID YOU JUST DO” look. Still, I stood my ground and went with it, giving my Uncle a slow-and-dramatic-head-turn and a growly, “You heard me, friend. Converse with me.”
Not only do I have that burned into my memory as one of the Top Ten Most Awkward Moments of My Life, but now I never address any of my uncles directly.
I don’t feel I was wrong or something, but it’s just like a hanging issue that’ll be there forever.
As such, I’ve fought hard to make sure my nieces refer to me as just “Brian”.
Don’t misinterpret – it’s not a selfish thing or some hang-up about “Uncle” making one feel old – it’s for them. I don’t even know if that was my choice to make, but it’s worked so far. They will always be my peers in this manner.
How do you feel about the issue of the formal titles of Aunt and Uncle.
Well, you probably remember how my Uncle Bill Spaeth is always being forgetful with doing things in life because I write about that like every other post.
