HER SHIRT SAYS WHAT EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS

in my triumphant return to blogdom, i'm going to depart from the expected vitriol driven by my subversive rejection to the soulless chasm of inefficiency and creative banality, also known as...any guesses? any?? it's...

...wait for it...

ding ding ding! corporate blah-ness!! trust me, i'm still good for a whole host of crm team noodle-scratchery, but i'll try to refrain.

what's even more psychotic is my alternative topic of the hour is almost as dubious as writing about corporate automatons whining about not getting their daily fill of starbucks and iphones. this phenomenally righteous, yet shameless dusting-off strays close to the planet-decimating expanding sun of blogosphere: the 'non-blog baby blog.' these textless picture-dumps simply register as nauseating peddlings of pious overparental haberdashery. overzealous parents brag about how their progeny is better than everybody else's, and do so silently. c'mon - gimme some insight into why i should care about your life. mundane activities like crotch cradling with daddy-kins become profound descriptionless monoliths for generations to come, like a statue of saddam hussein, or better yet, chernobyl. for christ - please just use picasa or flickr or something if you have no intention of writing a real blog so you don't show up in my search queries. just rid me of profundities such as, 'baby's first dunk.' so to kobe: dear lord i hate your honky parents. and your name too, unless you somehow grow up to be a 6'6'' black man that can shoot from 15 feet and play d. or a giant slab of flank steak. whatever, crackers.

but fuck it. this is my platform, and i'm about to get really sappy. deal with it. i write most of this from 35,000 feet above the atlantic, nestled firmly between a hippopotamus of a woman and a rhinoceros of a man. stray flakes of airborne peach cobbler that have all the flavor of manila folders, fall neatly into my lap from both ogreish directions. lamentably, i'm headed away from european valhalla and toward the ol' business jerk store, where plenty of bad idea production will surely take place. i have but 8 and a half hours to think. 8 and a half hours to sigh. 8 and and a half hours to be bored, so 8 and a half hours to write to my niece:

dear shiva-bean,
by the time you read this, you'll have no recollection of how your incriminating sideways glances towards me at the ripe age of 3 weeks only signify a hell of a successful poop. you'll have forgotten all about the way you'd cringe at me, almost with judicious contempt, just to be appeased by a pacifier in the form of my friend's dangling stuffed cow. no memory of waking me up on a saturday morning by peeing all over my (albeit ratty) shirt. and you wont remember falling asleep, so calmly and peacefully, in my lap and in my arms after one of your 83 daily meals.

no, you won't remember any of these things. but by that same token, i'll never forget them. i'll also never forget how ecstatic i was when your mother announced that she was having you. i'll never forget how you calmed down as your pops played you a cd made and given to him by the greatest force on the planet. and i'll never forget how you totally had me at hello the instant you first traced my day-old beard using the entirety of your chubby little face.

but i got to witness some other stuff during days 22, 23, 24, and 25 of your debut to the universe. for all the time that i've known her, your mom has been, well, uh...yeah, nuts. but this time, i saw a side in her i've never seen before; a side that convinces me that she'll be an excellent mother. you'll get all the attention, love, and spankings that you richly deserve. you'll also have all the love and attention from your entire world of uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins...everyone who'll stop at nothing to make sure you have the best. we'll be fighting to be the first ones in line to spoil you with that ez bake oven when your mom denies you of one. or maybe not. make that barbies. ok, what the hell. alright, it looks like i'll just have to bribe you with that awesome new toy, 'super safe soft sponge-like object with extra cushioning,' i think it's called.

and your pappy ain't too shabby either. oddly, watching him parade you around in no more than a speedo and bathrobe (it *is* amsterdam, after all) during early morning changings screams nothing but devotion. in fact, he's clearly the better diaper outfitter out of the two. that may not sound like much, but when you emerge from diaperland to check into trouserville with nary a scratch, you'll know who to thank. but keeping in mind that he might be staring at starcraft replays during some of your adolescent years, i'll make sure that you're not stuck listening to lame dutch abominations, lame british abominations, and lame...um...miscellaneous bizarreries. and although no amount of browbeating can leave your life devoid of aging irish foolishness, you'll definitely be privy to your generation's classics.

by the time you lay the full teenage angst-laden rebellion down on mama and papa, when the likes of rihanna and the white stripes replace louis armstrong and led zeppelin in the lexicon of the contemporary classics, when the tag team of richard branson and mark cuban actually figure out how to clone and sell human souls, and when your uncle has more than just a peppering of grey in his wig, people are going to start wondering if you'll end up at harvard, cambridge, or even better - the university of maryland at college park. although at this rate, i'm sure by then it'll be better known as 'pepsi presents, a joint reebok/hyundai project: maryland university by michael bay - buy me buy me buy...'

at that point, i'll leave it up to you to locate the milky way's last remaining blu-ray disc player so that your crazy uncle can relax with his own collection of the classics. you can do this from the internet 2.0 etherplug-i-tron terminex in your corner office, or from the break room at the hospital, or from behind your drumset while on tour with the rolling stones (some things never change). ok sure, you'll have to wade through an endless deluge of suri cruise, mary-kate olsen jr., and zahara jolie-pitt thornton bale-depp-paltrow buscemi-knoxville fansites, but i promise you that it'll be worth the effort. and know in the back of your mind that during your stewart copeland-esque drum solo during the 8th encore, all the while you're being uber-loved and uber-cherished by your proud parents and relatives who are wondering why they are still paying your hovercar insurance and holodeck utility bills.

but for now, just keep pooping it up. and stay friends with the monkey.


with love, always -
~proud unckey suvo

[...if you care, right at this instant i hear abba gold...]