Just steroids?

By now it's not news that Belarus' Olympian athlete Nadzeya Ostapchuk has been stripped of a gold medal in the women's shot put competition, for having tested positive for steroids.



Hate to be cruel here...but, steroids?   Did they think to check for testicles...?

Who doesn't?

And, proving once again that the '80s were a musical wasteland, some orginal brokeback cowboys:

Need more evidence to convict the '80s of musical suckitude?  How about some Falco (RIP):



Now, personally, this video's redeeming quality (beyond the generous displays of cleavage) comes from the intro - the drawings of Stephansdom (there's tons of skulls and skeletons in its basement catacombs - I've seen them), and the Prater Ferris Wheel at the Viennese amusement park where I mis-spent some summer afternoons riding said wheel, go-karts, and bumper cars - and playing slot machines - in 1974.

The Chain (a song for Joe Biden)

Hard to believe this song is 35 years old.  This performance is from the '82 Mirage tour (I found a '79 Tusk tour version - the sound was poor and the band appeared totally coked-out).   Lindsey looks like Tom Joad (or maybe a Little Rascals extra) on speed, but his guitar performance is spectacular.  And the experimental vocal harmonies are interesting.



Middle son can play a mean version of the bass line of this song.

Who needs liquid nitrogen to break the chain?  All it takes is a cold heart.

Run in the shadows...

Kamikaze Dad

At the fair last week (following our bike ride to see the corn), one page of coupons was exactly what we needed for three rides for both of us.

Daughter picked the baddest, fastest rides - the Crazy Legs (or similar), Zipper, and Kamikaze.

Trying not to drop the phone while taking picture...

Not So Bad Dad

The weekend prior to buying the [wrong] shoes, we were getting ready to watch a DVD, but I was checking my email first.

From the other room I heard Daughter shrieking, and as I jumped up from my chair, I saw her, with Sienna, walking toward my bedroom.

"What happened?"

"[Sob]...bit...[sniffle]...me..."

Knowing Sienna never bites, I asked "What bit you?"

"The bug."

Turns out she'd gone into the kitchen to make a candy dish before the movie, and in the dark had stepped on a Texas red wasp (we'd been battling a series of them in the house) that was on the floor.  They're normally not particularly aggressive, but I suppose they get a mite irked when stepped on.

In my role of Dr. Dad, I examined her foot, right between the ball and the arch.  There was a small mark, but no swelling, so at least I knew we didn't have an allergy problem.  Also, I was pretty sure there was no stinger left behind.

I ran a couple inches of bath water with some colloidal oatmeal powder - she soaked her foot for five to seven minutes, after which she said it felt better.  (It must have, as later on, we went for a late night bike ride - her request - with no complaints.)  While soaking the foot, she instructed me to find the wasp and kill it in a slow, deliberate way.  (I think women are more sadistic/Schadenfreudian than men - but then, I wasn't the one who'd been stung...)

I managed to swat the insect with a broom, and then crushed it with a shoe.  I brought the body for Daugher to see.

"Cut its head off, Daddy."  I pulled out my pen-knife, and cut the head portion.

"Cut off its rear end."  I mostly severed the insect, just aft of the thorax.  The stinger, about 2mm, continued reflexively retracting about every 30 seconds or so for a while, revealing that it was not in Daughter's foot.  Finally, after examining the lifeless - and in almost three pieces - body, my young Quincy M.E. pronounced the creature properly dead, and requested that it be flushed down the toilet.

I can't be Superman.  But maybe, for a couple more years or so before she's a teenager, I can be Sir Lancelot with a flyswatter.



The Bad Dad Files

A few weeks back, I wrote that I'd bought my Daughter some cute shoes that she wanted.

Now, time for Full Disclosure.

I bought the shoes the weekend when she was not with me.  At the time, I was pretty sure I'd made a sufficient growth allowance since last time I'd bought shoes.

I was wrong.

All three pairs were too small.  Bummer.  And even though there had been many dozens, maybe hundreds of pairs when I bought them, there were but six pairs - none her size or style - when we went back to see if we could exchange them.

So, we ended up with some flip-flops and an inexpensive MP3 player.

Oh, well.

Cast in Bronze

While perusing the blogs this evening,  the TV in the other room was tuned to the No Body Cares network, specifically America's Got Talent, a sometimes questionable premise.

Then I heard Carol of the Bells, played on, well, bells.

Even before I got to the other room, I knew it was Frank DellaPenna/Cast In Bronze, having first seen the act several years ago - and a couple of times since - at the Scarborough Renaissance Festival.



The judging panel panned the performance - admittedly, it's no Pink Floyd laser light show.  But, it was cool to see that he made it to the semifinals and got some national exposure.