Since I was born in Philly “The ill-a-delph” PA, I am a Flyers fan. It’s state law. Dad roots for the Bruins of Boston, but that’s the least of his problems. I love the orange crush of my homeland, and I’m excited for Lord Stanley’s play-offs. Especially since my boys are playing the extremely talented and incredibly doofy Pittsburg Penguins. Birds that can’t fly.

Weak.

And how do I prepare for a Flyers game? I go to the playground and eat mulch, throw dirt and make tough guy faces – just like any other Philly fan.

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I had a fine time in Texas, but it’s good to be back in the states.

At first I was like: “Hey, let’s go start a drum circle and play hackey sack and not bathe while we twirl around to Phish songs and eat granola burgers. Man, I got the munchies.”

Then I was like: “Tennis, anyone?”

Amazing what that first haircut can do for a man.

I’ve been to Canada, and now I’m going to another foreign land: Texas. Not sure what to expect, but I keep hearing about a magical place called Whataburger. I’m guessing we’ll be staying there for at least a day or two.

In Vermont, we have five seasons. Jammed between winter and spring is mud season. Today was opening day.

And I decided to spend the weekend in 1977.

My perpetual Quest for Freedom notwithstanding, I have a new aspiration:

I want to be a bulldozer. A bulldozer with flashy lights that can move dirt, plow snow and makes beepy sounds when I back my junk up.

Mom tells me I can be anything I want, so if this doesn’t pan out it will be her fault.

Mom leaves the room.
Socks become leg warmers.
Bangs become goth.
Underwear becomes outerwear.

This happens more than I care to admit.

In Vermont, people do strange things – particularly in the winter. I witnessed one of these things on Sunday at some sort of ice game tournament. It happened where I swear a lake used to be.

Three things happened that I can only explain as supernatural magic: We walked on water, Mom watched hockey, and Dad made a hamburger disappear.

My parents set me up on a blind date. I think her name was “Sitter.” Odd. She was a nice girl, but maybe a little old for my tastes. I’m guessing she was about 15. We played for a few hours. I made small coo, she giggled. I showed her my toy truck, she was impressed. We watched The Amazing World of Gumball. I pooped. She re-diapered me. Honestly, I usually don’t like to give that much away on a first date, but I had lentils for lunch. It was happening whether I wanted it to or not.

For the record, I was in bed by 7:00pm and woke up alone.

She has my digits. Ball is in her court.

The Grammys. Or As I referred to them a year ago, “The Shammys” a.k.a. “The Crud Awards for Cruddiest Crud Music.” Well, My opinion has swayed slightly this year because the Fighters of Foo walked with a fistfull of hardware. Good for them. I enjoy their stuff quite a bit, both new and vintage. When their videos come on the big shiny rectangle, I usually drop my dump truck and look on. And their majestic “Monkey Wrench” song helped me through a tough break-up I had with a foreign exchange student. Things ended badly when I found out she was a hard plastic doll.

In summary, Joan Sebastian’s Huevos Rancheros was robbed in Best Tejano Album category. That will probably dominate the diaper station conversation today at school.

So I have these good looks – just like Dad. And this sweet gut – just like Dad. And I won’t listen to anything Van Halen did after 1984 – just like Dad.

You sure I’m adopted?