Dan says…

Where’d we go? For those of you still checking, I wanna give you the Reader’s Digest version of what happened with the site and what the future holds for this little diamond in the rough.

So. What happened. Why haven’t there been any new posts in forever and why is Jane blurry.

Hmm. I think the safest explanation is to say there was a difference of opinion. One that was large enough that it could not be bridged.

So why am I the one talking to you now and not Jane? Another good question. You’re so smart with the questions, really. Well, here’s the short answer: Every expense for the site came from my pocket and I wrote every character of code for the theme and did all photoshopping of all graphics and photographs and hosted the site on my server. So when Jane and I parted ways, I kept the domain.

Is the site dead? Will there ever be new posts here? More excellent questions. And again I’m just gonna offer the short version of my answer.

The site was left up for a reason. I still love the concept. But it is clearly on life support right now. But in the coming months when I have more time, I want to do some surgery on the site that is SO not covered by insurance, and see if we can’t make JYIS live again. Better. Faster. Stronger. *Bababababababa sound from $6M Man*

But don’t hold your breath. I already have way too many irons in the fire to give this any attention right now. But leave the feed in your reader. When I have any announcements? You’ll be the first to know.

-Dan

Help Dan name the new site!

I’m not getting kicked out of here, but I am looking for a new home.

A lot of the content that I write for this site is fun.  It’s racy, a little naughty.   Sometimes it’s completely stupid. But most of the things in Dan’s garage, and really, the things Jane writes for See Jane Shop, are diluting the message of the site.  Jane says so, so it must be true.  (Actually, it’s something, one of the FEW things, we agree on.)

And some of our Garage and Shop posts aren’t viewable on the home page when they’re posted.  That’s intentional, but then we were asking ourselves, why write the stuff if only feed subscribers are ever going to read it.

Since Jane already has her own blog, Well Read Hostess, she doesn’t need a new place to vent and opine.  But I don’t have a comparable blog.  I need a place to let my pants hair down.  Air things out.   So I’m home shopping.

And I need your help.   I need a cool domain name.   Something that has “Dan” in it.   (DansGarage.com is already taken.)

Can you help me?

Maybe I’ll offer some kind of prize to whoever picks the coolest (available) domain.  I’m not sure what yet.   But it’ll be awesome and totally worth the effort.

Just comment below for consideration.  And thanks for your help!

-Dan

A story from Dan’s childhood…

This post is one I’m recycling from an old blog of mine (now defunct), but it’s received a little critical acclaim, so I thought you might enjoy reading it.

It was a Thursday night in the fall of 1982; I was fourteen years old. I remember the day of the week because in our soccer league, Thursday nights were game nights. My father was our coach, and on this night we’d just lost to a bigger, more skilled team. After the loss I was walking back to the parking lot with my teammates (dad was trailing far behind, talking with some of the other parents) when somebody from our team must’ve said something to some members of the other team about how hard they sucked or how big their mommas were. The three largest guys on their team were pretty sure I’d said it and wanted to show me how much they didn’t appreciate it. As I turned to see what was going on (at this point I had no clue), I saw the three (much) larger kids coming my way.

At the time I stood about 5′10″ and was pretty skinny. But I had a big mouth, and it sometimes got me into more trouble than my 160 pound body could get me out of. And while I hadn’t said anything to these guys, I wasn’t planning on backing down.

The three kids stopped right in front of me, all firing insults at me at the same time. I was firing back as I could. When they started telling me how much of my ass they were going to kick (all of it, if I recall), I knew things were way out of hand, I was outmatched,  and that I was probably gonna end up with my dick in the dirt.

We had a kid on our team named Koson. Koson was a scrawny kid. He stood about 5′6″ and may have weighed 100 pounds if he was dipped in syrup. He had toothpicks for arms, a sapling’s branches for legs. He had hair like Jimi Hendrix; not quite an afro, but not quite tamed,  making his head look unusually large on his skinny little frame. His family had recently come over to the United States from South Korea for their shot at the American Dream. They were dirt poor, but the family worked together to try to make it.  They worked hard.  The perimeter of the backyard at Koson’s house was wrapped in chicken wire, while the hand-tilled dirt inside it was filled with rows of beans, carrots, onions, tomatoes and any other plants that could grow food. The six or so kids, working under the stern direction of their mother, gardened that backyard hard. If you drove by on a dry summer day you’d see the dust of worked soil rising above the roof line of the house like smoke from a fire. If you got closer you could hear Koson’s mother giving high-pitched, staccato commands to her children working in the garden.

Koson loved soccer. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was probably a financial hardship for the family just paying the dues for him to play in our league. Koson playing soccer on our team likely meant somebody in his family had to miss a few meals to be able to pay for it. And to make matters worse, the family didn’t own a car, so Koson’s only means of getting to and from practices and games was to ride his bicycle. Sometimes that meant an eight or nine mile ride, one way. When my father realized this we found out where he lived (it was only a mile from our house) and started driving him to and from team activities.

Having only recently come to America he spoke very little English, so the time I spent with him, bouncing around in the back of my dad’s truck riding to and from games, tended to be quiet. But despite discussions so short you could count the syllables on two hands, you could just tell he had a good heart and the fun-loving spirit of any other kid his age. Except that I was wrong about his heart. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

As I stood in front of those three kids who were describing the beating they were going to put down on me, I was assessing who was likely to take the first swing, and putting my feet in a position to brace myself for the blow and return a few punches. Out of nowhere, Koson, the skinny kid who spoke almost no English, who hardly knew anybody outside of his immediate family, living in an unfamiliar country, came flying in from my left and put himself between me and these three (did I mention larger?) kids. Koson was going to try to protect me? If each of these three would-be attackers outweighed me by thirty pounds, they outweighed Koson by almost 90. Each. Surely they’d flick him aside like a booger on their way to pounding my ass.

But before anyone could get out another word, Koson screamed at these three in his busted-up English: “He say NOTHING! YOU DO NOTHING!” Everyone froze. This was a development neither I nor my ass-kickers-to-be were prepared for. And though his back was to me, I could still see a sliver of Koson’s face. His eyes were red with hostility and bulging from their sockets. He looked fucking crazy.  Like he could kill somebody. In an instant, the balance of the situation had shifted; instead of moving in to finish us off, all three of the other kids were taking a step back.

I stood dumbfounded. Just a few seconds before, the faces of each of these three kids shown the barely focused rage of an angry mob, coupled with a mob’s capacity for reason. And violence. Now, their ashen faces showed fear. This bony kid, outnumbered and possibly outweighed by 400 pounds, was now stepping toward those three kids. Now he was the angry one. Now they were the ones worrying. Now they were trying to figure out how they’d defend themselves. And he was doing it for a friendship so newly minted that coin hadn’t even cooled.

In the back of my dad’s truck on the ride home, I excitedly asked Koson if he knew karate or kung fu, and why he jumped into the middle of that situation, but the language barrier between us was just too big. I could tell he was interested in talking, but my questions weren’t making sense to him and I couldn’t make heads or tails of his answers. We both fell silent, disappointed that we couldn’t talk about this incredible turn of events we’d just shared. We dropped him off at his home and told him we’d see him again the next week.

I don’t remember exactly how the rest of the season played out, except that we won more games than we lost, and Koson and I had forged a brief friendship and trust in the crucible that was that Thursday night. And though we only lived a mile apart, dividing lines between neighboring school districts ran along a road that separated our homes, and by the next year we were both in high school, playing for our respective school’s soccer teams. As was usually the case with friends made during the course of a soccer season, like bits of dust from a garden on a windy day, coming together to swirl briefly in a frenetic spiral then separating and flying far afield, Koson and I never reconnected after that season. We would occasionally drive by his house on the way to other destinations, blowing our horn and waving as we passed, never sure if he saw us or if he was even home.

Some time went by, and in my senior year of high school I’d learned that Koson didn’t have such a good heart after all. A congenital defect that had been hidden when he was a child was getting the better of him as he entered manhood. One day that defect became more than Koson could scare away with his bravery; his heart failed, he went into cardiac arrest and he died. I’m not sure if he even made it to his eighteenth birthday.  Koson’s American Dream was over.

The little man with the heart of a lion was gone.

In the small handfuls of memories I have stuffed deep into my mind’s pockets, the ten or twenty seconds of the day when Koson leaped between me and those three assholes stand out clearly. And while I didn’t immediately grasp the full weight and meaning of that experience, as the years passed I became aware of the important lessons Koson taught me that day.  It just took me awhile to learn them. What I learned was:

You stand up for your friends, no matter the odds. Friends take care of friends. And the odds of coming through a winner (or just alive) are always better when there’s more than one of you. Even if the situation is bleak and you’re probably going to get your asses handed to you, at least you’ll be together, holding what’s left of your asses.

Some days, you have to be willing to take things all the way. I never found out whether Koson could have pummeled those three kids (and thankfully for them, neither did they). But on that day, at that moment, everyone who saw what happened was sure of one thing: Koson was willing to find out. I believe it was his willingness to take things all the way that scared the shit out of those other kids. They were willing to fight when they knew they’d win. When they realized that in a few minutes they may be the ones found bleeding on the ground, they became pretty interested in parting company. Quickly. Koson didn’t care about the odds or the sizes of the other kids. He knew he had a friend in danger and he was going to take things all the way for me if he had to.

Being willing to go all the way doesn’t mean taking every situation to the wall, every time. But once in awhile you’ve got to be willing to put love, God, family, money, safety, pride or happiness (or all of ‘em) on the line if you’re gonna come out the other side in one piece.

Obstacles fall away under conviction. You’ve probably heard the saying, “If you think you can or you think you can’t, you’re right.” When Koson made his stand he was determined to stick up for me, even going blow-for-blow with those three larger kids if he had to.  Nothing was going to dissuade him.  In hindsight, it was probably his conviction that made the fight unnecessary.

So far in my life, those things that I was absolutely committed to making happen, no matter how difficult or unlikely, became possible when I believed they would happen, when I was committed to them. And I don’t mean the corporate buzz-speak version of committed, like to synergistic customer service. I mean All. In. I mean when-I-strike-a-match-it’s-gonna-burn certainty of belief, and sell-your-blood-for-the-money-you-need committed. Those situations where I was only partially committed, or I only kinda believed were possible? They’ve always been harder to make happen. Occasionally they still did, but not always. Options are clearer, decisions easier when you’re all in.

This is about 25 years too late, but thanks for those 20 seconds, Koson. It made a bigger impact on me than you would have imagined. If at 41 I’m more brave than I was at 14, a measure of that credit belongs to you.

Rest in peace, friend.

I’m hoping for a little trim…

I met a guy named Chuck at my local cigar hangout recently.

Chuck liked my hair.

Said he wanted to cut it.

Said he had a hair place.

He didn’t look anything like Buffalo Bill,  so I would’ve helped him pushing that couch into his van, but hello?  Lit cigar.  Busy.

Before he went looking for someone else to help him with his couch and we parted ways with a slightly limp-wristed handshake, he mentioned with a bit of disdain that “we don’t do ‘ten bucks and tits’ at my hair place.”   (Insert Scooby Doo “Ruh?”  noise here.)

You need to know – it’s only in the last 7 months that I’ve let my hair grow out, so I’m having to reintroduce myself to the world of hair cutting and hair products.  I’d totally forgotten about the television ads for the “dude parlors” with their big screen TVs, free chips and drinks, and of course, tits.  Thanks for reminding me, Chuck.

I mean, it’s only hair, right? And it’s ten bucks.   If I get a terrible cut from a buxom blond, I can always buzz it and grow new.  Hair’s cool that way.  Plus, it’s cheaper than a cover charge to a strip club, and I’d get about the same amount of body contact.  I think.  I’ve only ever been to a strip club once.   That I remember.  Sorta.  And why was my underwear ripped in two and in my pocket the next morning?  So many questions.

Where was I?   Right.  Hooters girls with scissors.

I get to my appointment and pretty much see what I expect to see:

• A dude that just paid $25 for a #1 clipper cut.
• Two other dudes sitting far apart from each other, waiting for their cuts, trying not to make eye contact with any other man.   Like it’d ruin the fantasy or something.
• Two attractive women wearing, well, if you’re sitting down? Things get a little cheeky.

But honestly?  That’s where the whole façade disintegrated.  I’m not sure what I was expecting – getting a lapper while she cut my bangs or the offer of a “motorboat special,” but once I sat in the chair, it was all business. Danielle, my “Sexy Stylist,” had the usual shit in her stall.   Picture of her kid, ubiquitous fridge-worthy kid artwork.   No grinding on the barber chair.  No arms-up twirling between working on the left sideburn and the right.  Totally NOT wood-inducing.

And I’m a chatter, but despite the pig suit I don when I write here, in real life I’m not the same person.  So none of the conversation contained “tits” or “toots.”  Just a dude, getting his hair cut.  By a chick with her boobs hangin’ out.  Talking about work, kids and gas prices.  And how they used to have bouncers here.  And the mid-day drunks that come in looking for a little trim.

And honestly?  The two heaving gorillas in the room made the conversation a little awkward, especially since I knew she had sharp objects in her hands, but Danielle made up for it by being very communicative about where she should cut, how much to cut, etc.  She actually seemed more interested in giving me a decent cut than an equally-priced Fantasticutters bowl job.

And when it was done, she had.  I passed on the after-cut massage.   (See?  So not a pig.)

The thing is, I’ve had women show more cleavage at trade shows selling diamond brick-cutting blades.  This was a good, no-nonsense cut executed by a friendly stylist who happened to have ass cheeks I could see if I looked at the correct angle.  No big whup.

Chat Roulette, revisited. (and this time? Safe For Work!)

Have you visited Chatroulette.com since Jane and I posted about it? Probably not. Chicken shits. The penises aren’t real, you know.

Anyway. In the last few weeks this talented pianist has used his improv to take the interwebz by storm.

And I guess with his hoodie, he looks a little like Ben Folds. A famous guy. News to me, but I’m old and unhip.

Anyway. Everyone thought “Merton” was Folds in disguise. He wasn’t. But it turns out that Folds has a sense of humor, and recorded an “Ode to Merton,” live, during one of his shows.

And then he did it again.

Since then, Merton’s put out his second piano improv video.

I swear all that shit just makes me wanna do the happy dance.

Last Saturday night I made a run to my local cigar shop to refill on a few of my standard smokes. While there the tabacconist offered to make a few suggestions. One of those suggestions included the newest offerings by Playboy. I know. I thought the same thing. Playboy? Cigars?

I drive a truck. I have to for my job. That truck does NOT have a sticker of a Calvin-looking character peeing on something. There are no pretend, vinyl bullet holes in the side of my truck. I do not have a Dale Earnhardt belt buckle. Or a Tony Stewart Home Depot jacket. Carrying around a cigar tube with the bunny head logo made me feel like I should be stopping off at Wal*Mart on the way home to find that bumper sticker that says that you need gas, ass or grass to ride with me.

Playboy = low brow.

At least to me. Unless of course you’re a lovely female with said logo inked on your person, in which case I’m in favor. But I’d ask for photographic proof of that tat before I give you a pass.

My personal, untattoed baggage aside, I bought the cigar and smoked it yesterday. First, I need to give a disclaimer: I don’t have the most refined taste buds on the planet. I can’t talk about “notes of nutmeg” or “a hint of cinnamon.” To me a cigar either has a mild flavor, a full flavor, or a shred-your-mouth-like-hot-embers-and-razors flavor. So my cigar reviews tend more toward the construction of the cigar. How it smokes. And so, here we go…

The store where I buy my cigars has an excellent, enormous humidor. Better selection than many big city cigar stores. So when I buy a cigar there, the consistency is usually excellent; not soft and mushy, not a crispy, hard brick. But this Playboy smoke was more brickish than it was soft and tender.

There’s also a fine line between a cigar being wrapped too tightly and too loose. Too loose and it can burn quickly up one side and significantly shorten the time you can enjoy the cigar without burning your fingers. Wrapped too tight and phrases like “sucking the chrome off a bumper” come to mind when thinking of the effort needed for the smoke.

You know how sometimes you buy a chocolate shake and you have to pull so hard on the straw that the insides of your cheeks touch each other? That’s what I got with this cigar. Smoking should be a relaxing event. It shouldn’t feel like I’m trying out for the fluffer job in the next Peter North flic.

And the cigar snuffed itself out on numerous occasions, requiring multiple re-lights.

So all in all, not a very good smoke. Flavor was decent, as the tobacconist promised, but for the money you could get two cigars from Oliva and be happier with the experience.

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• The People of Wal*Mart: built stupid, too.
• I totally thought this meant that someone carved a tree into a penis. Oh, I guess that IS what happened.
• George Washington grew weed.
• In America, there are more losers than farmers.
• You get free high speed internet on the international space station.
• Some men’s semen travels at 28mph.  Some travels at mach 2.  Just a fact, y’all.  Not braggin’.
• And breakfast should sometimes be optional.   Like today.

At Dan’s Place: My son, in his quest for manhood, never misses an opportunity to watch Dad pee standing up. Yesterday as he stood next to me, watching the mechanics of the withdrawal of ‘the weapon,’ the aim and the fire, he stepped back and said “That. Is. Gross.” And he turned and left. I laughed so hard I peed all over the toilet.

New feature: Light reading to kick off the weekend. You like? Say so. You no like? Golden rule, people.

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• Press Sec. Robert Gibbs forgot he was performing at the White House, not the Laugh Factory. Grow up, Gibby.
• Khloe Kardashian announces she wants to do herself on film. The only real surprise here will come when people see she’s hung like a Clydesdale.
• Man hoping to earn Capital One points tries to buy crack w/ plastic. Calls police when car is stolen during drug deal.   I got nothin’. Can’t make this shit up.
• John Mayer says sex was like killing Vietnamese via airdrop.
• Environmental group wants you to stop having sex with animals. So you’re saying I should stop trying to grant my son’s wish for a centaur for his birthday?   Fucking killjoys.

And at Dan’s place this week:

• Dan was called a “punk” by his 2 year old son.
• Dan nearly went MMA in the parking lot of the local library.
• Dan was “Blah-blah-blah’d” by his 5 year old daughter.

Have a great weekend, Jane readers.

This is a multiple choice question.  Once we’ve received a few answers, we’ll fill you in on which choice Dan made and how that played out.

You’re in a parking lot with your entire family.  Husband, kids.  Everyone. (safe to assume most of you are women?  probably.) You’re unloading the kids to walk into the library/store/whatever.  Also in the parking lot are other families with small children, loading and unloading.  Someone pulls out of a parking space near you and accelerates way to fast, gets to the end of the row of cars, turns up the next row and races, again way too fast, into another parking space, slightly closer to the entrance.

In this situation, you would wish that your husband would do which of the following:

A)  Nothing.

B) Say “Did you SEE that guy?!” to you, then go about his business.

C) Make sure the children are safe and accounted for, then walk across the lot, to the entrance.

D) Shake his fist or flip a bird at the reckless driver, then go about his business.

E) Yell to/at the reckless driver after he’s parked and gotten out of his car, warning him about his driving.

F) Rush over to the reckless driver’s car as soon as it’s parked, pull the man from his car and beat the shit out of him.

Setting:  Kitchen.  Me cleaning up the dinner dishes.  Wife helping.  Son in family room, playing.  Out of sight lines.  Daughter in our bedroom.  Jumping on bed.  Also out of sight lines.

Me:  Hey.  (pulls down pants, exposing junk to wife.)

My wife: *snicker* (walks past.)

Me: Um that wasn’t the response I was looking for.  AGAIN.  I swear you never get this one right.

My wife:  What exactly did you expect?

Me: What did I expect?  When I pulled down my pants?  I can tell you that laughter was not was I was shooting for.

Me:  Isn’t there a “Woman Code?”  You know, “Size doesn’t matter” and you never. laugh. when. your. husband. shows. you. his. dick?  Right?  I heard there was a code. And that kind of stuff was part of the code. Right? THE CODE?

(long pause)

Me:  You know I’m totally blogging about this.

My Wife: Yeah – I think you probably should.