Skate or Die

Hi gang.

We're currently in the middle of Spring Break (whoo-hoo), and while Kris has been away at work, slaving away in the secular non-school field, Yours Truly has been responsible for keeping the kids entertained.

Good times.

Today, I decided to take the kids out to the local skate park on the opposite end of town, over by the Tridge.  Abby and her friend Ella have been bugging me to go all week, and today I said 'screw it' and load them and all their gear up into the trunk of my car.  Alayna wanted to go as well, but, not being remotely interested in anything quasi-athletic (just like me at that age), she requested to bring along our two dogs so that she could play with them in one of the enclosed dog parks, right next door. 

So, being the insane individual that I am, I consented to this as well.

We spent two hours down by the Tridge, and it was ridiculously windy and cold out (mid-40s, but with the wind it felt about ten degrees colder, thereabouts), but it was a pretty good time.  Abby and Ella really got into the skate park, and are already begging to go again, and Yours Truly got some much-needed time in on my Arbor Axis 40 longboard that I got last summer (they have some nice, flat and even walkways that curve about between the skate park and dog parks, perfect for longboarding, so that's how I kept myself entertained while the kids were otherwise occupying their time.)

Alayna wasn't a fan of the weather, though, so next time we do this we'll probably leave her - and the dogs - at home.

No surprises there.

Check it out. . .

Arriving at Trilogy Skate Park, around 11:30am. . .

A 40-year-old hero, preparing to trick himself into believing he's only 22.

I'm glad they have two dog parks here, one for small dogs and one for large ones.  Watson's an asshole, and would have no problem picking a fight with a much larger dog that could potentially maul him to death.

Letting these two assholes run amok.  We're fencing our yard later this week (finally), so these guys will be able to do this in the comfort of their own backyard very soon.

Super windy out here on the open fields.  Alayna was not a fan.

Wish I would've thought of this place last summer - these long, curving pathways were perfect for this.  I'm hoping it doesn't get overly crowded in the summer, when the weather improves, but I'm sure it will.

I spent the majority of my time skating back and forth between the dog and skate parks, and when I set up Alayna and the dogs at one end, I headed back to check in on Ella and Abby.  It took them awhile to warm up to the ramps, but eventually they had zero problem with it.

When we first got there, the only other people on hand were a trio of high schoolers who had BMX stunt bikes with them, but they stayed on one end and our kids stayed on the other.  They spent the majority of their time there just sitting on the side and listening to music anyway, probably trying to look cool.  You know, 'cause teenagers.

I had to remind Ella to keep her helmet on.  Her dad would not have been cool with her skating around without it.

Alayna (at far left) got bored of the dog park within ten minutes, and wandered over - dogs in tow - to watch the other two skate for awhile.

The longer they did this, the braver they got.  Par for the course.

I told Abby she should try bringing her skateboard up here sometime, but that pretty much fell on deaf ears.  These two were much more interested in rollerblading instead.

After skating for about an hour and a half, the girls wanted to take a break, so we all ventured back over to the dog park and let the dogs burn off some more energy.  They all tried to get the dogs to run through this pipe thingy, but only Samson wanted to do it (no surprises there.)

Samson tunnels out. . .

Commandeering my longboard for a bizarre commute back to the skate park. . .

We'll definitely be hitting this place up much more frequently in the future, that's for damn sure.

- Brian 

To Mr. Charles E. Cheese...

Dear Chuck,

(Can I call you Chuck?)

Hi. My name is Mr. Brian J. Hough. I'm 30, and I have two little girls who/whom I occasionally bring to your restaurant. I wanted to take the time today to tell you that I find both you and your establishment to be a steaming, pile of crap.

Sweet Baby Jesus, do I loathe you. You are the product of early-90s 'kids think this is cool!' - a panel of marketers who were hoping to tap into the 'hip' kid demographic.

Did you ever see that episode of The Simpsons? The one with Poochie? You're like Poochie, Chuck.

Let me explain. Now, I get the perma-grin/glazed-over expression you constantly sport, I do. I have kids, and I know what they do to one's soul. You're a happy-go-lucky mouse, you're constantly having to put on a happy face being around kids - even if you feel like punching the nearest toddler square in the face. It's tough, man - I know.

...but the knee pads and helmet? No, sir - you work indoors. You look like an idiot. If you rollerblade, Chuck, that's fine... I guess (you might be a little old for it, Chuck... its 2010 and nobody really does that anymore except for 8 year old girls at skating rinks).

Damn it, Chuck - you're not rollerblading while you're entertaining. I've been to your restaurant a ton of times, and every time I see you you're either eating pizza, hugging kids, or doing both simultaneously. Do you really need knee pads for that?

There's no plausible scenario I can think of that would warrant you wearing a helmet indoors (none that makes sense anyway). If you were a real-life-sized mouse - or even a four-foot tall mouse - I might be able to see it; little kids doped up on sugar, pizza, and over-stimulation might accidentally plow you over. I'd wear a helmet in that situation, for sure.

You're nine feet tall. Nobody's knocking you down, Chuck. Take off the damn skate gear already.


You know, I think, deep, deep-down, you harbor strong insecurities regarding your own shortcomings. Three, simple words lead me to this conclusion: Showbiz. Pizza. Place.


Comparing yourself with the collective genius you strong-armed out of the pizza/arcade/stage-show industry can't be an easy or pleasant thing to deal with. If I were you, Chuck, I'd probably want to wear protective clothing myself. To hide my shame, and to protect my 'nads.

More than once I've contemplated strolling up to you and punching you right in the face for this.

You sent a great vaudeville ventriloquist, a good ol' boy (er, bear), and the greatest, hard-rockin' band this side of Electric Mayhem straight to the nearest homeless shelter:


That's right, the Rock-afire Explosion.

They were awesome, and now they're probably alcoholics. I'm pretty sure that gorilla that played keyboards for the 'Explosion is a full-blown meth-head now, and I won't even begin to go into what the cheerleader mouse is doing for money these days.

You ruined lives, Chuck - lots of lives.


I'll never forget the first time I walked into a Showbiz Pizza Place with my family, expecting an awesome time, only to see - with no small degree of horror - some lame-looking, rollerblading mouse wearing purple and a shit-grin.

For shame, Chuck. For shame.

I think you owe the world apology. Seriously. I think you owe every child born after 1985 your sincere condolences and reparations for what you've done. You denied generations of children a life-changing experience, and that's something they can never get back.



Sure, my kids love your restaurant, but they're also really, really dumb. I mean, collectively, my two kids might be able to match wits with a Golden Retriever (not that one from the Air Bud straight-to-video franchise - he seems like he's got his shit together). I've attached, for your viewing pleasure, some videos that show just how much my kids seem to 'enjoy' your sham pizzeria.


I want you to watch their innocent faces and contemplate just how much you've screwed with their intellectual development by denying them the righteous jam-masters you forced out of the industry.


In closing, I just want to say once again just how deeply, deeply disgusted I am with you. You suck, and your beer is nowhere near as cheap as it should be.

Every dad that enters your restaurant requires more than a few drafts to stomach the pure crap you're spewing at their children - lower the prices already.

...and take off the damn knee pads. You look like an idiot.


Disgusted and disgruntled,

Mr. Brian J. Hough
Rockafire Explosion Fan for Life