Week 42: '67 Camaro

Doing something a tiny bit different this week, I'm beginning with the photo of my car, credited to photographer Phil Pekarcik. This awesome Hot Wheels has a hood that opens, and through the magic of Photoshop, Phil has given us an x-ray vision effect showing the engine under the hood. So cool.

The majority of tiny cars, now as was then, do not have hoods or trunks or doors that open, so when you get one that has these interactive pieces, they are even more special, because they are one step closer to a real car.

With my youngest son Baby G (now 2), however, such a vehicle would become a musical instrument*, an automotive castanet that would click click click with a wrist flip to an imagined salsa beat.

To Baby G everything is a musical instrument. He is a like a toddler Stomp.

Strangely, he never went for the low hanging fruit of pots and pans and wooden spoons, a classic of toddler percussion, preferring instead overturned boxes, crates and laundry baskets, played both by feet, hands and any striking object. He plays a mean set of paint cans, but his shampoo bottle on bathtub edge is pretty good, also.

I find it awesome how he releases the music in common items, from tape measures to books to whatever two items I hear him clacking together behind me in his seat while I'm driving, and if I've had to scoop away a couple of glass bottles before they cracked or take away a box of crackers before the contents were completely reduced to a crunchy coating for fish or chicken, for the most part I stay clear of his musical vision. 

That doesn't mean the noise, however rhythmic, doesn't get annoying. What changes everything for me, however, is his face, sometimes illuminated with a pure joyous smile, but other times completely lost in the moment and intent on catching the beat, his head tilted to one sound like he does, concentrating on laying down a consistent groove. I see that face, and my desire to yell "STOP THAT NOISE" goes away.

See, he may only be two, but he makes it very easy to tell when he is simply making noise and when he he making music. You can feel the difference. And music is good.

One of the most difficult challenges for me as a parent is coping with constant noise -- everything can be so loud, sometimes.. no, all the time. The banging, clanging, tapping, clapping, stomping of Baby G, however, is different. Like the sounds of the spring peepers and crickets at night, I'm glad they exist, however loud.

In a noisy world, those sounds are harmony.

* The actual Daddy's Tiny Car has not been used as a castanet as, not even by me.

Week 41: Ford Mustang Funny Car

I almost did not finish writing this blog post. You may not finish reading it.

Diversions lie ahead.

See, the car for this week's Daddy's Tiny Cars is a Mustang funny car, and I know what a funny car is because of a book I read as a kid.

Sometime in the 1970s I had a book -- I'm not sure if it was only about funny cars, about different types of race cars, or even about all kinds of things that happened to include funny cars, I just remember it was a soft cover book club book, probably Scholastic.

I began searching online with descriptors such as "funny cars" "1970s" "Scholastic Book Club," etc. hoping I might against the odds find that book. What I wasn't prepared for was the full tilt onslaught of nostalgia to hit me.

The first site I stumbled on was 70s-child.blogspot.com. That site alone almost sunk this post.

Page upon page of 1970s memories - such a great site. King Vitaman cereal! Dynamite magazine! Mikey! Awesome! Now what was I doing...? Yes, writing a blog... Must...look...away.... must...do...research...

After having completely forgotten my blog post, I came back to the present and reluctantly left 70s-child and continued searching, only to find these book covers on a 2008 posting on Boing-boing. No funny cars, but don't you know I once owned  three of these four books! Spooky Magic Tricks! I practiced those!

And so it went. On to another blog called Scar Stuff (a reference to a waxy, putty stuff from my youth used to make fake scars), which had pictures of my favorite Scholastic book and record, the Georgie the Ghost books, which then led me to seek out Scholastic monster movie books, such as those found on Rue-morgue.com. 

One book after another, I had that "I remember that!" moment, each time moving farther and farther away from funny cars.

Yes, the same guy who wrote Clifford the Big Red Dog. Yep, I had it.

Site after site of great blogs featuring pictures and references from books from my childhood. This Flickr collection from Brent Cox featured a book called The Forgotten Door, which I had actually forgotten, at least the name of it. Man, I loved that story.

I had read a lot more than I had thought.

Some twenty or thirty sites later I wound up on the website for Ohio's Loganberry Books which features a Stump the Bookseller section. Instead of helping me with my funny car book, it became a trivia game as a read through questions to see if I remembered any of the books.

Lester del Rey's Runnaway Robot? I read that! Which got me thinking of other Lester del Rey sci-fi books I had checked out of the library, but couldn't remember. 

I HAD to look them up. I had to know. 

YES! Tunnel Through Time, Day of the Giants, The Infinite Worlds of Maybe, and so on. But alas, no funny car book.

My research was incomplete, the day was finished, my head was happily filled with 1970s illustrations and book covers, and I had unable to find the elusive book.

 In fact, I didn't even remember what my original theme was to have been. 

What I did remember, however, was the faceless traveler from the book below! 

My ramblings into youthful book memories don't do justice to the great photo of the funny car shot by Phil Pekarcik. You know that isn't even a diecast of a 1970s funny car! *sigh*

Guest Blog: Pillow Fights and Toxic Derivatives

Today's guest blog is from friend and writer Les Evey, who frequently stops by and plays with the kids.

Because this is Daddy's Tiny Cars, I felt obligated to provide a diecast picture, so the above cellphone-shot picture is of two of my surviving Matchbox cars from my childhood -- these are old, with the "MADE IN ENGLAND BY LESNEY" stamps on the bottom. 

You see, Les and I have known each other a long time.

Additionally, Les and I often have differing political views (hence the opposing colors of red and green). I'll let you guess whether I'm the green car or the red truck. 

Pillow Fights and Toxic Derivatives -

One of the better shows on the mortgage crisis was House of Cards on CNBC.  I remember an interviewee explain how people could keep trading derivatives even though they knew they would have to blow up.  He said it was like being at a party and you know you should leave, but you’re still having a good time.  I think he summed up a profound aspect of human behavior that applies to a lot of situations.

I was over at Dale’s the other night and it’s not unusual for him and his wife to leave me with their kids while they finish work, cook dinner, or perform other household activities.  I have no problem with this.  I love playing with his kids and, judging from the way the children jump up and down and joyously scream my name when I step in the door, they like playing with me, too.

Over the course of the next hour, a pillow fight ensued.  A pillow fight has simple enough rules of engagement that three kids, aged 2, 4, and 11, can understand and participate in.  OK, and there was another kid in his late 40’s.

Note that I am probably responsible for teaching Dale’s kids to pillow fight, not that any kid really needs instruction on hitting a sibling with anything.  Dale once recounted a tale to me when Racer-A was two.  Racer-A handed him a pillow and spoke at great length in two-year-old jibber jabber while demonstrating the correct way to swing the pillow.  He was instructing Dale on how to pillow fight.  This, of course, happened soon after a weekend that I had visited.  Racer-A’s actions were understandable based on his observations:

1)      Pillow fighting is fun.

2)      Dad did not pillow fight.

Q.E.D.  Dad did not know how to pillow fight and needed to be taught so he could have fun, too.

Not too long ago, Dale was calmly reading while sitting on the couch when a near two-year-old Baby-G stealthily approached and hit him with a pillow.  This also occurred soon after Baby-G received my lessons in the art, style, and fun of pillow fighting.  By the way, Baby-G has a surprisingly good pillow arm.  You have been warned.

The battle royale pillow fight of this evening had continued well into fifteen minutes when a signal had gone off in my head.  We were on borrowed time.  We had passed the point of safety and the play would get crazier and more careless until the inevitable injury.  Generally, an injury in any playing festivity is the signal that the game is over, like the bell at the end of a boxing round.  Still, I let the borrowed time clock count on in my head.  Tick, tick, tick.  We were all still having a good time.  Tick, tick, tick.  My apprehension was growing as the clock ticked on.  I began searching for a stopping point.  You can’t just stop a pillow fight at any moment.  That’s stupid.  And rude.  Only Mom is allowed to do that.  Tick, tick, tick.  And we were all still having a good time.

Well, I’m proud to announce that a moment came where no one was in the middle of a swing or planning his next shot.  I called “All done!”, the general announcement that the current activity was concluded.  To my amazement, everyone followed my lead, put down their pillows, and commenced to finding another activity.

Yes.  I overcame the natural human tendency to take things too far while having fun.  One or more of the children will experience one less childhood injury.  OK, the pillow fight probably wouldn’t have happened without my presence, but who’s to say they wouldn’t have done something equally reckless.  And that’s not important, anyway.  What is important is the increased probability that, when he least suspects it, Dale will be peacefully reading or watching TV, and be struck with a pillow.

The featured cars are a Ford Pick-UP, Matchbox Series No 6, and a Ford Zodiac MK IV, Matchbox Series No 53. The Zodiac once had an articulated hood and a spare tire that fit under the hood, but both are long gone.

It's not too often you actually lose a spare tire with age. Wouldn't you agree, Les?

Week 40: 1969 Triumph TR6

Exhaust by DaddysTinyCars

Gentlemen and Gentlewomen, start your engines!

Now shut them off again, because your four-year-old is suddenly yelling incoherently with a mix of fear and horror and the car smells like a rare, horrendously stinky cheese when no cheese smell previously existed.

How, you wonder, could this have happened? He was in his car seat for 30 seconds, only enough time for you to get to the driver side, close your door, and turn the key.

You leap from your seat in the off chance there is a real emergency, although what kind of emergency involving cheese you cannot imagine, and slide open the door of the van to find your son's hair dripping with some kind of acrid goo that is also on his shirt, face and hands.

You gag and feel sick. Now over the years you've changed thousands of diapers and cleaned up all colors and textures of kiddie throw-up, all without  gagging, so you know this is extreme.

"What happened?" you ask through wrinkled-nose face.

"My *sob* sippy cup EXPLODED!!" cries your dripping preschooler.

Sippy cup? He didn't have a sippy cup.

And then you understand.

You look at the ceiling of the van, which is also splattered with sour milk.

How long that sippy has been there you have no idea, but long enough to build so much pressure that MacGyver could have used it as a weapon.

 Next to him, the two-year-old looks on with big eyes, nonplussed by the dizzying stench.

You unbuckle the car seat, pull off the preschooler's shirt, and realize the few seconds of contact with the sour milk have actually allowed the cheese vomit odor to permeate into his skin.

You scoop him up, run him into the bathroom for a shower hose-down with the efficiency of a pit crew changing a tire, all the while asking your wife to watch out for the baby.

He's only getting to the second round of squawking about not wanting a shower when you're done and are pulling a clean shirt over his head.

You grab a wet towel on your way back out and smell the stink from the door -- that's the door of the house, not the van. Your wife has cleaned off the baby seat and put a towel down and you both work on the ceiling, but the smell is overpowering.

Your two-year-old laughs.

Click, snap, buckle, he is snapped in his stinky car seat and you are ready to go, off to your older son's baseball game only slightly off schedule.

Triumph! (and NOW you see the tie-in of the photo to this blog.)



Wait. Sniff. Does the little one need a new diaper?


The photo of this great Hot Wheels diecast courtesy of Phil Pekarcik, who also provided the sound effects. For the record, this is from the Hot Wheels 2009 New Models collection. I know I say this almost every week, but this is one of my favorites.

Week 39: Mystery Car: 1970 GTO

Brothers and sisters, it's time to put the top down, if only metaphorically, rev that muscle car engine (again, likely metaphorically), and tear on down a brick-paved road, laughing at how the bumps make your collective voice go Ah_ah_AH-ah_Ah_ah_Ah-ah as you shout into the wind.

Maybe you've had a great year, free of financial worries with that old moneytree dropping offerings underfoot as you skip along in the sunshine. If so, I'm happy for you, and I truthfully mean that, sans sarcasm.

For me, it actually has been a great year, full of excitement, challenges, innovations, incredible projects, and learning. I've met some of the most incredible people on the planet and have participated in some wondrous ventures. I've played with my kids, had the flexibility to attend ball games and preschool graduation celebrations, and even had the luxury of being "advertised" by my preschooler Racer A. (Last week Racer A said he was going to "advertise" me. I didn't understand, until he he climbed on my lap and started swinging a tiny birthday party yoyo in front of my face while telling me you are getting veeeery sleepy.)

What it hasn't been is lucrative. Now if I suspected I had a readership of more than than 30 or so people, I might not admit this, but since I feel I'm among close friends here, I'll tell you, money has been crazy tight, and I don't mean tight in a hipster way. I mean tight as in can we really afford that 79 cents bag of rubber bands?

The cost of food alone is stressful, and there is no budget for going out to eat, which I so miss. It's five of us here, and the appetite of my kids appears to be growing at an exponential rate. I put food on Baby G's plate, and by the time the food is dished out to everyone else and I sit, his plate is empty. I don't even see him move. He is in the exact same position when his plate was first delivered, only with an empty plate and food on his face. (And yes I check the floor.)

Believe it or not, I actually have few complaints and am grateful of the opportunities and the energy I have been rewarded with by participating in great ventures as an independent. I just wish, you know, I had a big fat pile of cash, so big I had to use a pitchfork to shovel it to the even bigger pile next to it. (In truth I don't carry cash and do everything electronically, but there is truly no digital equivalent to the image of a pile a cash.)

November 2010 was the last time I could log what society would call a traditional job, although I have  accomplished a lot since then, and am involved in top-line initiatives. I have not once missed the structure of a time-clock job since losing my job, but that paycheck, that guaranteed every-other-week paycheck, has not gone unnoticed. The irony is I have worked harder and more diligently since losing my job than I ever did as an office drone, and I was a hard working worker bee. Now, I don't really feel like a bee at all.

A dragonfly maybe? Do they work hard? A dung beetle? A spider? No, that's not even an insect. Maybe I'm not an insect. Maybe I don't even have a metaphor anymore. Am I a ... what, a dandylion puff? No, that's not so right for me on way too many ways.

See, when you step out of the multiple choice checkbox world of traditional employment by choice, or, in my case, by being shown the door, you lose the security of knowing your metaphors, but you gain the world of being able to write your own.

Nonetheless, the uncertainty can wear on you, as does the pressure of feeling obligated to not show how the uncertainty is wearing on you.

And that's when you want to hop in the convertible GTO and let the wind blow back your hair, or, if you don't have any hair anymore, let the windblown grit from the highway polish your dome to a glorious luster.

So yes, life is good, even though I'm broke. And if I'm only enjoying my imaginary convertible ride in a diecast Hot Wheels car, I'm fortunate enough by the luck of the follicle draw to be doing it with a full head of hair.

Again, life is good.



Another aspect of life in which I am fortunate is the ongoing amazing pictures, like today's pic of my Hot Wheels GTO, one of the 2010 Mystery Cars series, from photographer Phil Pekarcik. Listen, I know many of you check in just to see the pictures, and I'm okay with that. I love 'em too.