Intro to the Chach (Or is it?)

Hey all, welcome to The Chanicles! How do you like the name? It’s a combination of my nickname, Cha Cha (or The Chach, or Chach-Dillyicious (my dad’s responsible for that one, I don’t get it), The Chachmeister, and the list goes on), and Chronicles, as in — you know — tell the tale. Anyway, I personally don’t think I’ve collected enough experiences to warrant all of these nicknames  — I haven’t been to college or even been in a major league baseball locker room, the two places that research suggests the majority of American males earn their nicknames, so I don’t know why this is all happening. But there you have it. Some of us live faster than others, I guess. And it has been a wild nine months since I was forcefully removed from atop my mom’s sciatic nerve (sorry for the inconvenience, Ma, that was back in my wilder fetus days). Anyway, back to the title, I was considering The Chronicles of Cha, but I thought that would sound too pretentious, and maybe a little bit eastern religiousy. Not that I’m against a Zen mentality, especially at this age. I mean, my peers as a group tend to be a pretty spazzy lot, and I’m no exception. Frankly, we could all benefit by chilling the heck out.

Anyway, on my inaugural post, I want to give a shout-out to my sis, the young legend Ava Reese. As interesting as you might imagine life is with her in the house, you would be imagining correctly. She’s a firecracker, that one. I mean, let’s face it, she won’t be starring in the sequel to the 1979 counter-culture film Hair, (ha ha! pretty good one, Chach!), but she’s really blazing her own path at the tender age of two. In fact, she’s the one who stuck me with the Cha Cha moniker (the Chaniker?), and she says my name more than virtually any other word. I don’t know what she sees in me, and I’m still early in my neural development, but I’ve lived long enough to know a true friend when I see one. Look, at our stage of the game, it’s no secret: it’s all about the pacis these days (pacifiers for the uninitiated), and Ava and I have logged hours grabbing our respective pacis from each other, in contests of will that grow exceedingly competitive, as my focus and my strength increase, and as I work my way through Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. But somehow, the harder we grab, the closer we get, and the stronger our bond becomes. I can’t wait to grow up with her as my older sister. Barely older, but still. I doubt I’ll be able to catch up.
p.s. I’m not reading The Art of War. I’m nine months old, for pete’s sake. I’m barely through the early Steinbeck works.


That’s me with my girl Joanie at the diner.  Hah! No, it’s Photoshopped!  What a world!

“Uptown Funk” and the Lyrics of Common Sense

Hey, guys. Ave Reese here.  Long time, right? I know, we’ve all been busy. You’ve got your various life events, reading the paper, going to the theater, using deodorant, bowling, etc. And I got so many words now, I can’t even keep track. I got nouns, verbs, nouns I use as verbs, words I don’t know what they are, like “why,” etc. Of course, I’m always refining and exploring what word I should use as my default word when I don’t know what to say. Currently, it’s “Daytah,” but it has changed in the past and I’m not above changing it again, should the need arise. Look, when you’re two, these things matter. I’m not an idiot, but I still have a ways to go vocabulary-wise, if you know what I mean and I think you do. So there’s that. And then I have my colors, my numbers, names, stuff like that. I got a lot on my plate.

But lately, I’ve been fascinated by pop culture, and specifically, the song I refer to as “Funk,” except without the “n” sound. Because I like to see how people react when I say it like that. Because I’m two and I can get away with it.  And frankly, at this point, seeing what I can get away with is my current mission in life.  Anyway, the proper name of the song is Uptown Funk, by my man Bruno Mars, along with someone else I don’t know. Maybe it’s Bieber, whatever that is.


So here’s the lyrics issue we’re all having in the Marsh-hold: Those in the family who can read claim the chorus goes:

“I’m too hot (hot damn)
Called a police and a fireman
I’m too hot (hot damn)
Make a dragon wanna retire man.”

“Make a dragon want to retire, man?”  

WTF (“Where’s The Funk”) in that ridiculous line?  That’s not funky, it’s just wrong.  Dragons don’t retire.  Dragons don’t have pensions.  (Of course, probably no one else in Illinois does either, but that’s a subject of a future post.)

Dragons don’t get watches.

Dragons kick ass forever.


My point exactly.

As a two-year old, I’m pretty sure I can speak with a certain amount of authority on this subject.  So look, Bruno, if that is your real name (which it’s not), here’s how it should read:

I’m too hot (hot damn)
Called a police and a fireman
I’m too hot (hot damn)
Gonna drag ’em out of retirement.”

Now that makes sense.  Bruno (i.e. Peter) can still sing about his interest in retirement and pension issues, but in a way that doesn’t do damage to dragonhood, and that actually works on a conceptual level.  Cops and firemen do retire, and thus, they can be drag(ged) out of retirement to handle any heat-related public crisis.  You’ll probably have to pay them serious time-and-a-half, but that’s above my pay grade.  Come to think of it, so is everything else.  I don’t even have a pay grade. WTF (“Where’s The Finances”)??

Chicka-Chicka, everybody. Ava Reese, out! There’s a pouch somewhere there with my name on it, and I aim to eat most of it, then throw it on the floor when I’m done so my mom can pick it up.