The date of "Weird Al" Yankovic's concert at Cypress Gardens in Winter Haven, Florida

The highway I drove on to get from Poinciana to Winter Haven

Weird Al's favorite number

Distance, in feet, of the $10 official Cypress Gardens parking lot from the free parking lot at K-mart

Time, in hours, I killed inside the park prior to the concert

Approximate age at which I estimate Cypress Gardens would be the most fun

Elvis impersonators in the audience

Probability that said Elvis impersonator was tattooed Al fan Dave "Elvis" Rossi in canny disguise

Concert's start time

Songs Al played during the show

Songs played from the new album (Polkarama, Canadian Idiot, Close but No Cigar, Do I Creep You Out, Confessions Part III, Trapped in the Drive-Thru, I'll Sue Ya, White and Nerdy)

Songs played from Poodle Hat (Why Does This Always Happen To Me?, Wanna B Ur Lovr, Couch Potato, A Complicated Song, eBay, Ode to a Superhero)

Songs played from Running With Scissors (It's All About the Pentiums, Pretty Fly for a Rabbi, The Saga Begins)

Songs played from Bad Hair Day (Gump, Amish Paradise)

Songs played from each In 3-D (Eat It), Dare to be Stupid (Yoda), Even Worse (Fat), Off the Deep End (Smells Like Nirvana), Alapalooza (Bedrock Anthem)

Songs played from Weird Al Yankovic, Polka Party, or UHF

Songs played that weren't on an album (You're Pitiful, concert-only I'm In Love With the Skipper, and up-to-date Headline News starring Britney)

Album tracks whose videos were played between songs (Weasel Stomping Day, Ghandi II)

Costume changes

Number of those costume changes that occurred during "You're Pitiful"

Number of times Al appeared in his trademark Hawaiian shirt (during the encore)

Approximate volume, in decibels, of the fan response as the band launched into the opening notes of "Albuquerque"

Number of seconds required for me to realize that the seating mandate was no longer being enforced for the encore and run to the stage

Rough distance, in feet, I was from Al as he sang about my hometown

Chance that Al noticed me despite my Albuquerque Isotopes T-shirt

Time the security guards kicked us out at the end of the concert

Time I finally made it back home

How prepared I am to do it all over again

One month ago today my daughter Avery came into this world, and she's spent the intervening 30 days growing, moving and talking far more than the books lead you to expect at this early stage.

I suppose it's only natural that she should already have her own Web site.

(Hey, now you can avoid my blathering about deodorant and calzones and skip right to the baby part!)

During a rare moment of watching a network channel last night (hey, gimme a break; Ned's Declassified School Survival Guide is on sabbatical apparently and someone at Food Network must have discovered that Alton Brown is actually -- gasp -- cooking), Sed and I were affronted by the latest delivery abomination.

"New Pizza Hut Stuffed Pizza Sandwiches!" the TV blared.

"Wait," Sed interjected. "You mean, like, a calzone?"

Pizza Hut has had calzones on its menu before, but for some reason the company can't seem to embrace the existing word. Last time, they called it a "P'Zone," and despite (or, let's be honest, probably because of) Eddie Griffin loudly extolling its virtues it never seemed to catch on. Maybe because nobody without a coprophilia fetish would be caught dead unironically saying the word "P'Zone."

So now the Hut has taken the opposite tack -- rather than inventing a hip, edgy, X-trEEm product name, the suits in Marketing decided to market this product by the definition. After all, "calzone," which as I've mentioned is a word that existed before, already means "stuffed pizza sandwich" in Italian-American restaurant vernacular. But the "P'Zone" debacle convinced Hut management that America was not ready for some damn foreigner word shouldering its way onto delivery menus with its dago mustache.

I suppose in all fairness I should not expect a fast-food megalith with "Hut" in its name to even consider, much less embrace, any even slightly ethnic-sounding terminology. But come on, guys. Economy of language. Melting pot. Dictionaries are already long enough.

I tell ya, dudes, it is a chore to find normal, non-metrosexual deodorant these days.

Has anyone else had this problem in the hygiene aisle at your local megastore? You don't want any fancy perfumes, you don't have a concern about those chalky white stains (tank tops on men should be relegated to yard work, weight lifting and NASCAR events, none of which demands a tolerable odor in the first place), and as a guy of the male gender you ain't about to get your panties in a twist about irritation. No, you're just looking for something that'll keep you from smelling like a wet bull moose during mating season (and, preferably, from sweating through your dress shirt before your nine o'clock) under the crush of summer humidity.

The one that I used to favor was the clear solid antiperspirant stick Right Guard made. It didn't ball up in my underarm hairs like the white sticks, it didn't just trickle down my sides like the gels -- it stayed put and did its job. OK, so they technically had a scent, but "Sport" smelled like deodorant and was unobtrusive, so I stuck with that for years.

But then it abruptly disappeared. I could find other scents, but "Fresh" smelled like an evergreen Starburst and "Cool" was apparently inspired by chlorine gas. This coincided with the introduction of the whole "Sport" line of fragrances -- none of which, dare I add, smelled like the original "Sport."

So now I can't find that one elusive stick, the one that represses your repugnant male odor without bringing any unwanted aroma to the party. They all have some frou-frou, pansified scent now. Sure, they have macho, powerful, testicular descriptions, but those aren't really fooling anybody, are they? We're one step away from "Intense Lavender Rush" and "Peaches and Extreme."

When I finally do find one whose bouquet I can live with, by the way, it rarely lives up to its antiperspirant billing. That Right Guard clear stick I mentioned before actually worked, but by the time I was willing to grit my teeth and smell like Grizzly Adams' swimming pool, they'd pulled them from the market altogether, no doubt citing such pretexts as "low sales," "confusing cross-marketing" and "lymphatic cancer." The only way some of these sticks can stop my sweating is if I trowel them on like grout, a thick layer of antiperspirant stick barring any liquid passage. That is, until I stretch, break the seal and send a half-cup of salt water per pit cascading down my flanks.

It's a conspiracy, I tell ya, a ploy to get us all wearing women's deodorant. I might just switch to Secret Honeysuckle Melon now and save the marketers the trouble. After all, the commercial says it's strong enough for a man. Let's see you bastards prove it.

Casselberry Crown

The Isuzu Troopers

Blue Crown Cadet Scout Phantom Knight-alier Vanguardsmen

Turquoise Noise

MC Bubblicious and the Get Fresh Crew

The Kickasstronauts

Them Guys Over There

The Purple-Helmeted Warriors

The Milwaukee Brewers

Metallica Sound

Van Halen

As a childless adult, I often mourned the tortoise-and-hare dynamic of weekdays versus weekends. You know what I mean -- your days off blast by before you even know what's passing you, but the work week grudgingly plods past, muttering something about how slow and steady makes Jack a dull boy and causes him to mix his entertainment references.

Well, now that I have a child, I've found that weekends seem to last longer. It's not just a fleet-footed haze of beers and TV and beers and theme parks and more beers anymore. Now there are diapers to change and songs to sing and dances to dance and then when Avery eventually falls back to sleep more laundry than anything so tiny should be logically able to generate. I'm working weekends and evenings now, and even though it's on a project I enjoy it does make for a longer day.

Inversely (or perhaps perversely), however, my work days last even longer yet, because I'm not taking care of the baby. Instead, I'm stuck at a desk in some office two miles away, with what suddenly feels like way too little work for this unjustly extended business period. I have to settle for my desktop wallpaper if I want a glimpse of my punkinhead, until this dragged-out day finally staggers to the finish line of 5:00 and I can jackrabbit back home to her.

We knew we'd probably only be sleeping for three or four hours a night, but none of you parents bothered to mention that when Avery finally joined us, the Moya family would be sucked into some bizarre time warp that stretched the day from 24 hours to approximately 40.

Sed and Avery are five minutes into "The Wheels on the Bus," and they've used up the standard subject fodder, both mechanical (headlights, wipers, door) and human (driver, babies, mommies, businessmen). But since the kid's enjoying it, Sed's still going.

"The ..." she begins the next verse, and then looks at me as if to ask, who else actually rides a bus these days, especially in a sprawling metropolitan area such as ours?

Who, indeed? It just comes to my head -- I unthinkingly blurt, "Hippies."

Without missing a beat, Sed turns back to the baby and sings, "The hippies on the bus go, 'Pass that toke, pass that toke....'"

I'm perusing the tequila shelves at my new local liquor store when a woman approaches me. You know the type -- long silken hair, tight crop top, full glossy lips. Girls like this are always coming after guys like me for one reason and one reason only: to try and sell us something.

"Do you want to try an 1800 Ultimate Margarita?" she asks me.

Now, offering me a margarita is like offering candy to a school child. If some sketchy dude had pulled up to my school with a van full of margaritas, I'd have been like, "To hell with American History, I'm going with this guy." In fact, margaritas are the whole reason I'm in the liquor store today. This one is actually pretty good.

"I've got some coupons," the salesgirl pouts, "and we're also doing a drawing for a free trip to Cancun, if you want to fill out a ticket."

So I follow her back to her little booth by the pre-mixed margaritas and put my name down for 1800's marketing scam prize drawing. I hand her the ticket and thank her profusely for her time.

Then I reach across her, grab a bottle of Jose Cuervo Golden Margaritas, and head for the checkout.

It's really hard to think of something new to write about when all my stimulation for the last two weeks has been one person who can't even talk yet, just stare at me.

I think she's stealing my brain with her eyeballs.

Sed prods me awake Tuesday morning at 6:40. "Did you want a shower? Then you better do it now."

Five days ago, her attending doctor had cornered her at work, worried about the size of the baby in Sed's diminutive body. Dr McWhorter's advice was that if Margarita had not come naturally by April 24, Sed should be induced. Beyond ready to get the kid out at that point, my wife had no objection to this.

Which is why we're getting up at the butt-crack of dawn to get started. Time, tide and uncomfortable pregnancy wait for no man.

From the moment we walk into triage, Sed receives the celebrity treatment. Nurses applaud giddily as we head to the pre-exam room, and residents jostle for position in the tiny cubicle, trying to out-well-wish each other. The place is dead -- we have a labor room within an hour. It pays to know when to go.

The Oxytocin drip starts at nine. There's no turning back now. Once the artificial hormone is introduced, Sed either delivers naturally or undergoes a Cesarean. At 12:30, Melanie the midwife breaks the water, strengthening Sed's contractions and moving us closer to being parents.

For a few hours, the room is Grand Central Station. All but four residents make an appearance, and only one of those is not on vacation. The service isn't particularly busy today, and Sed's room makes a good hiding place for the doctors on call. Each is excited for us as we make the next great foray into adulthood.

Only Sed's cervix isn't cooperating. It was three centimeters dilated when we arrived, and doesn't pass five until almost 6 in the evening. From here it's supposed to be a relatively short jaunt to the necessary ten -- another centimeter every hour would put us roughly at the swing resident's prediction of an 11:53 delivery.

At 10:30 Sed gets sick. She barfs cherry popsicle into a foam cup, getting overflow all over her gown, her bed, and her hands. Apparently, this is even further cause for excitement -- vomiting during active labor generally speeds the process (and as I learned later, 90% of puking laborers are fully dilated).

Not this time. Sed's contractions slacken dramatically at this point, and even increasing the pitocin beyond its normal maximum rate doesn't bring them back to strength. She's stalled at seven centimeters when Melanie comes in at 11:30 and lays down the ultimatum: either Sed makes significant progress within the hour or it's section time.

Sed really doesn't want surgery. But despite her best efforts -- changing positions, mental exercises, talking to her cervix -- at 12:30 Melanie and Dr. McWhorter prepare her for the knife. I haven't eaten since 3, but when Nicole the nurse brings me crackers I can't even look at them.

They wheel Sed away to the operating room while the nurse helps me gown up. My wife is shrouded from the shoulders down when Nicole leads me to the surgical suite, shielding my eyes from the impending goriness below. I sit in a chair beside Sed's head, holding her hand and trying not to think about what's happening on the other side of the curtain (which isn't hard, as excitement and fear blur everything except my wife's face, which is far calmer than I am).

At 1:13 someone says, "Dad, do you want to watch your daughter being born?" I stand up, and out of a slash in Sed's belly slides my baby girl, already squalling. She's covered in yellow-white vernix, with dark hair in matted curls and bloody smears dotting her body. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

They weigh her, towel her off, put a hat on her head, and call me over to meet my daughter. As soon as I get close enough for her to hear my voice, she quiets, gazing up into my eyes, melting my heart. I tell her that her name is Avery, that her mom and I love her very much, and that we can't wait to start her big adventure.