The Triumph of a Man Called Da-da is...

...keeping that Happy Face despite the unfortunate limitations of gravity.

The Triumph of a Man Called Da-da is...

...keenly anticipating this fall's back-to-school fashions. Yes, this year, UNCLE FESTER PLAID is IN.
Good thing, as Da-da's looked like this for years.

The Triumph of a Man Called Da-da is...

The Triumph of a Man Called Da-da is... looking dapper while holding a sleeping primate.

That Scottish Play Curse of Date Night

This past saturday was Da-da's first date night away from the monkeys in 10 million years, and wifo takes us to see a cheery community college production of HAMLET -- conveniently forgetting that Da-da suffers from a rare and mysterious Shakespearean Tourette's, a kind of unpredictable and torpolexiconographical inner verbal Bardic volcano. So, it should come as no surprise that within the first 15 minutes of the production, when the ghost and Hamlet started gamboling about in the Elsinorean mist, that Da-da suddenly sat bolt upright in his seat and shouted, "MACBETH!!" at the top of his lungs -- freezing and horrifying actors and audience alike. (Sure, we were watching HAMLET, but Da-da's Shakespearean psychoneuroasthenic MANIA doesn't know that.)

House lights came up.

20YO boy-Hamlet and boy-Horatio, elder ghost and teen guards all stepped down off the stage en masse to collect Da-da from his seat and escort him OUT of the theater... where those assembled proceeded to walk Da-da three times around the outside of the building, spitting over their left shoulders repeatedly while uttering obscenities (some more than others), then awaiting invitation back into the theater by outraged proto-hipster drama department geeks. (This is actually the traditional MACBETH cure.) Somewhere along the way, Da-da performed about a thousand mental Shakespearean neurological word-replacement exercises, ensuring that he will make it through the rest of the play.

Alas, during the "Yorick" scene, Da-da's Broca-Wernicke dam broke. He suddenly stood and shouted his replacement word: "FIRE!!" then muttering, "MACBETH" loudly over and over.

House lights came up.

Now, we're forced to employ a more advanced Scottish play cure: the entire cast and Da-da stand onstage, each spinning around three times, as fast as possible on the spot, spitting over our shoulders while uttering obscenities. Needless to say, they were going to BAN ME FOR LIFE from the Jacob Canescence Community Theater for the Extremely Disturbed... that is, until we received a standing ovation for our onstage performance. (Evidently, some people had never seen HAMLET and thought it was part of a Brechtian revival). Ah, the sound and fury.

(Note: for those not in the know, you're supposed to refer to "Macbeth" as "that Scottish play" while inside (or outside) any theater -- unless you have a Shakespearean neurological disorder, of course. Be sure to bring a camera to catch those priceless shocked faces.)

The Horror of... POSTMODERN BARBIE (UPDATED)

Marin Barbie bursts into flame if she has to wait in line for more than three seconds.

Da-da has two boys, so the only dolls he has to worry about are two (ignored) Major Matt Masons and the entire veteran cast of the Star Wars franchise -- veteran, as they're now missing arms and legs and heads, poor devils. Because of a search for a stormtrooper arm and leg donor at the local toy store, Da-da suddently found himself in the Barbie aisle (it was an accident, Da-da swears), where Fascination of the Abomination immediately carpe'd Da-da's diem. Mattel, the company that makes Barbie, has evidently been exploring alternative marketing channels.

Besides the passe, "Remember the Alamo Barbie" (comes with a puzzled, tooth-missing Barbie, with cowboy hat, leather fringe jacket, and dead Davy Crocket), and the de riguer, "Harley Barbie" (Barbie as a biker chick, how ‘90s), Da-da was surprised to find not only, "Polynesian Barbie" (comes naked with plastic leis, vial of missionary venereal diseases and a Martin Denny CD), but also, "Southern Marin Barbie" (once trophy-hot, this well preserved Barbie drives a silver Mercedes, dresses like she's 14, and bursts into flame if she has to wait in line for more than three seconds). She's nearly identical to, "Grateful Dead Barbie," except for the matching tie-dye iPhone and mumu, flower tiara and four-foot jasmine bong. It got worse from there.

"Pocahontas Barbie," has been renamed, "Gaming Community Barbie" (slots sold separately). This gem was within PC bowshot of, "Redneck Barbie" (slots sold separately) done up with rhinestoned denim skirt, unconscious "dawg," and case of Southern Comfort (singlewide trailer and ‘72 Ford Torino with grass growing from the engine compartment sold separately). Then there was, "Manic Barbie" (wind her up and she stays up for days and days vacuuming, re-organizing her closets and making To Do lists on old Home Pregnancy Test packaging). More puzzling was, "Freudian Barbie," which comes naked with a fish, cigars and an autographed picture of Julie Andrews (Da-da didn’t get it, either).

One of the more disturbing variants – next to, "Klaus Barbie" (sorry) – was, "Coder Barbie." Box verbiage: "Work toward endless, impossible deadlines and circumnavigate vitric egos with CODER BARBIE, and learn that all you can do is NEVER ENOUGH." Pull her string and she shouts: "CODE FASTER YOU HOGS!" Accessories include: computer; another computer; another computer; autographed picture of Darth Vader; twin carpal tunnel wrist-supports and matching ergonomic manical/keyboard; tiny gray cubicle; old squeezy fuzzy thing that "reduces stress"; and a calendar highlighting the extreme outdoor life she doesn't live. Next to that was the sad, "Blogger Barbie," (dirty bathrobe, writes sitting on a toilet, never leaves the house).

Of course, "PR Barbie," was represented. Accessories include: iPhone, iPod, iPad, iBrator, laptop, another laptop, old netbook, 40 bottles of Tums, smelly boxes of three-day-old indian food, Facebook/Twitter addiction, virtual press kit, a silver Scion filled with dry and sticky Starbuck’s cups and dirty laundry atop several inch-thick Powerpoint presentations and white papers. Degree in Social Networking sold separately. Then there was a whole wall of dusty, unsold, "Presidential Candidate Barbie," (vain, reactionary, self-centered, wealthy, doesn’t do a damn thing) and, "Congressional Barbie," (vain, reactionary, self-centered, wealthy, doesn’t do a damn thing) were both on sale for $98,932.13 each. Joe Lieberman mind control remote sold separately.

Da-da won't recount the "Trophy Ken" aisle, as it made him weep like Brian Boitano on thin ice, but the PWNED BARBIE aisle promised to be quite interesting... if Da-da could've gotten into it. It was PACKED. So, what Barbie did Da-da come away with? You know he couldn't resist. He picked up the coolest one, o'course:

Da-da's pick: "MUMMENSCHANZ BARBIE."

Awesome ductage. And the dancing mouth makes life worth living. But what REEEEALLY scared Da-da (Da-da is tough to scare, citizens) was the life-size, "POSTMODERN BARBIE," in the back. Yikes. Remember the Alamo.

The Sandworm Vote, Part 2: Righty Tighty, Lefty Loosey

Da-da gives Sandy some political pointers.

Some wag sent Da-da a message asking if he was LEFT or RIGHT. For the record, Da-da is a DA-DA, a beleagured, highly trained, no-neck lawn gorilla (read KID) wrangler-ninja -- IN 3D -- who cares little for controlling anything save for his tiny patch of real estate, and only then to make small beings eat, sleep, do their homework, and not turn out like most politicians. That said, when it comes to political direction, Da-da's riding a giant sandworm that's about to eat both Right and Left. Why? 'Cause Da-da's the founding member of The Sandworm Party, Mr. Bond.

Sandworms have an extensive laundry list of winning attributes. They consume everything (esp. if it has cheese on it). They poop an addictive, mind-altering substance (nicknamed, "the spice") that's kinda like peyote and ayahuasca and LSD and carne asada and cinnamon rolls... served with that yummy civet coffee, mmm. They make great rumbling sounds when they approach, making everyone yell, "RUN!" They're not annoying (though they are deadly). They don't make speeches. They don't encourage people to kill or subjugate other people. They unify ("RUN!"). And best-of-all: they're fictional. Which is why Da-da's all over them like CHILI on a DOG.

As if that weren't enough, sandworms also create huge amounts of oxygen (due to the friction from zooming through sand and trailer parks at high speed), thus solving all global warming woes. Take a deep breath! And sure, they eat and pretty much destroy everything in sight, but then again, so does the U.S. Government. At least the sandworms won't lie to you while they do it. AND the press conferences wind up with all the media being devoured, dropped screaming into an alchemical maw! ("Hey, Rupert! Hold this thumper!") But...  best of all: NO SANDWORM TAXES. Nope. Not one. Save for the fact that they eat pretty much everything on the surface of the planet that moves or vibrates. Could be worse. They could incorporate. And at least sandworms don't dance and wave flags when an "enemy" dies. No bloodlust. No "justice." They just eat you and, "move forward."

To get you all used to the idea, Da-da's gone so far as to create a SANDWORM CAT to act as your personal (un)disposable political saviour. Isn't he cute? (HINT: don't pet him.)

(Factually, someone sent that image to Da-da, so it belongs to someone else, BUT Da-da doesn't know who. If this is yours, let Da-da know and he'll give you ample credit.)

[Read "The Sandworm Vote, Part 1."]

The Sandworm Vote, Part 1

People ALWAYS ask Da-da: what's your favorite monster? That's easy.

Sandworm.

The one from Frank Herbert's, DUNE, which still exhibits better writing than most books today.

Then they ask Da-da who he's voting for. For 2012. (Why they're asking Da-da this so far from the damn elections tells you a lot about how silly politics have become in this country.) Who is Da-da going to vote for? That's easy.

Sandworm.

Like Sarah Palin, a sandworm is not only insensate, it also: eats everything; poops an addictive mind altering substance; is impervious to nearly everything (except water); makes this great rumbling sound when it approaches making everyone yell, "RUN!"; is worshipped by religious whackos in robes and snuggies and suits, etc. UNLIKE Sarah Palin, the sandworm is not annoying, it doesn't encourage people to kill other people, it unifies ("RUN!"), and best of all, it's fictional, which is why Da-da's voting for it. As for all initiatives... FYI, Da-da votes YES on NO, and NO on YES. We clear now, pollster?

Gotta go. Da-da's 9:00 sandworm is inbound. Grab your hooks, Stilgar, we just created The Sandworm Party.

Sandworms just need more love.

[Read "The Sandworm Vote Part 2: Righty Tighty, Lefty Loosey."]

Enter... The GOOGLETRAC

Behold the latest in grooming convenience from those geniuses at AcmeVaporware, the main supply house for All Things Da-da. Da-da's beard has been shivering all morning...

=======================================================
ACMEVAPORWARE UNVEILS DREADED GOOGLE-TRAC RAZOR

Advanced Psycho-Consumertronics Section Whips Sheet Off Shocking Personal Grooming System

HIRSUTE, KENTUCKY, January 5, 2011 -- AcmeVaporware Inc. (AVW) today revealed its new GOOGLE-TRAC Razor before a horrified, yet good-natured crowd of beauty & barber science academy graduates. The first overly manic personal grooming system of its type anywhere on earth, the new GOOGLE-TRAC Razor has well over 100 razor-sharp blades that simply dont know when to quit.

HOW IT WORKS

The first blade comes in and pulls up the whisker a fraction of a millimeter, while the second blade zooms ahead and pulls it up a little bit more; the third blade then takes up where the second blade left off, while the fourth blade assists the third, working in unison to hoist the whisker’s petard for the deadly FIFTH blade, which helps the sixth do its job, followed by the seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth blades that then work in harmony with the next eighty eight blades to FINALLY AND IRREVOCABLY zip-zop that pesky growth right off the face of the earth, with extreme prejudice and malice aforethought.

“We decided to stop screwing around and make a serious LEAP in razor technology profits,” said Dr. John Smallberries, president and CEO of AcmeVaporware. “Other personal grooming system profits only went so far. I mean, the American public will believe literally anything, so why not?” Dr. Smallberries then unleashed the new GOOGLE-TRAC Razor System on the hundreds of unsuspecting barber & beauty school graduates, most of whom were females in their ‘20s. Test subjects’ screams were most impressive.

“Our GOOGLE-TRAC Razor System can be used to boost bottom lines of all types, making it far costlier and more complicated than more conventional gas-powered shaving solutions,” said Dr. John Yaya, Vice President of International Vice Presidential Systems for AVW. “In contrast, other personal grooming systems are short-sighted, cheap and kinda suck. Just wait till you see the prices for our replacement blades! A-HAAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!!”

“This product has absolutely nothing NOTHING to do with Google,” said Google CEO Barney Google. “Still. I’d still love to have one. Just stop touching me.”

About Google

Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google. Jeez, enough about Google already.

About AcmeVaporware

AcmeVaporware, Inc. is an awesome, intergalactic septillion dollar web-based APE monstrosity, providing truly ludicrous and uncompromising physical layer transport and grooming solutions, pseudo-lexiconographical logistics and torpovapor supply-chain fusion thingies to anyone who will stand still long enough for us to draw an X on their forehead, on a scale that makes the collective armies of all the Pharaohs look like a junior high school marching band. Yes, we're talkin' BIG. Information on AcmeVaporware, its internecine technology and personal grooming system arm, and its future profligate amounts of finest-quality miasma are mostly classified. Regardless, its all on acmevaporware.com anyway, so whatever. If you must read more, try this book, which is all about AcmeVaporware and will take your head clean off. It's even in the Library of Congress.

All content and images copyright 1996-2011 and Beyond, AcmeVaporware Inc. AcmeVaporware is a registered trademark of well, AcmeVaporware Inc. All rights reserved. Don’t mess with us. Our attorney takes air baths in malls.

AcmeVaporware scientists KNOW f = ma.

Waiter, Da-da Will Have the Saltwater Hose-down

A 30-something post-millennial recently approached Da-da, earnest and beseeching -- what is Da-da, the Old Man of the Mountain? -- inquiring as to how his life might change when he has kids, besides the lack of sleep. Da-da chuckled in the First Person. That was easy.

Da-da used to take pride in his personal hygiene: being clean, showering twice a day, USING SHAMPOO, soap, getting his hair cut, brushing his teeth, wearing clean UNRUMPLED clothing with no permanent stains. A mere five years of being Mr. Mom have stripped him of all that, turning him into some kind of filthy, unshaven, toothless, damned dirty APE in the wilderness. (Da-da is sure this comes as no surprise to anyone downwind.) Da-da goes to the grocery store and childless people flee, small children point, teens laugh outright. Sure, go ahead and laugh, 'CAUSE IT'S GONNA HAPPEN TO YOU ONE DAY, AHHAHHAHHHHAHAHHAHHAHHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAAAAHAHEEHA, uh...

...what was the question? French toast, please.

Freud Takes A Tumble

  

This just in...

Freud apparently took a tumble early this morning. The late psychotherapist and father of the scientific method was discovered insensate, supine and half-naked, after what can only be described as, "a prolonged discourse on... well, on SOMETHING SUPERAFFENGEIL." No monkeys could be found to translate, as they were preoccupied, though two small monkey boys have been detained for questioning.

Adding SQUISH to OW (owsquish?), the body was later accidently smooshed beneath an enormous basket of American laundry.

Said the lady of the house, making a small face: "I didn't see him there." She later expressed regret, but also concern at Freud's dishabille. The psychotherapist's couch and drug paraphernalia have been retained by the authorities until next of kin can be contacted. In the meantime, a memorial was held in the master bedroom closet -- and a salmon was named -- though the two events appear to be wholly unrelated.

In a bizarre twist that wasn't actually that bizarre, the salmon -- allegedly The Salmon of Knowledge -- was named, "Sigmund."

No fish were harmed during the ordeal, though Sigmund's days are numbered since he started smoking. The unseen monkeys, on the other hand, continue to be very excited in another room, typing away at yet another Shakespearean sonnet.

Why This Blog is Entitled, "TRIUMPH of A Man Called Da-da"

Someone who looked like the Ninth Dr. Who once asked Da-da why this blog is entitled, "Triumph of a Man Called Da-da."

First off, it's pronounced, "DAA-DAA." It's what Da-da's been hearing for a decade, so he responds to it. He's forgotten his own name.

Second, Da-da informed the inquirer, a young and unmarried, non-child-laden, early-release scaled model of Hugh Hefner, that the title on his business card is, "DA-DA," CEO to the small, the loud, the diaper-challenged. You've heard women say -- and Da-da will affirm -- that it's The Hardest Job in the World. It's also The Best Job... and the The Worst Job. Basically, it's somewhere between Christmas and a trip to the Emergency Room.

Third, and most importantly: Da-da is YOUR Da-da. He is, in plain fact, a kind of Meta-Da-da: parent to those who need one; leader of those who need one; student and educator of all; asker of difficult questions; truthsifter and speaker of unspeakable truths; and general naked-emperor pointer-outer.

Da-da does this free of charge. 

And YES, Da-da talks and writes in the Third Person, since Da-da has lost a couple Persons in this da-da dada transition. It happens. And YES, da-da is also dada, each indistinguishable from the other.

Finally, those born before 1979 may recall the movie, "A Man Called Horse," with a young (early) Dumbledore... er, Richard Harris, as well as its many sequels ("Triumph of A Man Called Horse," "Complete Flaccid Collapse of A Man Called Horse," "Radioactive Underpants of a Man Called Horse," etc.). Anyway, being a parent -- esp. a meta-parent -- is much like the Native American ritual featured in said film, where the supplicant, of his own free will, hangs painfully for hours and hours and hours and hours in a hot sweaty stinky room from a long sharpened horse bone inserted beneath the skin of the supplicant's chest until he either passes out or has an OOB experience and someone has to stab him in the back with a spear to wake him up. Ow. But in a GOOD way.

Being a parent is like that every single day... at least for Da-da.

Anyone who tells you different is rich and has 10 helpers. Or is selling something. Or is a Divine Being.

In truth, EVERY DAY you survive as a parent is a minor triumph. Every day you advance the tribe one step UP the near-infinite staircase of truth is a major triumph.