I'm not really a big Halloween person. It really seems like I should be...it's got candy, which I like, and there's the whole theatrical nature of the holiday, which you would think would be up my alley.
It's not that I dislike it, really. I've just never gotten that into it. When I was a kid, my older sister (by 16 years) was a Halloween person. She liked making costumes and going to costume parties and all of that. Her and her husband would make these really elaborate costumes, many of which stayed in their basement for years. I was never clear on where these costume parties were, but my brothers seemed to go to them too during one stretch. Still remember my oldest brother, who spent a number of years as a military police officer, dressed as a nurse, and my other brother, who's 6-foot-8, dressed as a sheik. Outside of Christmas, I don't actually remember that many people in my family having a good time at once on a holiday.
Yet, while I love Christmas -- possibly a little too much so -- I'm pretty indifferent about Halloween. I went out to a costume event at a bar exactly once. Then I remembered that I don't really drink that much. It didn't take long before I almost got into a fight with a drunk jackass about 8-inches shorter than me, and decided that I should probably just go home.
I don't remember having any traumatic experiences when I was a kid. There was one time that I was sick and laid in bed watching a rerun of "The Carol Burnett Show," but I don't think that particularly scarred me. And, when I was a little bit older, one of my cousins was amongst the neighborhood bullies. All I had to do was give him a handful of candy and keep my mouth shut, and me and my friends got to go about our business (sadly, we fared much better than the non-relatives).
My concern is that I'm passing my indifference on to my children. They should really be free to decide if they want to be into the holiday or not.
This is only the second year that the boys have actually gone trick-or-treating...and the second year that I went to Casey's classroom for their party.
This year, one of his classmates was kind enough to say, "Who's this, you're grandpa?" While, with the history of teenage pregnancies in this area, it might be entirely possible that there are grandparents around here my age, I'm happily not one of them. But, it did make me realize that I need to shave my head more often to get rid of the stupid gray hair.
Last year, the town that we live in inexplicably decided to have trick-or-treating on Friday night, and I had to cover a high school football game. So, this year, I got to be the parent that takes the kids walking around. Where I come from on the East Coast, this usually involved a group of guys walking around each holding a six-pack, but I don't really have any guy friends here and there were cops all over the place.
I did not know that people apparently now stand outside of their houses to give out the candy, thereby eliminating the whole knocking on the door thing that I had to do as a child. I guess all of that knocking must have been annoying.
While we were walking around Marty kept stopping every so often and staring blankly. I had to keep pushing him to catch up. "I keep hearing something," he said. After a few more times, he said, "I think someone's saying my name." As we started to walk away, I stopped. "Wait," I said. "I heard that one too."
Finally, we noticed the girl that had been apparently trying to get Marty's attention for quite some time running up to us. Turns out it was one of his classmates, and it took a couple of more minutes to realize that she had apparently abandoned her sister to get to where we were. No wonder she wanted to talk to Marty...that's the kind of thing that both of kids would do.
We didn't really stay out very long...much more and we would've almost been forced to go to one of the various church based functions around town. I don't have anything against those, but I always get heartburn from the hot dogs that they give out.
Instead, we went back to our house where Marty and I started passing out candy while also studying for a social studies test (his, smart guy). After a couple of visitors, Marty decided that he wanted to be the one handing out the candy. Towards the end of that, a kid came up that knew him, leading to one of those classic, "Hey..." "Hey" moments that 9-year-old boys share. When Marty came back to me, he shared conspiratorially, "I gave him two, since he's my friend."
That's at least part of the Halloween spirit that I'm glad that he's gotten down.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
9 Years
Today is my son Marty's ninth birthday. If it was hard to wrap my head around being married for 10-years, its even harder to fathom that.
As he's quick to point out, Marty was born in Los Angeles at Cedars Sinai Hospital. Trust me when I tell you that you don't want to know what that cost my insurance company.
They actually tried to induce labor...for two days. It started innocently enough. I took the day off to go with Amy to what was supposed to be her final ultrasound. Since they were making us do it at a location down the street from the hospital, we decided to hang out in Beverly Hills for a while. We had breakfast sitting next to Judge Judy and her husband, and went to the BH library to vote in the Arnold Schwarzenegger gubernatorial election.
Finally, we went to the ultrasound place to wait. When the technician did the scan, they pointed out that Marty had very little amniotic fluid and left to go call the obstetrician's office. After a while, they came back into the room and said that they were going to send us over to the hospital to be admitted, and then left again.
So, we waited. And waited. And waited. A couple of times I left the room to try to find someone, but never did. We became suspicious, however, when the lights started going out. I yelled, "Hello?" and one of the nurses popped her head around the corner and said, "What are you still doing here? I thought you went over to the hospital?"
Turns out they just assumed that we when they told us that they were going to send us to the hospital, we were just supposed to leave. We, on the other hand, assumed the "going to" part of the sentence meant that there was still something else that we were to wait for.
When we got to the hospital, they did take us right back and get us through admissions, but then because Amy wasn't in labor they took us into a triage room and there we stayed.
They started trying to induce right away of course, telling us that it would probably be a few hours. The next morning, we were still there in the little triage room waiting.
The cool thing about Cedars Sinai is that the late George Burns and Gracie Allen were major donors to the hospital. So, on a closed circuit TV station, they show stuff like "The Burns & Allen Show" and "The Bill Dana Show." OK, so I thought it was far cooler than Amy did, who would've preferred that I just go down the street to the Museum of Television and Radio to satisfy my old sitcom fetish.
Sometime during that second day, I took a walk over to the Beverly Center to try to get some things to kill time. Got an Etch-A-Sketch, a book about Christmas songs, some puzzle books and a couple of other things. Meanwhile, Amy remained hooked up to a bunch of monitors and really wasn't allowed to do anything except lay there.
They would try every so often to induce labor again, but it did not seem to be working the way that they thought it would.
At the close of the second day, Amy was pretty angry...so much so that I didn't even bother complaining about having to sleep on some chair thing again.
The next day, we were still there in our little triage room and had at that point become a cause celeb for the nurses, who really did feel bad for us being stuck there.
As the day dragged on, they were finally taking increased steps to move the labor along, and finally began bringing up the option of a C-section.
Late in the afternoon, the nurses finally seemed happy since labor was actually jump started at last. After having been stuck in our closet for so long, the nurse on duty actually held us there a little longer. They had decided that in reward for our travails, they were going to get us the best birthing room that they could (short of the $10,000 a day birthing suites).
The room that they put us in had a view of the Hollywood Hills and the Hollywood sign. We put our preordained "birth" music in the stereo and...we went back to waiting.
On the plus side, there was more room and a nice view...which it turns out you shouldn't say to a woman that's been strapped to a bed for more than 48 hours.
After another few hours the obstetrician showed up and things actually got into gear. However, the newest delay threw off my son's godmother, who arrived planning on going down to the nursery and looking at a baby through the glass. Instead, she was directed to the room where the action was still going on and popped her head in, not quite prepared for the scene that she saw.
As she stammered, the doctor apparently took that as a cue that she wanted to help. The baby doc instructed me to grab one of Amy's legs and for the godmother to grab the other. Our friend, let's call her Marie, does not have any children and really didn't want the front row view...but coming from a small town in Michigan, she did what the doctor told her to.
Things were going ok, but then Marty's head got stuck. Suddenly, they were pushing and pulling...and then they got this suction cup thing. They attached it to his head, and started yanking. Were this a book, I would describe the horrified look that Marie and I shared, but it would take a couple of paragraphs to do it justice.
When they finally got him out, they put Marty on Amy's stomach and all I remember is hearing her say, "Come on, baby, breath."
Next thing I knew, a SWAT team came rushing into the room and grabbed Marty. They took him across the room to a little station with a heat lamp and they began intubating him. I looked back at Amy who looked weak and was being stitched up and then I looked back at Marty being given what looked like CPR.
I was in the middle of the room kind of spinning around in a terrified daze. All I could think was that this was supposed to be the best day of my life, and it was looking like it was dangerously close to being the worst possible day that I could imagine.
I didn't hear the exchange, but apparently Amy encouraged Marie to go try to get me from my spinning. Marie, who's known me since we were kids and we were now in our 30's, came up next to me, awkwardly put her hand on my arm and said something along the lines of, "I'm sure it'll probably be fine."
Oddly, that helped since that was pretty much the way that I would expect Marie to handle that situation. If she had done something differently, I might have freaked out.
While I still wasn't sure that Amy was ok, the doctors dealing with Marty forced me to come over with them. The crisis was averted, Marty was breathing normally, and they had figured out that I wasn't necessarily doing good. They had me come touch Marty so that I could feel him breathing and forced me to cut the umbilical cord. And, I mean forced. I tried to beg off and they put the scissors in my hand and moved it to where they wanted me to cut.
After that, I got shuffled down to the nursery with Marty. Since he had struggled to breath, they were still watching him closely and I needed to go with him.
When we were down in the nursery, I just more or less stood there not knowing what to do. The nurse came over and told me that I needed to touch and talk to Marty. So, I stood there holding his little hand and saying stupid things like, "Hello, Marty...um, that was kind of exciting, huh?"
Once they were sure that he was ok, they told me that I could go back to where Amy was and they would meet me with Marty at the normal room. I'm sure there's some other name for it, but that's what it was after the triage room and the birthing room.
When I got back to the birthing room, I arrived just in time to find the nurse and Marie picking Amy up off the floor. She had passed out. They make the mother get up and walk to show that she's ok -- and I think go to the bathroom -- but instead she took a step and dropped. So, they made her stay in the birthing room even longer as they worked to make sure that she was stabalized.
Around 11 p.m., they let us go to the other room. As we arrived there, Marie -- who had expected to be at the hospital for about an hour...five hours ago -- took her leave with a simple, "Yeah, I gotta go."
They offered to have Marty hang out in the nursery, but we kept him in the room instead...if for no other reason than that it had taken him so long to actually arrive.
Since we were on the West Coast, had he been born a few hours later, it would've been Halloween in the East...which is really when our families found out about the birth. I stood outside the hospital at about 7:30 a.m. making all of the necessary calls. I also tried to send out a group e-mail...which AOL flagged as spam. At the time, I was working for the short-lived AOL Time Warner. I was standing in the hallways of Cedars Sinai on the phone with a sister company of my own employer, trying to convince them that I was jsut trying to send out a birth announcement and not a link to porn.
On Halloween night, after three days of hospital food -- which, don't get me wrong, if someone is going to force you to eat food from a hospital, pick Cedars -- I wanted to have something else. I had spent the day staring at a Jerry's Famous Deli across the street from the hospital and decided that a nice ham and swiss on rye would do the trick.
As I left the hospital to cross the street, I looked around and noticed all of the people in costumes. In my sleep deprived state, it took a minute for me to put together what day it actually was.
The fact that all of that was nine years ago seems unreal. The fact that the little red-headed baby that I stood in a nursery with is now a red-headed third grader makes me feel a little old.
The fact of the matter though is that ever since those handful of minutes that I stood watching a team of doctors working on him seconds after his birth, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't realize how lucky I am to have Marty.
I'm guessing that I'll never stop feeling that way.
As he's quick to point out, Marty was born in Los Angeles at Cedars Sinai Hospital. Trust me when I tell you that you don't want to know what that cost my insurance company.
They actually tried to induce labor...for two days. It started innocently enough. I took the day off to go with Amy to what was supposed to be her final ultrasound. Since they were making us do it at a location down the street from the hospital, we decided to hang out in Beverly Hills for a while. We had breakfast sitting next to Judge Judy and her husband, and went to the BH library to vote in the Arnold Schwarzenegger gubernatorial election.
Finally, we went to the ultrasound place to wait. When the technician did the scan, they pointed out that Marty had very little amniotic fluid and left to go call the obstetrician's office. After a while, they came back into the room and said that they were going to send us over to the hospital to be admitted, and then left again.
So, we waited. And waited. And waited. A couple of times I left the room to try to find someone, but never did. We became suspicious, however, when the lights started going out. I yelled, "Hello?" and one of the nurses popped her head around the corner and said, "What are you still doing here? I thought you went over to the hospital?"
Turns out they just assumed that we when they told us that they were going to send us to the hospital, we were just supposed to leave. We, on the other hand, assumed the "going to" part of the sentence meant that there was still something else that we were to wait for.
When we got to the hospital, they did take us right back and get us through admissions, but then because Amy wasn't in labor they took us into a triage room and there we stayed.
They started trying to induce right away of course, telling us that it would probably be a few hours. The next morning, we were still there in the little triage room waiting.
The cool thing about Cedars Sinai is that the late George Burns and Gracie Allen were major donors to the hospital. So, on a closed circuit TV station, they show stuff like "The Burns & Allen Show" and "The Bill Dana Show." OK, so I thought it was far cooler than Amy did, who would've preferred that I just go down the street to the Museum of Television and Radio to satisfy my old sitcom fetish.
Sometime during that second day, I took a walk over to the Beverly Center to try to get some things to kill time. Got an Etch-A-Sketch, a book about Christmas songs, some puzzle books and a couple of other things. Meanwhile, Amy remained hooked up to a bunch of monitors and really wasn't allowed to do anything except lay there.
They would try every so often to induce labor again, but it did not seem to be working the way that they thought it would.
At the close of the second day, Amy was pretty angry...so much so that I didn't even bother complaining about having to sleep on some chair thing again.
The next day, we were still there in our little triage room and had at that point become a cause celeb for the nurses, who really did feel bad for us being stuck there.
As the day dragged on, they were finally taking increased steps to move the labor along, and finally began bringing up the option of a C-section.
Late in the afternoon, the nurses finally seemed happy since labor was actually jump started at last. After having been stuck in our closet for so long, the nurse on duty actually held us there a little longer. They had decided that in reward for our travails, they were going to get us the best birthing room that they could (short of the $10,000 a day birthing suites).
The room that they put us in had a view of the Hollywood Hills and the Hollywood sign. We put our preordained "birth" music in the stereo and...we went back to waiting.
On the plus side, there was more room and a nice view...which it turns out you shouldn't say to a woman that's been strapped to a bed for more than 48 hours.
After another few hours the obstetrician showed up and things actually got into gear. However, the newest delay threw off my son's godmother, who arrived planning on going down to the nursery and looking at a baby through the glass. Instead, she was directed to the room where the action was still going on and popped her head in, not quite prepared for the scene that she saw.
As she stammered, the doctor apparently took that as a cue that she wanted to help. The baby doc instructed me to grab one of Amy's legs and for the godmother to grab the other. Our friend, let's call her Marie, does not have any children and really didn't want the front row view...but coming from a small town in Michigan, she did what the doctor told her to.
Things were going ok, but then Marty's head got stuck. Suddenly, they were pushing and pulling...and then they got this suction cup thing. They attached it to his head, and started yanking. Were this a book, I would describe the horrified look that Marie and I shared, but it would take a couple of paragraphs to do it justice.
When they finally got him out, they put Marty on Amy's stomach and all I remember is hearing her say, "Come on, baby, breath."
Next thing I knew, a SWAT team came rushing into the room and grabbed Marty. They took him across the room to a little station with a heat lamp and they began intubating him. I looked back at Amy who looked weak and was being stitched up and then I looked back at Marty being given what looked like CPR.
I was in the middle of the room kind of spinning around in a terrified daze. All I could think was that this was supposed to be the best day of my life, and it was looking like it was dangerously close to being the worst possible day that I could imagine.
I didn't hear the exchange, but apparently Amy encouraged Marie to go try to get me from my spinning. Marie, who's known me since we were kids and we were now in our 30's, came up next to me, awkwardly put her hand on my arm and said something along the lines of, "I'm sure it'll probably be fine."
Oddly, that helped since that was pretty much the way that I would expect Marie to handle that situation. If she had done something differently, I might have freaked out.
While I still wasn't sure that Amy was ok, the doctors dealing with Marty forced me to come over with them. The crisis was averted, Marty was breathing normally, and they had figured out that I wasn't necessarily doing good. They had me come touch Marty so that I could feel him breathing and forced me to cut the umbilical cord. And, I mean forced. I tried to beg off and they put the scissors in my hand and moved it to where they wanted me to cut.
After that, I got shuffled down to the nursery with Marty. Since he had struggled to breath, they were still watching him closely and I needed to go with him.
When we were down in the nursery, I just more or less stood there not knowing what to do. The nurse came over and told me that I needed to touch and talk to Marty. So, I stood there holding his little hand and saying stupid things like, "Hello, Marty...um, that was kind of exciting, huh?"
Once they were sure that he was ok, they told me that I could go back to where Amy was and they would meet me with Marty at the normal room. I'm sure there's some other name for it, but that's what it was after the triage room and the birthing room.
When I got back to the birthing room, I arrived just in time to find the nurse and Marie picking Amy up off the floor. She had passed out. They make the mother get up and walk to show that she's ok -- and I think go to the bathroom -- but instead she took a step and dropped. So, they made her stay in the birthing room even longer as they worked to make sure that she was stabalized.
Around 11 p.m., they let us go to the other room. As we arrived there, Marie -- who had expected to be at the hospital for about an hour...five hours ago -- took her leave with a simple, "Yeah, I gotta go."
They offered to have Marty hang out in the nursery, but we kept him in the room instead...if for no other reason than that it had taken him so long to actually arrive.
Since we were on the West Coast, had he been born a few hours later, it would've been Halloween in the East...which is really when our families found out about the birth. I stood outside the hospital at about 7:30 a.m. making all of the necessary calls. I also tried to send out a group e-mail...which AOL flagged as spam. At the time, I was working for the short-lived AOL Time Warner. I was standing in the hallways of Cedars Sinai on the phone with a sister company of my own employer, trying to convince them that I was jsut trying to send out a birth announcement and not a link to porn.
On Halloween night, after three days of hospital food -- which, don't get me wrong, if someone is going to force you to eat food from a hospital, pick Cedars -- I wanted to have something else. I had spent the day staring at a Jerry's Famous Deli across the street from the hospital and decided that a nice ham and swiss on rye would do the trick.
As I left the hospital to cross the street, I looked around and noticed all of the people in costumes. In my sleep deprived state, it took a minute for me to put together what day it actually was.
The fact that all of that was nine years ago seems unreal. The fact that the little red-headed baby that I stood in a nursery with is now a red-headed third grader makes me feel a little old.
The fact of the matter though is that ever since those handful of minutes that I stood watching a team of doctors working on him seconds after his birth, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't realize how lucky I am to have Marty.
I'm guessing that I'll never stop feeling that way.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Hands of Stone
It is quite possibe that I am the least handy person in the world. We're talking when I try to volunteer for Habitat for Humanity, not only do they tell me that I'm not needed, they hire extra security to make sure that I don't wander onto the construction site.
All of my male friends -- gay or otherwise -- are more handy than me, able to assemble things and fix lawn equipment and all of that. All of my female friends are more handy than me. My wife is more handy than me.
The biggest problem is that outside of comedy and sexual orientation, I have trouble doing anything straight. I can't saw straight, can't hammer a nail straight, can't screw straight (all right, get your mind out of the gutter).
The oddest thing, to me anyway, is that I've actually done quite a few things that, given my affliction, I probably shouldn't have. Back when you used to be able to do such things on cars more readily, I changed a variety of starters and alternators on a variety of rust buckets. With assistance, I've changed out both an engine and a transmission. I used to be proficient at taking apart and putting together office cubicles back when I worked at companies that liked to make departments move offices once a year. I've switched out electrical fixtures, installed ceiling fans and earthquake proofed an apartment.
You would think that at some point, something useful would've rubbed off on me. But, no, nothing. If anything I've gotten worse the older I've gotten, because now I'm not a prideful young man anymore. Now, I just admit from the start that I'm not good at things and find someone else to do it.
Sure, I guess that I could try to learn some of the things that I don't know...or try to learn how to do the things that I don't know how to do. Let's face it though, I'm not going to. At this point, its really only something to inspire me to be more successful.
That way, I can just hire the people to do stuff instead of trying to find people to do it for free.
All of my male friends -- gay or otherwise -- are more handy than me, able to assemble things and fix lawn equipment and all of that. All of my female friends are more handy than me. My wife is more handy than me.
The biggest problem is that outside of comedy and sexual orientation, I have trouble doing anything straight. I can't saw straight, can't hammer a nail straight, can't screw straight (all right, get your mind out of the gutter).
The oddest thing, to me anyway, is that I've actually done quite a few things that, given my affliction, I probably shouldn't have. Back when you used to be able to do such things on cars more readily, I changed a variety of starters and alternators on a variety of rust buckets. With assistance, I've changed out both an engine and a transmission. I used to be proficient at taking apart and putting together office cubicles back when I worked at companies that liked to make departments move offices once a year. I've switched out electrical fixtures, installed ceiling fans and earthquake proofed an apartment.
You would think that at some point, something useful would've rubbed off on me. But, no, nothing. If anything I've gotten worse the older I've gotten, because now I'm not a prideful young man anymore. Now, I just admit from the start that I'm not good at things and find someone else to do it.
Sure, I guess that I could try to learn some of the things that I don't know...or try to learn how to do the things that I don't know how to do. Let's face it though, I'm not going to. At this point, its really only something to inspire me to be more successful.
That way, I can just hire the people to do stuff instead of trying to find people to do it for free.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Fit of Anger
In a fit of rage, Marty approached me, angry that I said that he couldn't watch television. Even though he's only eight, his anger can manifest itself in different ways, including sometimes, him trying to hurt himself. So, I was on alert for what was about to happen.
He came up to me as I was sitting down and screamed a frustrated, "Aaaarrrggghhhh!"
Then he grabbed my leg and started pulling on my shoe. Confused, since this wasn't exactly what I was expecting, I asked, "What are you doing?"
He ignored the question and went right on tugging on my shoe. Finally, he gave up trying to just pull it off without untying it and took a moment to loosen the laces, before yanking it off. He then hurled it to the floor.
Still angry, he grabbed my foot again and took off my sock, and hurled that to the floor.
And...that was it.
Oh, he was still mad. He went and grabbed some small free weights that we have around the house and started lifting those, announcing that he was going to exercise. Then he peeled off his shirt and went running around our yard for a few minutes. After that, he seemed to be fine.
But, back to the shoe. I don't understand that one. I watched to see what he was going to do, because I honestly didn't know. I was half expecting to see him start pounding on the table with it, ala Krushchev.
I know that there's something about shoes in Middle Eastern culture...I seem to remember people throwing shoes at the fallen statue of Saddam Hussein, to the confusion of most Western viewers. But, I'm pretty sure that Marty hasn't gotten up to Middle Eastern culture in his social studies/history class. Last I knew, they were learning about the Great Lakes.
And, did the sock have some significance? Was it that not only didn't I deserve a shoe, but no sock either?
I've got a pretty good idea that I will never know what was going through his head in that moment, but I guess of all of the ways that he could've dealt with his anger, taking off my shoe and then exercising probably isn't all that bad.
He came up to me as I was sitting down and screamed a frustrated, "Aaaarrrggghhhh!"
Then he grabbed my leg and started pulling on my shoe. Confused, since this wasn't exactly what I was expecting, I asked, "What are you doing?"
He ignored the question and went right on tugging on my shoe. Finally, he gave up trying to just pull it off without untying it and took a moment to loosen the laces, before yanking it off. He then hurled it to the floor.
Still angry, he grabbed my foot again and took off my sock, and hurled that to the floor.
And...that was it.
Oh, he was still mad. He went and grabbed some small free weights that we have around the house and started lifting those, announcing that he was going to exercise. Then he peeled off his shirt and went running around our yard for a few minutes. After that, he seemed to be fine.
But, back to the shoe. I don't understand that one. I watched to see what he was going to do, because I honestly didn't know. I was half expecting to see him start pounding on the table with it, ala Krushchev.
I know that there's something about shoes in Middle Eastern culture...I seem to remember people throwing shoes at the fallen statue of Saddam Hussein, to the confusion of most Western viewers. But, I'm pretty sure that Marty hasn't gotten up to Middle Eastern culture in his social studies/history class. Last I knew, they were learning about the Great Lakes.
And, did the sock have some significance? Was it that not only didn't I deserve a shoe, but no sock either?
I've got a pretty good idea that I will never know what was going through his head in that moment, but I guess of all of the ways that he could've dealt with his anger, taking off my shoe and then exercising probably isn't all that bad.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
LA, Day Three
Holy cow, has Disneyland gotten expensive! I mean, it was always expensive, but I'm pretty sure that their prices have gone up faster than inflation. And, that's just the tickets for one park...not one of those Park Hopper deals where you can go back and forth with California Adventure.
But, with the number of classmates of Marty and Casey that vacation every winter in Florida at Disney World, there really wasn't a choice about whether or not we were going.
Sticker shock aside, I've been to Disneyland plenty of times with a variety of people but the only times I've been there with my own child was when Marty was essentially a baby. This time the kids knew what was going on.
Oddly, I was expecting them to be a little more excited when we first got there, but maybe you go into a kind of shock that you're actually at someplace like that the first time. I had picked a Tuesday, because I thought it might be less crowded...but it was still plenty of people.
I forced my family into doing my traditional circle, meaning that you start with Adventureland and then you make your way around from there. The main flaw in my plan was that even though the park had only been open for a half-hour when we got there, Indiana Jones was already down. I've gone on Indiana Jones as the first ride, I'm pretty sure ever since it opened, but fate's fickle finger pushed me over to the Jungle Cruise instead. (Indy did reopen, and we did get to use our Fast Pass for it, so I guess all's well that ends well.)
Marty and Casey both really liked two of the rides that I didn't know how they would take -- Pirates of the Carribean and the Haunted Mansion. They're not really fans of the Pirates movies...and we won't even talk about the Eddie Murphy HM film. Maybe it was just the cruising around looking at animatrons, but they thought both of them were cool.
Less shocking was how much they enjoyed Splash Mountain. It is August after all.
And, also in grand Disneyland tradition, Amy, Marty and Casey got stuck on a ride in Mickey's Toon Town. They finally got to walk out after about 15 minutes of sitting in Roger Rabbit's Car Toon Spin.
Also in keeping with tradition, Casey was a little freaked out about meeting Mickey Mouse. You have to wait in line, and he kept trying to convince me that we should leave and go do something else (Marty was busy watching the cartoons they were showing). Someday, I'm sure that he'll be happy that I made him meet the mouse...and, luckily, he didn't have the same reaction to Goofy.
In all the times that I've been to Disneyland, I've never stayed in Anaheim...in large part because that would've been silly. However, since we were doing it this time, we decided to go over to the hotel for part of the afternoon to rest. Turns out that's a really good idea.
I went to get fast food for us -- which cost about 1/10th what it would've been in the park -- and had a guy notice my USFL Michigan Panthers T-shirt. He struck up a conversation, mentioning that he used to go to the LA Express's games. I didn't really ask, but I'm pretty sure the guy was from the front office of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim since it was game day and we were about a half-block from the park.
We had to get back to the park in time for our Fast Pass to Space Mountain. Man, do I still love me some Space Mountain. I'm not really a "ride" guy, but I love that one. I wasn't sure how the boys would take it...I have to remind myself that they are still kind of young...but they both got it. Roller coaster in the dark...coolness.
Everyone else would've been happy to leave not long after that, but with what those freakin' tickets cost I insisted that we stay for the fireworks. We also watched the Fantasmic! water show, which I had never actually stopped to watch before. Just like a parade, though, the boys had trouble seeing, so there was a lot of jostling around to try to get them into position to see the action. That's when everyone's best instincts come out as every parent tries to shove their kid someplace with a decent view. It always reminds me of that scene at the end of "Animal House" at the homecoming parade where the father asks one of the Deltas if his son can stand in front of them, and the the Delta says simply, "No."
Yet again, by the time the boys got to the hotel room they were already out cold. If I could figure out a way to get them to walk 5-10 miles during a school day, apparently bed time during the rest of the year wouldn't be such an issue.
But, with the number of classmates of Marty and Casey that vacation every winter in Florida at Disney World, there really wasn't a choice about whether or not we were going.
Sticker shock aside, I've been to Disneyland plenty of times with a variety of people but the only times I've been there with my own child was when Marty was essentially a baby. This time the kids knew what was going on.
Oddly, I was expecting them to be a little more excited when we first got there, but maybe you go into a kind of shock that you're actually at someplace like that the first time. I had picked a Tuesday, because I thought it might be less crowded...but it was still plenty of people.
I forced my family into doing my traditional circle, meaning that you start with Adventureland and then you make your way around from there. The main flaw in my plan was that even though the park had only been open for a half-hour when we got there, Indiana Jones was already down. I've gone on Indiana Jones as the first ride, I'm pretty sure ever since it opened, but fate's fickle finger pushed me over to the Jungle Cruise instead. (Indy did reopen, and we did get to use our Fast Pass for it, so I guess all's well that ends well.)
Marty and Casey both really liked two of the rides that I didn't know how they would take -- Pirates of the Carribean and the Haunted Mansion. They're not really fans of the Pirates movies...and we won't even talk about the Eddie Murphy HM film. Maybe it was just the cruising around looking at animatrons, but they thought both of them were cool.
Less shocking was how much they enjoyed Splash Mountain. It is August after all.
And, also in grand Disneyland tradition, Amy, Marty and Casey got stuck on a ride in Mickey's Toon Town. They finally got to walk out after about 15 minutes of sitting in Roger Rabbit's Car Toon Spin.
Also in keeping with tradition, Casey was a little freaked out about meeting Mickey Mouse. You have to wait in line, and he kept trying to convince me that we should leave and go do something else (Marty was busy watching the cartoons they were showing). Someday, I'm sure that he'll be happy that I made him meet the mouse...and, luckily, he didn't have the same reaction to Goofy.
In all the times that I've been to Disneyland, I've never stayed in Anaheim...in large part because that would've been silly. However, since we were doing it this time, we decided to go over to the hotel for part of the afternoon to rest. Turns out that's a really good idea.
I went to get fast food for us -- which cost about 1/10th what it would've been in the park -- and had a guy notice my USFL Michigan Panthers T-shirt. He struck up a conversation, mentioning that he used to go to the LA Express's games. I didn't really ask, but I'm pretty sure the guy was from the front office of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim since it was game day and we were about a half-block from the park.
We had to get back to the park in time for our Fast Pass to Space Mountain. Man, do I still love me some Space Mountain. I'm not really a "ride" guy, but I love that one. I wasn't sure how the boys would take it...I have to remind myself that they are still kind of young...but they both got it. Roller coaster in the dark...coolness.
Everyone else would've been happy to leave not long after that, but with what those freakin' tickets cost I insisted that we stay for the fireworks. We also watched the Fantasmic! water show, which I had never actually stopped to watch before. Just like a parade, though, the boys had trouble seeing, so there was a lot of jostling around to try to get them into position to see the action. That's when everyone's best instincts come out as every parent tries to shove their kid someplace with a decent view. It always reminds me of that scene at the end of "Animal House" at the homecoming parade where the father asks one of the Deltas if his son can stand in front of them, and the the Delta says simply, "No."
Yet again, by the time the boys got to the hotel room they were already out cold. If I could figure out a way to get them to walk 5-10 miles during a school day, apparently bed time during the rest of the year wouldn't be such an issue.
Monday, August 22, 2011
LA, Day Two
Marty found out today that we're not actually going to the beach until Wednesday, a situation that he finds unacceptable. Trying to convince him that there are plenty of other cool things to do in Los Angeles did not alter his conviction that the Pacific Ocean ranked above all of them.
As tour guide, we were trying to find something low-key to do since the plan calls for us to go to Disneyland tomorrow. So, we went over the hills into Hollywood.
When Marty was asked in the spring what U.S. landmark he most wanted to see, his answer was "The Hollywood Sign." Even though technically he's seen it previously -- he used to toddle around Hollywood and Highland trying to get young actress types to pick him up -- he doesn't remember it. Well, now he has.
Casey spent the first hour that we were out complaining about the sun and his lack of sunglasses, until he was finally allowed to purchase an overpriced pair from one of the souvenir places.
We took them to Grauman's Chinese Theater, but then realized that their only frame of reference to it was exterior shots. They haven't really ever been able to see anything where the concrete hands bit is featured (they've never seen the John Wayne episode of "I Love Lucy," and while I saw "Blazing Saddles" for the first time when I was around Marty's age, I've been barred from repeating that parenting mistake). Not surprisingly, the indentations that they found most interesting were the "Star Wars" ones.
We set out to go a star on the Walk of Fame that Marty is named after. I've been to the spot before, but I used to be around Hollywood Blvd. a lot, since I've had friends live not far away.
What I forgot is that the star isn't really on the touristy part of the street. It's more in the stripper outfit retail section.
As we were walking, I could see Amy looking at the stores unhappily. Finally, Marty looked at a mannequin dressed in what amounted to pasties and dental floss and exclaimed, "She's hot!"
"Hurry up," I heard Amy hiss.
We found it and took the pictures and all of that, but that also put us close to a store that I had told Marty and Casey that we would go to: Hollywood Toys & Costume. I once ran into Kristen Dunst there...literally. Security guard got all bent out of shape about it, but I didn't actually knock her down. From my standpoint, she walked into me. Hey, I'm 6-foot-2 and she's like 5-foot-nothing...she's not the only actress I've ever had trouble seeing because I was looking over top of them. The boys did enjoy it, although they got quite a bit bent out of shape when they weren't allowed to get a woopee cushion. I don't know where that came from, but they were both protesting that they've always wanted one.
For dinner, we ended up going to another of my favorite places in LA, The House of Pies. Its this diner that sits in the Los Feliz area, which has long been a hip and trendy location. The movie "Swingers" basically takes place there...The Dresden is just down the street a little bit and The Derby, before it closed, was just up from there. There's basically a whole bunch of other places in the area that you can spot a variety of celebrities hanging out at.
The House of Pies is not one of those places. Its more the type of place that some actors go to for a late breakfast wearing dark glasses because they're really hungover and need to actually eat.
Shockingly, one of the high points of going to The House of Pies is getting to eat some pie. The diner food is fine...burgers, Monte Criscos, etc. But the pie is why I love it. They don't just have banana cream...they have chocolate banana cream, with whole bananas. It'll kill a diet quicker than you can blink, but oh my God is it good.
I was going to take the boys up to Griffith Observatory before realizing that its closed on Mondays, so instead we went into the park for a little while and the boys played on a playground that was outfitted to accomodate kids with disabilities.
I don't know that Amy was thrilled with me since the place -- named Shane's Inspiration -- was built by a foundation started by parents of a child that died after two weeks because of severe disabilities. Or, at least, she wasn't thrilled that I convinced her to read the placard with the story. It might be sad, but the idea is a cool one. They're called boundless playgrounds because children in wheelchairs are meant to be able to access most of the features. Also cool is the fact that the organization (ShanesInspiration.org), helps other places build similar playgrounds.
So, the kids got Hollywood sleaze and social responsibility all in one day. That kind of sums up my parenting style, to be honest.
As tour guide, we were trying to find something low-key to do since the plan calls for us to go to Disneyland tomorrow. So, we went over the hills into Hollywood.
When Marty was asked in the spring what U.S. landmark he most wanted to see, his answer was "The Hollywood Sign." Even though technically he's seen it previously -- he used to toddle around Hollywood and Highland trying to get young actress types to pick him up -- he doesn't remember it. Well, now he has.
Casey spent the first hour that we were out complaining about the sun and his lack of sunglasses, until he was finally allowed to purchase an overpriced pair from one of the souvenir places.
We took them to Grauman's Chinese Theater, but then realized that their only frame of reference to it was exterior shots. They haven't really ever been able to see anything where the concrete hands bit is featured (they've never seen the John Wayne episode of "I Love Lucy," and while I saw "Blazing Saddles" for the first time when I was around Marty's age, I've been barred from repeating that parenting mistake). Not surprisingly, the indentations that they found most interesting were the "Star Wars" ones.
We set out to go a star on the Walk of Fame that Marty is named after. I've been to the spot before, but I used to be around Hollywood Blvd. a lot, since I've had friends live not far away.
What I forgot is that the star isn't really on the touristy part of the street. It's more in the stripper outfit retail section.
As we were walking, I could see Amy looking at the stores unhappily. Finally, Marty looked at a mannequin dressed in what amounted to pasties and dental floss and exclaimed, "She's hot!"
"Hurry up," I heard Amy hiss.
We found it and took the pictures and all of that, but that also put us close to a store that I had told Marty and Casey that we would go to: Hollywood Toys & Costume. I once ran into Kristen Dunst there...literally. Security guard got all bent out of shape about it, but I didn't actually knock her down. From my standpoint, she walked into me. Hey, I'm 6-foot-2 and she's like 5-foot-nothing...she's not the only actress I've ever had trouble seeing because I was looking over top of them. The boys did enjoy it, although they got quite a bit bent out of shape when they weren't allowed to get a woopee cushion. I don't know where that came from, but they were both protesting that they've always wanted one.
For dinner, we ended up going to another of my favorite places in LA, The House of Pies. Its this diner that sits in the Los Feliz area, which has long been a hip and trendy location. The movie "Swingers" basically takes place there...The Dresden is just down the street a little bit and The Derby, before it closed, was just up from there. There's basically a whole bunch of other places in the area that you can spot a variety of celebrities hanging out at.
The House of Pies is not one of those places. Its more the type of place that some actors go to for a late breakfast wearing dark glasses because they're really hungover and need to actually eat.
Shockingly, one of the high points of going to The House of Pies is getting to eat some pie. The diner food is fine...burgers, Monte Criscos, etc. But the pie is why I love it. They don't just have banana cream...they have chocolate banana cream, with whole bananas. It'll kill a diet quicker than you can blink, but oh my God is it good.
I was going to take the boys up to Griffith Observatory before realizing that its closed on Mondays, so instead we went into the park for a little while and the boys played on a playground that was outfitted to accomodate kids with disabilities.
I don't know that Amy was thrilled with me since the place -- named Shane's Inspiration -- was built by a foundation started by parents of a child that died after two weeks because of severe disabilities. Or, at least, she wasn't thrilled that I convinced her to read the placard with the story. It might be sad, but the idea is a cool one. They're called boundless playgrounds because children in wheelchairs are meant to be able to access most of the features. Also cool is the fact that the organization (ShanesInspiration.org), helps other places build similar playgrounds.
So, the kids got Hollywood sleaze and social responsibility all in one day. That kind of sums up my parenting style, to be honest.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
LA, Day One
I woke up this morning back in my city. Well, kind of. I guess I woke up in North Hollywood, but you know what I mean. I'm back in the Los Angeles area.
The hotel is really only a few miles from our old apartment in Burbank, my last address in California and down the street from my old office on the Warner Bros. lot.
After everyone was awake, I grabbed Marty and went to get a few things that we decided not to pack -- or were restricted from packing by government regulations. Plus, I wanted to reacquaint myself with my former haunts.
And, Marty was a baby here. His first home was Burbank from the day that he came home from Cedars-Sinai. Drove by the Ralph's supermarket where baby Marty would regularly gawk at the breasts of the actress types shopping there.
I drove by the Warner's lot, just because. I spent some really good parts of my life there and I just wanted to be looking at it for real again.
Marty was more interested in if he was going to be able to buy candy at the store. We ended up stopping at Krispy Kreme instead. The lady running the counter for some reason thought that I was buying a doughnut just for myself. So, she slipped Marty a sample and then gave him a bag with another doughnut in it. The big problem with that was the doughnut that I bought was also for Marty...who didn't protest suddenly having three doughnuts. I, on the other hand, was trying to figure out a way to explain that to Amy.
We met my sons' godmother and her husband for lunch at a famous Bob's Big Boy. With all of the Big Boy stuff around, I thought that Marty might be amused -- Casey is less picky about restaurants, if its got food, he's good with it -- but he was not.
Still kind of jet-lagged from yesterday, Marty started acting out. I took him for a walk around the block, passing an actor (Gruber Allen) that I've met a few times but who wouldn't have remembered me and even if he did, I was trying to deal with a son on the brink.
When I got him back to the restaurant, he sat down for about 2 minutes before asking if we could take another walk. I looked at my hamburger with its one bite, and agreed. Turns out that he didn't want to go back in at all this time...leading up to him yelling, "I hate Bob's Big Boy!" right by the entrance, causing a gasp by the fellow patrons.
I explained to him that was impossible, because no one hates Bob's Big Boy, but he wouldn't budge from his position.
Finally, I convinced him to go back in long enough for me to eat, but it wasn't exactly relaxing.
The kids' godmother decided to hang out with us for a bit, while her husband left and we ended up at Amy's favorite coffee house in the world, Priscilla's. It's really only her favorite because it has a vintage table top Ms. Pac-Man game, but everyone has favorites for their own reasons.
We then went to Johnny Carson Park, next to NBC Studios, which was a little surreal. When Marty was young, Amy used to take him to that park frequently since it was only a couple of minutes from our apartment. I still remember getting a phone call from her after she had spent some time there talking with actor Eric Stoltz, while Marty played with his dog...and only realized why he had seemed familiar until she had been home for an hour. The boys have watched home movies of Marty at that park, so it was kind of strange to see the much larger version of my son now playing there again...or sort of playing since he was still in a bad mood from the trauma that is Bob's Big Boy.
The evening went far better. Right after we had bought the plane tickets, my next purchase was for the Hollywood Bowl. They were doing selections from "Fantasia." The Bowl is one of those places that I've always loved...more so than a lot of other people. Its one of those things that's kind of "my" Los Angeles. I've attended work events there at different times, spent a handful of Fourth's of July there, and used to go 3-4 times every season. If I still lived here, I would still go multiple times a year.
I wanted the kids to get to experience it, so I went to the market and bought food for a picnic and we got there a little after the doors had opened. It was apparently a sell-out because it was plenty crowded. In fact, when we got to our seats, the people behind us had already spread out their food on our seats. Its such a congenial atmosphere though that it wasn't a problem.
The show itself was superb. The Hollywood Bowl orchestra playing the classical music from "Fantasia" live while the corresponding clips played on big screen was extremely cool. Even better, instead of just playing it straight, they included four different selections that never actually made it into the movie...one of which didn't even make it being animated, so it was just the storyboards with the music.
Unfortunately, the ending -- which was complete with fireworks -- started with "The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy." Marty and Casey have spent their whole lives going to sleep to soft music. It was dark, they were each under a jacket, and there was lilting music going. They went to sleep.
Suddenly, the orchestra launced into "Trepak," with the "bump-pa-da-bump-bump-bump" and the fireworks started going off. Startled the heck out of my sleeping sons. Casey sprang back awake, but it took Marty a good couple of minutes to work out if he was dreaming or not.
By the time we got back to the hotel, everyone was wiped out again. This time, however, unlike yesterday's flight delays, it was all worth it. Even the Bob's Big Boy parts.
The hotel is really only a few miles from our old apartment in Burbank, my last address in California and down the street from my old office on the Warner Bros. lot.
After everyone was awake, I grabbed Marty and went to get a few things that we decided not to pack -- or were restricted from packing by government regulations. Plus, I wanted to reacquaint myself with my former haunts.
And, Marty was a baby here. His first home was Burbank from the day that he came home from Cedars-Sinai. Drove by the Ralph's supermarket where baby Marty would regularly gawk at the breasts of the actress types shopping there.
I drove by the Warner's lot, just because. I spent some really good parts of my life there and I just wanted to be looking at it for real again.
Marty was more interested in if he was going to be able to buy candy at the store. We ended up stopping at Krispy Kreme instead. The lady running the counter for some reason thought that I was buying a doughnut just for myself. So, she slipped Marty a sample and then gave him a bag with another doughnut in it. The big problem with that was the doughnut that I bought was also for Marty...who didn't protest suddenly having three doughnuts. I, on the other hand, was trying to figure out a way to explain that to Amy.
We met my sons' godmother and her husband for lunch at a famous Bob's Big Boy. With all of the Big Boy stuff around, I thought that Marty might be amused -- Casey is less picky about restaurants, if its got food, he's good with it -- but he was not.
Still kind of jet-lagged from yesterday, Marty started acting out. I took him for a walk around the block, passing an actor (Gruber Allen) that I've met a few times but who wouldn't have remembered me and even if he did, I was trying to deal with a son on the brink.
When I got him back to the restaurant, he sat down for about 2 minutes before asking if we could take another walk. I looked at my hamburger with its one bite, and agreed. Turns out that he didn't want to go back in at all this time...leading up to him yelling, "I hate Bob's Big Boy!" right by the entrance, causing a gasp by the fellow patrons.
I explained to him that was impossible, because no one hates Bob's Big Boy, but he wouldn't budge from his position.
Finally, I convinced him to go back in long enough for me to eat, but it wasn't exactly relaxing.
The kids' godmother decided to hang out with us for a bit, while her husband left and we ended up at Amy's favorite coffee house in the world, Priscilla's. It's really only her favorite because it has a vintage table top Ms. Pac-Man game, but everyone has favorites for their own reasons.
We then went to Johnny Carson Park, next to NBC Studios, which was a little surreal. When Marty was young, Amy used to take him to that park frequently since it was only a couple of minutes from our apartment. I still remember getting a phone call from her after she had spent some time there talking with actor Eric Stoltz, while Marty played with his dog...and only realized why he had seemed familiar until she had been home for an hour. The boys have watched home movies of Marty at that park, so it was kind of strange to see the much larger version of my son now playing there again...or sort of playing since he was still in a bad mood from the trauma that is Bob's Big Boy.
The evening went far better. Right after we had bought the plane tickets, my next purchase was for the Hollywood Bowl. They were doing selections from "Fantasia." The Bowl is one of those places that I've always loved...more so than a lot of other people. Its one of those things that's kind of "my" Los Angeles. I've attended work events there at different times, spent a handful of Fourth's of July there, and used to go 3-4 times every season. If I still lived here, I would still go multiple times a year.
I wanted the kids to get to experience it, so I went to the market and bought food for a picnic and we got there a little after the doors had opened. It was apparently a sell-out because it was plenty crowded. In fact, when we got to our seats, the people behind us had already spread out their food on our seats. Its such a congenial atmosphere though that it wasn't a problem.
The show itself was superb. The Hollywood Bowl orchestra playing the classical music from "Fantasia" live while the corresponding clips played on big screen was extremely cool. Even better, instead of just playing it straight, they included four different selections that never actually made it into the movie...one of which didn't even make it being animated, so it was just the storyboards with the music.
Unfortunately, the ending -- which was complete with fireworks -- started with "The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy." Marty and Casey have spent their whole lives going to sleep to soft music. It was dark, they were each under a jacket, and there was lilting music going. They went to sleep.
Suddenly, the orchestra launced into "Trepak," with the "bump-pa-da-bump-bump-bump" and the fireworks started going off. Startled the heck out of my sleeping sons. Casey sprang back awake, but it took Marty a good couple of minutes to work out if he was dreaming or not.
By the time we got back to the hotel, everyone was wiped out again. This time, however, unlike yesterday's flight delays, it was all worth it. Even the Bob's Big Boy parts.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Air Travel
And, after much delay, I am finally back in California. Man, does it feel good to breath in the smog once again.
Here's the thing, though, in order to get back to my beloved City of Angels, I had to fly with my family. It's not that I've never flown with members of my family, but the last time I wasn't on a plane by myself, 8-year-old Marty was 1-year-old Marty.
We flew out of Chicago. If you're a frequent flyer, you can probably already predict where this is going.
It was out of Midway, which I've never actually been to before. Since I had much less of a grasp on how to get there, as opposed to O'Hare, we left pretty early...and we got there really early. Even earlier than the FAA recommends. So, we decided to get some breakfast.
Our flight was supposed to leave Chicago around 11:30 CST, and get into LA around 5 p.m.
When we left the restaurant, the first thing that we noticed was the dark sky and the flashes of lightning in the distance. Amy checked her iPhone and our flight was still on time. By the time we got to the airport 10 minutes later that was no longer the case.
Being stuck in an airport with a flight delay sucks no matter what. Doing it with a pair of boys under 10 does not help the situation. Young boys inclination is not to just sit quietly. It goes against nature to try to make them.
Even more fun, they kept delaying our flight...which is enjoyable if you're supposed to have a layover and connecting flight someplace else, in our case Las Vegas.
By the time we actually had a firm departure time, it was supposed to put us in to Vegas at pretty much the same time that our second flight was going to leave. We asked the flight attendant about it, but she was non-committal. Our flight could get in earlier, the other flight could be delayed, etc.
Because there are four of us, I ended up sitting in front of the others on the initial takeoff. I couldn't watch Casey, who had the window seat, on his first plane ride or Marty on the first one that he could really pay attention on...but I could hear them. Casey was playing with the window shade, annoying Marty, and Marty was complaining about having to put his iPod away (which, at least, he's a kid and doing...plenty of the adult passengers still complain about that, even after that "Mythbusters" episode where they showed that it actually can affect the planes controls).
At some point, we traded seats so that Amy could sleep -- I've never slept on a plane in my life, and that includes red-eyes -- and I could corral the boys. I must admit that it was kind of fun to be able to point things out to them as we were going into the descent to Las Vegas. Being state afficianados, they were excited to get to say that they had now been in Nevada.
The flight attendant turned out to be right on one count...our plane did get in early. Unfortunately, that meant that they didn't have the gate ready. So, we sat on the tarmac looking at the hotels on the south Strip while our connecting flight took off to LAX.
They actually made an announcement to tell us what flight we were being put on while we sat there. Amy looked it up...it didn't leave for 2 1/2 hours.
I said that delays always suck, but really Vegas is kind of exempted from that. I mean, you can gamble in every terminal. If you're going to be stuck someplace, Vegas is a good choice. That is, if you don't have kids. If you have kids, then you get to look at the slot machines so tantilizingly close, but yet so far away. And, because you have kids, you can't drink either.
At one point, I did let Amy go try to gamble, but it was still a hollow slice of Sin City.
Our new flight was now going to put us in at 8:30 PST...or 11:30 p.m. by our body clocks. The good thing though is that Vegas to L.A. is just a hop, skip and a jump...a fact that I used to take advantage of a few times a year when I lived here.
The second flight went off without issue, but once we got in there was the little issue of getting the rental car. I left Amy and the kids at baggage claim while I took the van over to the lot. Only, the van for my rental car agency wasn't exactly quick. People came and went, and yet, I still sat there.
Finally, it came and I hoped on with Amy's iPhone in hand, ready to take pictures of the car before I left the lot. As I got on, I tried to look at something on the iPhone...which was locked. Turns out that I don't know the passcode for her phone. That also meant that I couldn't call her on my phone once I got the car.
I spent the ride to the lot frantically trying combinations that I thought would work...until I basically double-locked the phone. It told me I could try again in 15 minutes.
Once I was through the counter, I still couldn't use the phone. But, as I walked to the car, the phone suddenly rang. I didn't think that I could answer, but luckily I was wrong. It was my sons' godmother calling to say that they had had an emergency situation come up and wouldn't see us until tomorrow. I was stuck in the uncomfortable situation of saying, "I'm sorry to hear that...say, could you call Amy on my cell phone and ask her to call me."
Not one of my finer moments, but 5 minutes later Amy called to tell me how to unlock her phone.
The worst part was that thanks to the delay, we had eaten at the Vegas airport. So, I wasn't hungry as I drove past an In-N-Out. I had planned for months to go directly to that In-N-Out at that very minute, and yet, here I was driving right on past. But, I wasn't going to force my first Double-Double in years.
The kids tried to stay awake to watch the bright lights, but didn't quite have it left in them. They sat in the backseat quietly dazed.
We're staying just outside of Burbank in North Hollywood, with the Bob Hope Airport in between. Why didn't we just fly into Burbank, you ask? There's a couple of hundred reasons why and they have a $ in front of them. When I was single, I would pay the extra to just fly into Burbank since I lived nearby, but with four tickets, I don't care what gas prices are, it still comes out to a whole lot more.
The kids have crashed and so has the wife, but I'm back in my element.
Here's the thing, though, in order to get back to my beloved City of Angels, I had to fly with my family. It's not that I've never flown with members of my family, but the last time I wasn't on a plane by myself, 8-year-old Marty was 1-year-old Marty.
We flew out of Chicago. If you're a frequent flyer, you can probably already predict where this is going.
It was out of Midway, which I've never actually been to before. Since I had much less of a grasp on how to get there, as opposed to O'Hare, we left pretty early...and we got there really early. Even earlier than the FAA recommends. So, we decided to get some breakfast.
Our flight was supposed to leave Chicago around 11:30 CST, and get into LA around 5 p.m.
When we left the restaurant, the first thing that we noticed was the dark sky and the flashes of lightning in the distance. Amy checked her iPhone and our flight was still on time. By the time we got to the airport 10 minutes later that was no longer the case.
Being stuck in an airport with a flight delay sucks no matter what. Doing it with a pair of boys under 10 does not help the situation. Young boys inclination is not to just sit quietly. It goes against nature to try to make them.
Even more fun, they kept delaying our flight...which is enjoyable if you're supposed to have a layover and connecting flight someplace else, in our case Las Vegas.
By the time we actually had a firm departure time, it was supposed to put us in to Vegas at pretty much the same time that our second flight was going to leave. We asked the flight attendant about it, but she was non-committal. Our flight could get in earlier, the other flight could be delayed, etc.
Because there are four of us, I ended up sitting in front of the others on the initial takeoff. I couldn't watch Casey, who had the window seat, on his first plane ride or Marty on the first one that he could really pay attention on...but I could hear them. Casey was playing with the window shade, annoying Marty, and Marty was complaining about having to put his iPod away (which, at least, he's a kid and doing...plenty of the adult passengers still complain about that, even after that "Mythbusters" episode where they showed that it actually can affect the planes controls).
At some point, we traded seats so that Amy could sleep -- I've never slept on a plane in my life, and that includes red-eyes -- and I could corral the boys. I must admit that it was kind of fun to be able to point things out to them as we were going into the descent to Las Vegas. Being state afficianados, they were excited to get to say that they had now been in Nevada.
The flight attendant turned out to be right on one count...our plane did get in early. Unfortunately, that meant that they didn't have the gate ready. So, we sat on the tarmac looking at the hotels on the south Strip while our connecting flight took off to LAX.
They actually made an announcement to tell us what flight we were being put on while we sat there. Amy looked it up...it didn't leave for 2 1/2 hours.
I said that delays always suck, but really Vegas is kind of exempted from that. I mean, you can gamble in every terminal. If you're going to be stuck someplace, Vegas is a good choice. That is, if you don't have kids. If you have kids, then you get to look at the slot machines so tantilizingly close, but yet so far away. And, because you have kids, you can't drink either.
At one point, I did let Amy go try to gamble, but it was still a hollow slice of Sin City.
Our new flight was now going to put us in at 8:30 PST...or 11:30 p.m. by our body clocks. The good thing though is that Vegas to L.A. is just a hop, skip and a jump...a fact that I used to take advantage of a few times a year when I lived here.
The second flight went off without issue, but once we got in there was the little issue of getting the rental car. I left Amy and the kids at baggage claim while I took the van over to the lot. Only, the van for my rental car agency wasn't exactly quick. People came and went, and yet, I still sat there.
Finally, it came and I hoped on with Amy's iPhone in hand, ready to take pictures of the car before I left the lot. As I got on, I tried to look at something on the iPhone...which was locked. Turns out that I don't know the passcode for her phone. That also meant that I couldn't call her on my phone once I got the car.
I spent the ride to the lot frantically trying combinations that I thought would work...until I basically double-locked the phone. It told me I could try again in 15 minutes.
Once I was through the counter, I still couldn't use the phone. But, as I walked to the car, the phone suddenly rang. I didn't think that I could answer, but luckily I was wrong. It was my sons' godmother calling to say that they had had an emergency situation come up and wouldn't see us until tomorrow. I was stuck in the uncomfortable situation of saying, "I'm sorry to hear that...say, could you call Amy on my cell phone and ask her to call me."
Not one of my finer moments, but 5 minutes later Amy called to tell me how to unlock her phone.
The worst part was that thanks to the delay, we had eaten at the Vegas airport. So, I wasn't hungry as I drove past an In-N-Out. I had planned for months to go directly to that In-N-Out at that very minute, and yet, here I was driving right on past. But, I wasn't going to force my first Double-Double in years.
The kids tried to stay awake to watch the bright lights, but didn't quite have it left in them. They sat in the backseat quietly dazed.
We're staying just outside of Burbank in North Hollywood, with the Bob Hope Airport in between. Why didn't we just fly into Burbank, you ask? There's a couple of hundred reasons why and they have a $ in front of them. When I was single, I would pay the extra to just fly into Burbank since I lived nearby, but with four tickets, I don't care what gas prices are, it still comes out to a whole lot more.
The kids have crashed and so has the wife, but I'm back in my element.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Horses, Horses
All summer long, Marty has been part of this program for special needs children where they are taught to show horses, you know, like at a county fair.
The program ends with a showing at an actual county fair. Which was today.
My wife has been the one taking him the whole time, every Wednesday unless there was lightning, so I only had a passing idea of what was going on. I did go to high school out in farm country and have been to more than my share of county fairs, so I know basically what it means to show a horse, but I didn't really know much about the program.
I had always assumed that the program was for kids with various autism related issues, but it turns out that I was way off-base on that one. While there were other kids with autism, there were also people with various physical handicaps as well. To be honest, Marty and his Asperger's Syndrome, might have been the person least affected by his condition than anyone else from what I could see.
I had the honor of sitting in the stands with Casey during the program. Being a little brother, Casey was kind of interested in seeing Marty do his thing...once. Beyond that, he was far more interested in trying to get me to go sample the wares of the fair's Midway.
When Marty came out for the first time with his grouping -- there were a number of groupings -- he seemed to do fine. They were just leading the horse around for the judges. However, when they awarded places, he actually finished last. My heart sank a little bit. Did I mention that there were other children with really significant physical disabilities?
But, then the next time Marty came up it was for the portion where they show the horse by riding it. Again, being untrained, he seemed to do fine from what I could tell. This time, the results were a little bit different. He pulled a worst to first...and took home a Blue Ribbon!
With Marty anyway, I'm probably never going to experience those moments in sports where he hits a shot or gets a hit. He's just not that interested in those kinds of activities. But, hey, I got this. Equestrian is an Olympic sport after all.
I could see Amy from across the arena and could tell that she was having trouble holding back the tears. Trying to get Marty to participate in anything, especially anything that he doesn't get to be in control of, is like pulling teeth. Having him do it and succeed, is icing on the cake.
Winning his grouping for the event, meant that he got to go one more time for the overall. He ended up being fourth, which still was pretty good since I think he was one of only two first time participants to make it that far...and some of the others, while suffering from more debilitating afflictions, were also significantly older and more familiar with the routine.
Afterward, we celebrated by letting Casey drag us around the attractions and getting some fair food...which is the kind of thing that you can really only do once a year. Well, I guess you technically can do it more often...but you really, really shouldn't.
So, now Marty has a host of multi-colored ribbons that he can display. Interestingly, I think he would've been disappointed if he had gotten a second blue ribbon...he already had one of those and wanted a yellow one.
The program ends with a showing at an actual county fair. Which was today.
My wife has been the one taking him the whole time, every Wednesday unless there was lightning, so I only had a passing idea of what was going on. I did go to high school out in farm country and have been to more than my share of county fairs, so I know basically what it means to show a horse, but I didn't really know much about the program.
I had always assumed that the program was for kids with various autism related issues, but it turns out that I was way off-base on that one. While there were other kids with autism, there were also people with various physical handicaps as well. To be honest, Marty and his Asperger's Syndrome, might have been the person least affected by his condition than anyone else from what I could see.
I had the honor of sitting in the stands with Casey during the program. Being a little brother, Casey was kind of interested in seeing Marty do his thing...once. Beyond that, he was far more interested in trying to get me to go sample the wares of the fair's Midway.
When Marty came out for the first time with his grouping -- there were a number of groupings -- he seemed to do fine. They were just leading the horse around for the judges. However, when they awarded places, he actually finished last. My heart sank a little bit. Did I mention that there were other children with really significant physical disabilities?
But, then the next time Marty came up it was for the portion where they show the horse by riding it. Again, being untrained, he seemed to do fine from what I could tell. This time, the results were a little bit different. He pulled a worst to first...and took home a Blue Ribbon!
With Marty anyway, I'm probably never going to experience those moments in sports where he hits a shot or gets a hit. He's just not that interested in those kinds of activities. But, hey, I got this. Equestrian is an Olympic sport after all.
I could see Amy from across the arena and could tell that she was having trouble holding back the tears. Trying to get Marty to participate in anything, especially anything that he doesn't get to be in control of, is like pulling teeth. Having him do it and succeed, is icing on the cake.
Winning his grouping for the event, meant that he got to go one more time for the overall. He ended up being fourth, which still was pretty good since I think he was one of only two first time participants to make it that far...and some of the others, while suffering from more debilitating afflictions, were also significantly older and more familiar with the routine.
Afterward, we celebrated by letting Casey drag us around the attractions and getting some fair food...which is the kind of thing that you can really only do once a year. Well, I guess you technically can do it more often...but you really, really shouldn't.
So, now Marty has a host of multi-colored ribbons that he can display. Interestingly, I think he would've been disappointed if he had gotten a second blue ribbon...he already had one of those and wanted a yellow one.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Godspell
The community theatre of which I am the president had its first production in the building that we bought over the window. The fun -- and I use the term extremely loosely -- thing about getting ready for a performance in a renovated building is that you literally don't have any idea whether everything will be ready until pretty much the show is underway.
When we bought the former church that is now the theatre's site, it was agreed that we would do "Godspell" because its a) simple to stage and b) the place used to be a church.
However, it was a church built in the early 1960's. While structurally it was fine, the fact that it is almost entirely concrete didn't always help with the renovation process. In particular, the electrical set-up was a mess. So that we could have the performances, there needed to be some power run places that didn't have power (or more perplexing, places that looked like they had power at one point, yet we could never find where it had come from...the wiring would just kind of stop).
The work on that was still being done right up till the dress rehearsal, and the work on the seat risers wasn't completed until the day before that.
Oh and the parking was always a little bit of a concern...the building has two long driveways, and we really couldn't have people parking there so we had to have people out directing traffic.
And, since its summer and the building doesn't have air conditioning, there was the threat of the building becoming an oven. We installed a large industrial exhaust fan a few weeks ago to help move the air through the building, but that was one of the places where an electrical modification had been made, since the power lines that had gone to what we presume was a similar fan at one time were cut.
The opening night went off just fine, however. The audience came and the show itself was terrific. The shows director, who I had not worked with, and musical director, who I have since he's done the music for two shows that I directed, were working off of a revival version of the show with updated arrangements. The fear with "Godspell" is sometimes that it can feel dated, even if its based on Gospel. But, they did some fun things with the parables and the music was fantastic...as was the performances of the young cast, most of whom were college students.
At the end of the opening performance, and the cast was getting a standing ovation, I started feeling a little misty. There are precious few people that know how much work it was to complete the purchase of the building and then to work through the initial renovation, trying to keep groups working on different tasks from bumping into each other, trying to keep things moving forward and trying to work with long-standing board members that were now trying to reassert authority since, hey, there's a building!
I turned to a member of the crew that was standing next to me -- someone that has worked with me on shows previously -- and clasped his hand, uttering, "And, we just opened a theatre."
The joyousness lasted for all of two minutes. As the audience started filing out, I tried to turn on the ventilation system which we were turning off during the acts for sound purposes. It didn't turn on. I went from swelling pride to launching expletives. I did manage to find the problem and get it working again, but the moment was lost. It also meant that instead of going home, I was going to a hardware store to try to buy materials to keep it from happening again.
The rest of the weekend went along those lines...great show and performances, building or logistically problems. We had a loose wire that sparked near the band and caused them to freak out. Some costumes were moved under what apparently was a leaky pipe and got all wet. Me alternating between joy and wanting to kill someone. Fun stuff like that.
My sons got a chance to see the play. Actually, it was more complicated than that. The family came on opening night, but Marty was falling asleep, so they left at intermission, much to the chagrin of Casey.
On Saturday's matinee, the boys came with me to the theatre and ended up sitting by themselves inside, while I was working on things, and watched the show. They've seen plenty of theater before -- Marty has sat through Neil Simon's "Fools" and Stephen Sondheim's "Into The Woods" on his own in similar situations -- so intermission came and they went out to the lobby and went back in for the second act.
On Sunday, they weren't supposed to be with me, but something came up and they had to come along at least for a while. Casey ended up helping to sell raffle tickets, but Marty was unhappy with having to be back at the theatre. While I was trying to deal with him, I kept losing track of Casey until finally one of the crew said that they would keep an eye on him.
Marty, who didn't want to see the show again because he's not really a fan of crucifiction, was finally sated when I found a quiet spot for him to sit and play, away from everyone. When I went to find out where Casey was, since the show was underway, I found him up in the tech booth sitting quietly next to the director and watching the show for a third time.
Later on, I had them at a department store buying some clothes for our upcoming trip to California, and Casey suddenly started reciting lines from the show, insisting that I help him out with a part that needed byplay. So, apparently he was paying attention.
When the audience was leaving from the final performance, I must admit that I was pretty well spent. I guess that I knew I was under a lot of stress, but once all of the big things are over and you haven't had a visit from the police or your insurance agent and can kind of breath again...and your muscles don't want to relax because they've been held taut for so long, all you really want to do is sleep.
I can't tell you how happy I am to have a vacation coming up. Couldn't come at a better time.
When we bought the former church that is now the theatre's site, it was agreed that we would do "Godspell" because its a) simple to stage and b) the place used to be a church.
However, it was a church built in the early 1960's. While structurally it was fine, the fact that it is almost entirely concrete didn't always help with the renovation process. In particular, the electrical set-up was a mess. So that we could have the performances, there needed to be some power run places that didn't have power (or more perplexing, places that looked like they had power at one point, yet we could never find where it had come from...the wiring would just kind of stop).
The work on that was still being done right up till the dress rehearsal, and the work on the seat risers wasn't completed until the day before that.
Oh and the parking was always a little bit of a concern...the building has two long driveways, and we really couldn't have people parking there so we had to have people out directing traffic.
And, since its summer and the building doesn't have air conditioning, there was the threat of the building becoming an oven. We installed a large industrial exhaust fan a few weeks ago to help move the air through the building, but that was one of the places where an electrical modification had been made, since the power lines that had gone to what we presume was a similar fan at one time were cut.
The opening night went off just fine, however. The audience came and the show itself was terrific. The shows director, who I had not worked with, and musical director, who I have since he's done the music for two shows that I directed, were working off of a revival version of the show with updated arrangements. The fear with "Godspell" is sometimes that it can feel dated, even if its based on Gospel. But, they did some fun things with the parables and the music was fantastic...as was the performances of the young cast, most of whom were college students.
At the end of the opening performance, and the cast was getting a standing ovation, I started feeling a little misty. There are precious few people that know how much work it was to complete the purchase of the building and then to work through the initial renovation, trying to keep groups working on different tasks from bumping into each other, trying to keep things moving forward and trying to work with long-standing board members that were now trying to reassert authority since, hey, there's a building!
I turned to a member of the crew that was standing next to me -- someone that has worked with me on shows previously -- and clasped his hand, uttering, "And, we just opened a theatre."
The joyousness lasted for all of two minutes. As the audience started filing out, I tried to turn on the ventilation system which we were turning off during the acts for sound purposes. It didn't turn on. I went from swelling pride to launching expletives. I did manage to find the problem and get it working again, but the moment was lost. It also meant that instead of going home, I was going to a hardware store to try to buy materials to keep it from happening again.
The rest of the weekend went along those lines...great show and performances, building or logistically problems. We had a loose wire that sparked near the band and caused them to freak out. Some costumes were moved under what apparently was a leaky pipe and got all wet. Me alternating between joy and wanting to kill someone. Fun stuff like that.
My sons got a chance to see the play. Actually, it was more complicated than that. The family came on opening night, but Marty was falling asleep, so they left at intermission, much to the chagrin of Casey.
On Saturday's matinee, the boys came with me to the theatre and ended up sitting by themselves inside, while I was working on things, and watched the show. They've seen plenty of theater before -- Marty has sat through Neil Simon's "Fools" and Stephen Sondheim's "Into The Woods" on his own in similar situations -- so intermission came and they went out to the lobby and went back in for the second act.
On Sunday, they weren't supposed to be with me, but something came up and they had to come along at least for a while. Casey ended up helping to sell raffle tickets, but Marty was unhappy with having to be back at the theatre. While I was trying to deal with him, I kept losing track of Casey until finally one of the crew said that they would keep an eye on him.
Marty, who didn't want to see the show again because he's not really a fan of crucifiction, was finally sated when I found a quiet spot for him to sit and play, away from everyone. When I went to find out where Casey was, since the show was underway, I found him up in the tech booth sitting quietly next to the director and watching the show for a third time.
Later on, I had them at a department store buying some clothes for our upcoming trip to California, and Casey suddenly started reciting lines from the show, insisting that I help him out with a part that needed byplay. So, apparently he was paying attention.
When the audience was leaving from the final performance, I must admit that I was pretty well spent. I guess that I knew I was under a lot of stress, but once all of the big things are over and you haven't had a visit from the police or your insurance agent and can kind of breath again...and your muscles don't want to relax because they've been held taut for so long, all you really want to do is sleep.
I can't tell you how happy I am to have a vacation coming up. Couldn't come at a better time.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Don't Forget Those Lyrics
Despite my regrettable, yet extremely obvious, lack of talent, I am a singer. I'm not a singer in the same manner of some of the very talented people that I've worked with that have been paid to do it. I'm not even a singer in the way that a number of actors that I know - who claim they can't sing, right before they start belting out a showtune. No, what I am is a supermarket singer.
At least a couple of times a week, I find myself in a store...whether its a food store or a Wal-Mart type place...and they'll have music playing over the speakers. Time was that the music that they played was the much maligned Muzak and everyone just ignored it. But these days all of these places have a satellite music service that plays contemporary music.
Well, apparently, as I shop I must kind of zone out because it doesn't take long before I'm unconsciously singing along to "Time After Time" while I check out the sale on cereals...unconsciously that is until I notice the women looking at me with their looks of, "Oh, sweetie, you really shouldn't sing."
I'd love to be able to stop it, but its kind of hard when you don't know that you're doing it. I've caught myself singing everything from Elvis to Motown to Fleetwood Mac to Cowboy Junkies. I sing along to country music songs that I haven't heard in 20 years. I sing along to one hit wonders that I didn't like when they were released. I've hated Matthew Wilder's "Break My Stride" since the first time I heard it, but that doesn't stop me from singing it in a department store.
The really unfortunate part is if there's any sort of unconscious dancing. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes it can't be helped. Since I was 10-years-old I've always had to do an involuntary shoulder shake during Elvis' "Burnin' Love." Turns out that I still do that according to the quizzical looks I received a few weeks ago in a Target.
Now, when I lived in Los Angeles, there would be people all over the place that would sing in line at the bank or in the laundromat or in the park...and it would sound like a real life musical. For all I know, the young guy that I used to run into at the local laundromat in my Burbank neighborhood is off doing a touring production of "Rent."
It would be great if people looked at me that way as I butchered a Beach Boys song, but that's not the lot that I have in life. I'm stuck being the adult version of Alfalfa terrorizing my fellow shoppers.
There are moments that I do enjoy being an unintentional singer, and that's when I get to collide with another of my kind. The other day I was arriving at a business lunch and as I was getting out of my car still singing the War classic, "Why Can't We Be Friends," I heard one of my associates walking towards me doing the same. I still remember one time when I was working in a deli in my youth, hopping out of my car after listening to the Beatles "Hey Jude," still singing and opening the door to the store just as one of my coworkers inside was getting to the same point in the Na-na-na-na's...and we looked at each other and belted out the next line. Or the time in cubicle jungle when I walked past a coworker's desk singing Simon & Garfunkel's "Cecilia" only to have him suddenly join me in the chorus. None of it might sound good, but it is fun.
So, apparently I'm going to go on singing whether I really want to or not. It's a mostly harmless flaw...although, I would recommend maybe avoiding the aisle that I'm in while I'm picking out bananas and laying waste to "Walk This Way."
At least a couple of times a week, I find myself in a store...whether its a food store or a Wal-Mart type place...and they'll have music playing over the speakers. Time was that the music that they played was the much maligned Muzak and everyone just ignored it. But these days all of these places have a satellite music service that plays contemporary music.
Well, apparently, as I shop I must kind of zone out because it doesn't take long before I'm unconsciously singing along to "Time After Time" while I check out the sale on cereals...unconsciously that is until I notice the women looking at me with their looks of, "Oh, sweetie, you really shouldn't sing."
I'd love to be able to stop it, but its kind of hard when you don't know that you're doing it. I've caught myself singing everything from Elvis to Motown to Fleetwood Mac to Cowboy Junkies. I sing along to country music songs that I haven't heard in 20 years. I sing along to one hit wonders that I didn't like when they were released. I've hated Matthew Wilder's "Break My Stride" since the first time I heard it, but that doesn't stop me from singing it in a department store.
The really unfortunate part is if there's any sort of unconscious dancing. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes it can't be helped. Since I was 10-years-old I've always had to do an involuntary shoulder shake during Elvis' "Burnin' Love." Turns out that I still do that according to the quizzical looks I received a few weeks ago in a Target.
Now, when I lived in Los Angeles, there would be people all over the place that would sing in line at the bank or in the laundromat or in the park...and it would sound like a real life musical. For all I know, the young guy that I used to run into at the local laundromat in my Burbank neighborhood is off doing a touring production of "Rent."
It would be great if people looked at me that way as I butchered a Beach Boys song, but that's not the lot that I have in life. I'm stuck being the adult version of Alfalfa terrorizing my fellow shoppers.
There are moments that I do enjoy being an unintentional singer, and that's when I get to collide with another of my kind. The other day I was arriving at a business lunch and as I was getting out of my car still singing the War classic, "Why Can't We Be Friends," I heard one of my associates walking towards me doing the same. I still remember one time when I was working in a deli in my youth, hopping out of my car after listening to the Beatles "Hey Jude," still singing and opening the door to the store just as one of my coworkers inside was getting to the same point in the Na-na-na-na's...and we looked at each other and belted out the next line. Or the time in cubicle jungle when I walked past a coworker's desk singing Simon & Garfunkel's "Cecilia" only to have him suddenly join me in the chorus. None of it might sound good, but it is fun.
So, apparently I'm going to go on singing whether I really want to or not. It's a mostly harmless flaw...although, I would recommend maybe avoiding the aisle that I'm in while I'm picking out bananas and laying waste to "Walk This Way."
Monday, August 8, 2011
High School Reunions
My 25-year high school reunion is this coming weekend. That's one of those things where if you live long enough its bound to come up, and its certainly good to be alive. Being reminded that you're squarely in middle age - and probably on the back end of that if you go by statistics - is a little less fun than the person that invented such reunions was probably shooting for.
Actually, I'm now kind of wondering if someone did shoot that person.
Sadly, I won't be able to attend the festivities, since the theatre is having the grand opening of its new building this weekend - and, I don't always know what my role is as president, but "Show Up To Grand Openings" seems like its probably in there - and then I'm leaving for Los Angeles right after. Plus, my hometown is certainly closer than it was during on the years on the East and West Coasts, but it's still a couple of hours drive.
All very legitimate excuses, by the way. It has nothing to do with avoidance. Nothing, I tell you.
It's not that I necessarily mind my age. OK, that's a lie and there are multiple posts just on this blog alone that would out me as a liar. How about, I don't mind my age when I don't think about it?
The other weekend they kept running specials about MTV turning 30...although it was on VH1, apparently because the suits at MTV didn't want to clue the current generation in about its age or have to answer questions about why "Video Killed the Radio Star."
Someone said to me, "Wow! MTV started 30 years ago! Can you believe it?" The answer was yes. Want to know why? Because I can remember where I was when I first saw the cable channel about 6 weeks after it debuted...and I was in junior high at the time.
Especially with the various emails about 25-year class reunions, and even with math not really being my favorite subject, I can do the math on that one.
(Quick shout out to my high school math teacher, the late Ms. Sours, who really could have done without me. Every year, she would walk into her classroom, see me sitting there, and then say, "Why? Why are you in my class again?" I'd usually wait for her to smile to let me know that she was just joshing, although she never did. "Because the colleges say that I have to," I'd reply. "Plus, I like the way your forehead creases when you see me.")
Much like the lions share of my life, I was fairly ambivalent about high school. I don't have a yearbook. I never had a class ring. I've got maybe six pictures from the time period. I'm sure I have the diploma around someplace, and I'm pretty sure that its in a box with my basketball stuff from back then. I'm sure that Amy probably knows where it is, if I ever really need to find it.
My biggest problem know is that my high school years happened to coincide with John Hughes' run of 80's teen movies. After 25 years, I sometimes have trouble remembering what was me and what was his movies.
"Remember that time that we snuck out of detention?"
"No, because that was 'The Breakfast Club."
"Remember when we were hanging out in the record store listening to Otis Redding?"
"That was 'Pretty In Pink."
"Rode a float in a Chicago parade?"
"Ferris Bueller."
"Sat around on Saturday nights with nothing to do?"
"Now, that was us."
Oddly, despite the general ambivalence, my best friends to this day are largely from my high school years. Part of that comes from having gone to school in a small town. But, still, the godparents to both Marty and Casey are high school friends of mine. The same ones. When it came time to pick godparents for Casey, we actually felt that anyone else was going to be a step down from who Marty had that we just made them godparents for both children.
My sons now know the same small town where I went to school, although to them its where Grandma and Grandpa live. Never mind that anyone that is an actual blood relation to me moved out of the area in 1985, its the family that I lived with in high school that my kids consider the real one.
Of course, it was just this year that my kids finally noticed that everyone in my hometown, including family, still calls me by my high school nickname of Slim. Really though, that just means they're slow on the uptake or they just don't care. I mean, it took them till grade school to notice that every time they went to their grandparents house people started calling their dad a completely different name. The saving grace is that community college will be significantly cheaper.
It's really only a core group of people that I kept in any sort of touch with, five or six people...and then Facebook happened. Thanks to the social media giant, not only do you get to suddenly have contact with people that you haven't spoken to in 25 years, you get to see what they look like now. That's got to help more than the "Hello, My Name is" stick-ons ever could.
I'm sure that my former classmates will have fun with each other while I'm off doing my meet-and-greet with the theatre patrons. One of my friends who's attending proudly declared that its close enough to his house that he doesn't need a designated driver because he can just walk home. That's the kind of spirit that you still find at the 25-year reunion that probably gets wiped out by the 50-year one.
Maybe, just maybe, someone will reminisce about that time that we all paid a dollar to that one geek just to look at a pair of panties.
(Sixteen Candles)
Actually, I'm now kind of wondering if someone did shoot that person.
Sadly, I won't be able to attend the festivities, since the theatre is having the grand opening of its new building this weekend - and, I don't always know what my role is as president, but "Show Up To Grand Openings" seems like its probably in there - and then I'm leaving for Los Angeles right after. Plus, my hometown is certainly closer than it was during on the years on the East and West Coasts, but it's still a couple of hours drive.
All very legitimate excuses, by the way. It has nothing to do with avoidance. Nothing, I tell you.
It's not that I necessarily mind my age. OK, that's a lie and there are multiple posts just on this blog alone that would out me as a liar. How about, I don't mind my age when I don't think about it?
The other weekend they kept running specials about MTV turning 30...although it was on VH1, apparently because the suits at MTV didn't want to clue the current generation in about its age or have to answer questions about why "Video Killed the Radio Star."
Someone said to me, "Wow! MTV started 30 years ago! Can you believe it?" The answer was yes. Want to know why? Because I can remember where I was when I first saw the cable channel about 6 weeks after it debuted...and I was in junior high at the time.
Especially with the various emails about 25-year class reunions, and even with math not really being my favorite subject, I can do the math on that one.
(Quick shout out to my high school math teacher, the late Ms. Sours, who really could have done without me. Every year, she would walk into her classroom, see me sitting there, and then say, "Why? Why are you in my class again?" I'd usually wait for her to smile to let me know that she was just joshing, although she never did. "Because the colleges say that I have to," I'd reply. "Plus, I like the way your forehead creases when you see me.")
Much like the lions share of my life, I was fairly ambivalent about high school. I don't have a yearbook. I never had a class ring. I've got maybe six pictures from the time period. I'm sure I have the diploma around someplace, and I'm pretty sure that its in a box with my basketball stuff from back then. I'm sure that Amy probably knows where it is, if I ever really need to find it.
My biggest problem know is that my high school years happened to coincide with John Hughes' run of 80's teen movies. After 25 years, I sometimes have trouble remembering what was me and what was his movies.
"Remember that time that we snuck out of detention?"
"No, because that was 'The Breakfast Club."
"Remember when we were hanging out in the record store listening to Otis Redding?"
"That was 'Pretty In Pink."
"Rode a float in a Chicago parade?"
"Ferris Bueller."
"Sat around on Saturday nights with nothing to do?"
"Now, that was us."
Oddly, despite the general ambivalence, my best friends to this day are largely from my high school years. Part of that comes from having gone to school in a small town. But, still, the godparents to both Marty and Casey are high school friends of mine. The same ones. When it came time to pick godparents for Casey, we actually felt that anyone else was going to be a step down from who Marty had that we just made them godparents for both children.
My sons now know the same small town where I went to school, although to them its where Grandma and Grandpa live. Never mind that anyone that is an actual blood relation to me moved out of the area in 1985, its the family that I lived with in high school that my kids consider the real one.
Of course, it was just this year that my kids finally noticed that everyone in my hometown, including family, still calls me by my high school nickname of Slim. Really though, that just means they're slow on the uptake or they just don't care. I mean, it took them till grade school to notice that every time they went to their grandparents house people started calling their dad a completely different name. The saving grace is that community college will be significantly cheaper.
It's really only a core group of people that I kept in any sort of touch with, five or six people...and then Facebook happened. Thanks to the social media giant, not only do you get to suddenly have contact with people that you haven't spoken to in 25 years, you get to see what they look like now. That's got to help more than the "Hello, My Name is" stick-ons ever could.
I'm sure that my former classmates will have fun with each other while I'm off doing my meet-and-greet with the theatre patrons. One of my friends who's attending proudly declared that its close enough to his house that he doesn't need a designated driver because he can just walk home. That's the kind of spirit that you still find at the 25-year reunion that probably gets wiped out by the 50-year one.
Maybe, just maybe, someone will reminisce about that time that we all paid a dollar to that one geek just to look at a pair of panties.
(Sixteen Candles)
Friday, August 5, 2011
The Stage
My sons were recently in a play at the community theatre where I'm president of the board. Casey didn't hesitate to point that out to the people involved. He apparently doesn't realize that my being the nominal head of a completely volunteer organization just means that sometimes people listen to me...if they want to.
This was the second play for Marty. Theatre is kind of a group activity where his Asperger's really doesn't affect very much. Don't like making eye contact? Heck, most of the time you're not even supposed to. Get distracted a lot? If you think that's a problem, then you haven't spent much time around actors.
However, this was Casey's first play. He had been made prior to this because he's always been deemed too young. Even before being on-stage, Marty had gone to a couple of classes at a larger community theater and Casey wasn't happy about the too young label for those either.
When Marty was playing a squirrel in "Willy Wonka" last year (it doesn't make a lot of sense if you've only seen the Gene Wilder movie, but its in the book), Casey even went up to the director and sang the chorus of one of the songs, apparently just to prove that he would've been able to learn the material.
While Marty still doesn't like the confines of being told what he has to imagine while he's on stage and only marginally cares about the overall outcome of the production, to Casey this was his chance to shine.
They were doing Disney's "The Jungle Book." Marty got to be a wolf cub and a monkey. Casey got to be a baby elephant. They each had one line.
Last year, there were a group of older kids that kind of took Marty for their mascot and helped keep him focused on what was going on. This year the cast was a bit younger...so Marty's enjoyment was a little less as he was frequently out of place and not sure where to go, leading to a couple of meltdowns.
Casey, despite a rehearsal accident that left him with a black eye (he fell off of a table he was sitting on), was all about it. Memorizing his one line, learning the songs, getting down the choreography.
At one point, when they were in dress rehearsals, the cast was supposed to clear the stage of some stuff during a black-out. As the lights were coming up, there was Casey in the middle of the stage wrestling with a two-step stool that was about as big as he is. I was talking to the show's musical director at the time and suddenly I heard the director yelling, "Seriously? Is little Casey really the one that's supposed to clear that?"
For the record, both boys nailed their one line in each of the shows, but Casey made sure that he got noticed beyond that. Let's just say that the little ham didn't shy away from the spotlight. As each audience was leaving, someone that's known him since he was a baby would come up to me and say, "Well, that Casey sure seemed to enjoy being on stage."
Of course, the problem with having the kids spend two months rehearsing and peforming in a Disney show is the music. Every day, the boys would go around singing "Bare Necessities" and "I Wanna Be Like You." Unlike some other Disney shows, there really aren't other catchy songs in "The Jungle Book." Just those two. Over and over and over and over again. Even when Casey had the entire show memorized, it was still just "Bare Necessities" and "I Wanna Be Like You."
The thing is that those two songs might be two of the best in the Disney catalog, but not after two months of two kids singing them non-stop in the car.
I'm sure that at the very least Casey will be returning to the stage at some point, butchering songs that I once loved. I suppose it would be hypocritical to ban him from doing it thanks to that whole "president of the theatre" thing.
This was the second play for Marty. Theatre is kind of a group activity where his Asperger's really doesn't affect very much. Don't like making eye contact? Heck, most of the time you're not even supposed to. Get distracted a lot? If you think that's a problem, then you haven't spent much time around actors.
However, this was Casey's first play. He had been made prior to this because he's always been deemed too young. Even before being on-stage, Marty had gone to a couple of classes at a larger community theater and Casey wasn't happy about the too young label for those either.
When Marty was playing a squirrel in "Willy Wonka" last year (it doesn't make a lot of sense if you've only seen the Gene Wilder movie, but its in the book), Casey even went up to the director and sang the chorus of one of the songs, apparently just to prove that he would've been able to learn the material.
While Marty still doesn't like the confines of being told what he has to imagine while he's on stage and only marginally cares about the overall outcome of the production, to Casey this was his chance to shine.
They were doing Disney's "The Jungle Book." Marty got to be a wolf cub and a monkey. Casey got to be a baby elephant. They each had one line.
Last year, there were a group of older kids that kind of took Marty for their mascot and helped keep him focused on what was going on. This year the cast was a bit younger...so Marty's enjoyment was a little less as he was frequently out of place and not sure where to go, leading to a couple of meltdowns.
Casey, despite a rehearsal accident that left him with a black eye (he fell off of a table he was sitting on), was all about it. Memorizing his one line, learning the songs, getting down the choreography.
At one point, when they were in dress rehearsals, the cast was supposed to clear the stage of some stuff during a black-out. As the lights were coming up, there was Casey in the middle of the stage wrestling with a two-step stool that was about as big as he is. I was talking to the show's musical director at the time and suddenly I heard the director yelling, "Seriously? Is little Casey really the one that's supposed to clear that?"
For the record, both boys nailed their one line in each of the shows, but Casey made sure that he got noticed beyond that. Let's just say that the little ham didn't shy away from the spotlight. As each audience was leaving, someone that's known him since he was a baby would come up to me and say, "Well, that Casey sure seemed to enjoy being on stage."
Of course, the problem with having the kids spend two months rehearsing and peforming in a Disney show is the music. Every day, the boys would go around singing "Bare Necessities" and "I Wanna Be Like You." Unlike some other Disney shows, there really aren't other catchy songs in "The Jungle Book." Just those two. Over and over and over and over again. Even when Casey had the entire show memorized, it was still just "Bare Necessities" and "I Wanna Be Like You."
The thing is that those two songs might be two of the best in the Disney catalog, but not after two months of two kids singing them non-stop in the car.
I'm sure that at the very least Casey will be returning to the stage at some point, butchering songs that I once loved. I suppose it would be hypocritical to ban him from doing it thanks to that whole "president of the theatre" thing.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Play Time
The problem with having at least marginally creative children is that sometimes your house turns into a mess but they've got an explanation for it.
Maybe you walk into the room to find action figures scattered all over the place. When you tell them to pick up the toys that they're not playing with, the response that comes is that they're playing with all of them.
"The animal army is meeting over here, but the sea creature army is over there. The dinosaur army hasn't decided who's side they're on so they're over there."
With hopes that maybe something can now be picked up, you ask, "What about the cars?"
"Oh, don't get me started on the cars," comes the response.
When you come back suddenly a bunch of Disney figures have been added to the mix, along with a large bobble-head of former Dodgers pitcher Hideo Nomo.
"Why did you get out more toys?"
"Because Mickey Mouse is trying to take over the world," they say. What about the baseball player? "He's Mickey's bodyguard."
You leave again and come back to find both of your sons dressed in Transformer costumes. Surely, now the toys on the floor can be picked up.
"No," they say. "The armies have united to fight the giant robots."
You leave again and return to find one child still in Optimus Prime gear, but the other now dressed as a dragon.
"The armies have gotten their giant dragon friend to help them battle the giant robots," they proclaim.
You leave once more and return to find your sons now dressed like Darth Vader and a storm trooper.
You ask, "And, then Darth Vader and a storm trooper showed up?"
They nod mutely, each wielding a light saber. Darth switches his on, filling the room with a recorded electric humming, and at that point, you just throw up your hands in defeat.
On the one hand, I get a little sick of my house being a mess. On the other hand, I did the exact same thing when I was a kid.
I remember my one buddy Jeff had a "play room" in his house that was rimmed around three walls with built in bins that were used for storage and had a ping-pong table in the middle (the pool table was in an adjacent room and off-limits). We would set up elaborate sets using blocks, Legos, Lincoln Logs, and add every action figure and army man in the house.
I'm sure that kids play outside now, but back when I was a kid, even though we had Atari, we used to play these really elaborate imaginary games outside. Kind of live action Dungeons & Dragons -- which did exist at the time... I'm old, but not that old -- or Call of Duty that would involve multiple backyards and some adjacent woods. I'd like to hope that at least some kids still do stuff like that, and it's not just all done through on-line gaming.
So, when my kids are using their imaginations, it's hard to come down too hard on them.
Of course, right now Darth Vader and his storm trooper seem to be doing some production number to Taio Cruz's "Dynamite." I could poke my head in, but I'm probably better off not knowing.
Maybe you walk into the room to find action figures scattered all over the place. When you tell them to pick up the toys that they're not playing with, the response that comes is that they're playing with all of them.
"The animal army is meeting over here, but the sea creature army is over there. The dinosaur army hasn't decided who's side they're on so they're over there."
With hopes that maybe something can now be picked up, you ask, "What about the cars?"
"Oh, don't get me started on the cars," comes the response.
When you come back suddenly a bunch of Disney figures have been added to the mix, along with a large bobble-head of former Dodgers pitcher Hideo Nomo.
"Why did you get out more toys?"
"Because Mickey Mouse is trying to take over the world," they say. What about the baseball player? "He's Mickey's bodyguard."
You leave again and come back to find both of your sons dressed in Transformer costumes. Surely, now the toys on the floor can be picked up.
"No," they say. "The armies have united to fight the giant robots."
You leave again and return to find one child still in Optimus Prime gear, but the other now dressed as a dragon.
"The armies have gotten their giant dragon friend to help them battle the giant robots," they proclaim.
You leave once more and return to find your sons now dressed like Darth Vader and a storm trooper.
You ask, "And, then Darth Vader and a storm trooper showed up?"
They nod mutely, each wielding a light saber. Darth switches his on, filling the room with a recorded electric humming, and at that point, you just throw up your hands in defeat.
On the one hand, I get a little sick of my house being a mess. On the other hand, I did the exact same thing when I was a kid.
I remember my one buddy Jeff had a "play room" in his house that was rimmed around three walls with built in bins that were used for storage and had a ping-pong table in the middle (the pool table was in an adjacent room and off-limits). We would set up elaborate sets using blocks, Legos, Lincoln Logs, and add every action figure and army man in the house.
I'm sure that kids play outside now, but back when I was a kid, even though we had Atari, we used to play these really elaborate imaginary games outside. Kind of live action Dungeons & Dragons -- which did exist at the time... I'm old, but not that old -- or Call of Duty that would involve multiple backyards and some adjacent woods. I'd like to hope that at least some kids still do stuff like that, and it's not just all done through on-line gaming.
So, when my kids are using their imaginations, it's hard to come down too hard on them.
Of course, right now Darth Vader and his storm trooper seem to be doing some production number to Taio Cruz's "Dynamite." I could poke my head in, but I'm probably better off not knowing.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Swearing
Unlike many of their contemporaries, my sons are not very well versed when it comes to profanity. Even within the scope of relatives, I've been told that my niece's children out on the East Coast -- who range from both older and younger than Marty and Casey -- have the vocabulary of proverbial sailors.
Marty and Casey aren't even entirely sure what qualifies as swear words. Its not because their parents are against profanity. Amy has no qualms about utilizing the full array of curse words, and I have a tendency to work blue enough that I have to remember to limit the saltiness for certain settings (I've had to say the words "Sorry, Father" and "Sorry, Sister" enough times during my life that I'm sure it will be brought up during my "Defending Your Life" highlight reel.)
However, we have always made it a point to not swear around the kids if possible. That's actually how it was when I was a kid, to be honest. I still remember when I was about 13-years-old and my adult male relatives decided that I was now old enough that the didn't need to edit their language any more. I remember being more than a little surprised that the word 'f*ck' was as popular a term with many of them as it was. Suddenly, there was a lot of f*ck this and f*ck that floating around the garages and backyards. I was fairly impressed, based on how liberally they proceeded to swear once the handcuffs were off, that they had managed to keep a lid on it for as long as they did.
Lately, however, I have found that I have slipped more than normal. Not surprisingly, this has happened while I was behind the wheel. One day not that long ago, I was taking the kids to daycare in our van, as opposed to the Ford Taurus that I typically drive. Turns out that my travel mug full of coffee doesn't really fit in the cup holder of the van. As I rounded a corner, the cup and the coffee went flying. "Son of a bitch!," I let out.
Without hesitation, I heard a chuckle from the rear. "Son of a bitch," Marty said. "That's funny."
I told him that he shouldn't say that, and when he asked why not, I said that it just wasn't a nice thing to say.
"Why did you say it then?," he asked.
I never did come up with a good answer for that.
Then, not long after that, someone cut me off as we were driving to go to a movie, causing me to slam on the brakes. "Damn it!," I said, managing to stop short of unleashing a torrent of colorful descriptions of the driver of the other vehicle.
This time it was Casey that mimicked me, shouting, "Damn it!" a few seconds after I did.
When I said that they did not need to repeat me every time that I happened to cuss, Casey just smirked at me. He's a little more worldly than his brother and I'm pretty sure that he commits every slip from every adult he knows to memory so that he can impress his fellow (future) first graders.
I'll continue to try to watch what I say, but I'm sure I'll slip again. And, I'm just as sure that they'll call me on it when I do.
Marty and Casey aren't even entirely sure what qualifies as swear words. Its not because their parents are against profanity. Amy has no qualms about utilizing the full array of curse words, and I have a tendency to work blue enough that I have to remember to limit the saltiness for certain settings (I've had to say the words "Sorry, Father" and "Sorry, Sister" enough times during my life that I'm sure it will be brought up during my "Defending Your Life" highlight reel.)
However, we have always made it a point to not swear around the kids if possible. That's actually how it was when I was a kid, to be honest. I still remember when I was about 13-years-old and my adult male relatives decided that I was now old enough that the didn't need to edit their language any more. I remember being more than a little surprised that the word 'f*ck' was as popular a term with many of them as it was. Suddenly, there was a lot of f*ck this and f*ck that floating around the garages and backyards. I was fairly impressed, based on how liberally they proceeded to swear once the handcuffs were off, that they had managed to keep a lid on it for as long as they did.
Lately, however, I have found that I have slipped more than normal. Not surprisingly, this has happened while I was behind the wheel. One day not that long ago, I was taking the kids to daycare in our van, as opposed to the Ford Taurus that I typically drive. Turns out that my travel mug full of coffee doesn't really fit in the cup holder of the van. As I rounded a corner, the cup and the coffee went flying. "Son of a bitch!," I let out.
Without hesitation, I heard a chuckle from the rear. "Son of a bitch," Marty said. "That's funny."
I told him that he shouldn't say that, and when he asked why not, I said that it just wasn't a nice thing to say.
"Why did you say it then?," he asked.
I never did come up with a good answer for that.
Then, not long after that, someone cut me off as we were driving to go to a movie, causing me to slam on the brakes. "Damn it!," I said, managing to stop short of unleashing a torrent of colorful descriptions of the driver of the other vehicle.
This time it was Casey that mimicked me, shouting, "Damn it!" a few seconds after I did.
When I said that they did not need to repeat me every time that I happened to cuss, Casey just smirked at me. He's a little more worldly than his brother and I'm pretty sure that he commits every slip from every adult he knows to memory so that he can impress his fellow (future) first graders.
I'll continue to try to watch what I say, but I'm sure I'll slip again. And, I'm just as sure that they'll call me on it when I do.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Brazil
A few months ago, my office hired a part-time guy from Brazil. Yes, Brazil the country. Carnival, bossa nova and all of that. We brought him in partly because in addition to Portuguese, he also speaks Spanish. He turned down an offer to work at Ambercrombie & Fitch to take the office job.
He came in just as nice as could be. Nobody could understand a word that he was saying -- one of our customers, after talking to him on the phone, thought that he was Middle Eastern, and tried to relay back to me what he thought was said...wholly unsuccessfully -- but he said it in a very pleasant tone.
Then we started to learn a little more about him. About how he had been a bee keeper in Hawaii and Florida while studying in the United States. How he has a degree in agronomy that he hasn't figured out anything to do with. How he dragged his young wife to Brazil so that he could finish college, only to have her drag him back to the comparatively frigid Midwest.
All of that was normal. Sort of. I mean, the bee keeping stuff was kind of odd, but if you're an agronomy major there's only so many internships available to you probably.
Our first clue that there was more to him, though, was during an early staff meeting I asked if there were any additional questions or comments. He raised his hand. "Yes, he said, in his lilting accented English and pointing at two coworkers, "I don't like them."
He was joking (we're pretty sure), but it caused us to start paying attention to the gibberish that was coming out of his mouth. Turns out that once you can decipher it, there's a lot of stuff like that. It's like having a South American Latka Gravas in a shirt and tie.
He told one story about when he tried to buy toothpaste when he first came to the U.S. in Florida. He translated the Portuguese "pasta de dente" into paste for teeth. However, he struggled a little with the "th" sound, so he went into the store and said to the lady behind the counter, "I need paste for my teets." We're not clear on exactly what he was given, but apparently he can run a marathon without chafing.
Then, we found out that he's actually a published children's storybook writer in his native country. The story is about a frog and a fly that fall in love with each other. After reading it in both Portuguese and English, I told him that it was better in Portuguese. I wasn't trying to be insulting...it actually did flow better in the language in which it was written. He acknowledged that trying to get words about frog on fly love to translate wasn't as easy as he thought it would be.
All of that was great, but then came this...his You Tube work. We're honestly not sure what to make of it, but it did make the other manager in our area laugh so hard that he hyperventilated.
Lord knows what's coming next. Were he Argentinian, I'd probably be worried that something might come out about his lineage, but being Brazillian he seems safe with that. The biggest worry is finding out that he's got another name...he's already got too many to fit on a business card. It's like 10 or 11 words, if you count all the de's.
One thing my sitcom life was missing was the truly wacky character. Sometimes if you just stay patient, inspiration comes walking in the door...fresh off an Ambercrombie & Fitch employee orientation.
He came in just as nice as could be. Nobody could understand a word that he was saying -- one of our customers, after talking to him on the phone, thought that he was Middle Eastern, and tried to relay back to me what he thought was said...wholly unsuccessfully -- but he said it in a very pleasant tone.
Then we started to learn a little more about him. About how he had been a bee keeper in Hawaii and Florida while studying in the United States. How he has a degree in agronomy that he hasn't figured out anything to do with. How he dragged his young wife to Brazil so that he could finish college, only to have her drag him back to the comparatively frigid Midwest.
All of that was normal. Sort of. I mean, the bee keeping stuff was kind of odd, but if you're an agronomy major there's only so many internships available to you probably.
Our first clue that there was more to him, though, was during an early staff meeting I asked if there were any additional questions or comments. He raised his hand. "Yes, he said, in his lilting accented English and pointing at two coworkers, "I don't like them."
He was joking (we're pretty sure), but it caused us to start paying attention to the gibberish that was coming out of his mouth. Turns out that once you can decipher it, there's a lot of stuff like that. It's like having a South American Latka Gravas in a shirt and tie.
He told one story about when he tried to buy toothpaste when he first came to the U.S. in Florida. He translated the Portuguese "pasta de dente" into paste for teeth. However, he struggled a little with the "th" sound, so he went into the store and said to the lady behind the counter, "I need paste for my teets." We're not clear on exactly what he was given, but apparently he can run a marathon without chafing.
Then, we found out that he's actually a published children's storybook writer in his native country. The story is about a frog and a fly that fall in love with each other. After reading it in both Portuguese and English, I told him that it was better in Portuguese. I wasn't trying to be insulting...it actually did flow better in the language in which it was written. He acknowledged that trying to get words about frog on fly love to translate wasn't as easy as he thought it would be.
All of that was great, but then came this...his You Tube work. We're honestly not sure what to make of it, but it did make the other manager in our area laugh so hard that he hyperventilated.
Lord knows what's coming next. Were he Argentinian, I'd probably be worried that something might come out about his lineage, but being Brazillian he seems safe with that. The biggest worry is finding out that he's got another name...he's already got too many to fit on a business card. It's like 10 or 11 words, if you count all the de's.
One thing my sitcom life was missing was the truly wacky character. Sometimes if you just stay patient, inspiration comes walking in the door...fresh off an Ambercrombie & Fitch employee orientation.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Fourth of July
Independence Day. The Fourth of July. It's a holiday that I had drilled into my head as a child in Delaware, which like any of the original colonies, has numerous markers heralding the spot where different significant things happened. "Washington slept here" signs were a standard punchline when I was a kid, but funny though they might be, they were something that I actually saw on a regular basis. Half of the schools are named for Revolutionary War heroes, so you begin to learn the names even before you have any idea of what they mean. And, being so close to Philadelphia, I was well versed in Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell and the various Franklin-named institutions.
However, I've usually been ambivalent about the holiday itself. I don't really care about fireworks, I don't really like being in crowds and I don't have that strong of an affinity for parties.
My sons, on the other hand, feel differently. A couple of years ago they spent the Fourth at their aunt's wedding in Texas, hanging out at their new uncle's parents' house. Down there, they don't believe in just having some fireworks...they have the usual town displays like everyone else, but then every other house has their own set of explosions that the ferocity of which would cause widespread panic up North.
Oh and at this particular soiree, they were also shooting off AK-47's. Now, Marty and Casey think that you're only really celebrating the birth of the nation if you've got some assault rifles to put into the mix.
To this day, the boys think that they should get to go to Texas every year for Independence Day...something that makes their uncle feel as though he's done his part in educating them.
One of the things that I find odd is that for as long as I can remember, part of my Fourth of July weekend usually involves watching Wimbledon. Maybe it's just a reminder that we only have to play at paying attention to the royal family and all of the fancy-pants goings-ons...we're not forced to do it. (And, really, how many Americans walking the streets right now honestly have no idea that we even waged war with England? Then again, how many Americans would have trouble telling which was which, England, Great Britain or Canada? You can hope that we're smarter than that, but the low-end comedy of Jeff Foxworthy and Jay Leno has proven otherwise.)
For my part, I have gotten in the habit in recent years of watching documentaries on the History Channel and then the movie version of the musical, "1776." (Amy, a "Boy Meets World" fan -- which, who knew there was such a thing -- still chuckles at Mr. Feeny playing a singing John Adams.)
Speaking of John Adams, its hard not to note that he tends to be a favorite of writers, particularly comedy writers. Not as a writer -- Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison were all better -- but as a person.
The second president was hard-headed and had trouble not saying whatever was bothering him, even though that had a tendency to really annoy people, including his own family. He didn't understand why people didn't see things his way, not so much out of arrogance, but because he really thought that what he believed was the best position. Anyone that's ever spent time in a writers' room on a TV show, will recognize those traits.
He was also just as critical of himself as he was of others. He was exceedingly confident, and didn't understand what the problem with that was. The guy spent most of his life knowing that people didn't like him, but could never figure out why that was such an issue. Based on his writings, he was genuinely perplexed about why people had such a problem with him. Again, most comedy writers can easily relate.
And, then the guy had an inferiority complex. He was the first vice president...and the first to point out that it's a stupid position. While he helped shape the Declaration of Independence, he was in England when the Constitution was being written and was hearing about things a month after they happened, causing him to be pretty useless (Thomas Jefferson was stuck in the same way, but he wasn't quite the worrier that Adams was). And, when he finally got to be president, it lasted for one-term and he was defeated by one of his friends (Jefferson), who completely ripped him in public.
He also had a wife that was much better liked than he was...another thing that most comedy writers can get. People liked Abigail Adams so much that they would keep writing to her even when they weren't on speaking terms with her husband. We're not talking about just anyone... most of the Founding Fathers thought that John Adams most redeeming quality was Abigail. Its like having all of your peers tolerate having you at a party, because that's the only way that your wife will come (something that I'm pretty sure has happened with me personally).
Plus, while Adams was more of a legal writer in public life, the guy was a closet romantic...writing heartfelt letters to the woman he loved. He was the proverbial pain in the ass with a heart of gold, which is how most writers see themselves. He couldn't even stay angry at Jefferson, trading letters with him during retirement right up until they both died. (If you don't know the story, Adams and Jefferson both died on the same day, July 4, 1826...or exactly 50 years after they signed the Declaration of Independence.)
Wasn't really a good president, spent time worrying that everyone liked and respected his peers more than him, but was too stubborn to ever go away. Where he alive today, he probably would've made it through law school and then gone to write for a David E. Kelley law drama...where he'd fit right in.
However, I've usually been ambivalent about the holiday itself. I don't really care about fireworks, I don't really like being in crowds and I don't have that strong of an affinity for parties.
My sons, on the other hand, feel differently. A couple of years ago they spent the Fourth at their aunt's wedding in Texas, hanging out at their new uncle's parents' house. Down there, they don't believe in just having some fireworks...they have the usual town displays like everyone else, but then every other house has their own set of explosions that the ferocity of which would cause widespread panic up North.
Oh and at this particular soiree, they were also shooting off AK-47's. Now, Marty and Casey think that you're only really celebrating the birth of the nation if you've got some assault rifles to put into the mix.
To this day, the boys think that they should get to go to Texas every year for Independence Day...something that makes their uncle feel as though he's done his part in educating them.
One of the things that I find odd is that for as long as I can remember, part of my Fourth of July weekend usually involves watching Wimbledon. Maybe it's just a reminder that we only have to play at paying attention to the royal family and all of the fancy-pants goings-ons...we're not forced to do it. (And, really, how many Americans walking the streets right now honestly have no idea that we even waged war with England? Then again, how many Americans would have trouble telling which was which, England, Great Britain or Canada? You can hope that we're smarter than that, but the low-end comedy of Jeff Foxworthy and Jay Leno has proven otherwise.)
For my part, I have gotten in the habit in recent years of watching documentaries on the History Channel and then the movie version of the musical, "1776." (Amy, a "Boy Meets World" fan -- which, who knew there was such a thing -- still chuckles at Mr. Feeny playing a singing John Adams.)
Speaking of John Adams, its hard not to note that he tends to be a favorite of writers, particularly comedy writers. Not as a writer -- Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison were all better -- but as a person.
The second president was hard-headed and had trouble not saying whatever was bothering him, even though that had a tendency to really annoy people, including his own family. He didn't understand why people didn't see things his way, not so much out of arrogance, but because he really thought that what he believed was the best position. Anyone that's ever spent time in a writers' room on a TV show, will recognize those traits.
He was also just as critical of himself as he was of others. He was exceedingly confident, and didn't understand what the problem with that was. The guy spent most of his life knowing that people didn't like him, but could never figure out why that was such an issue. Based on his writings, he was genuinely perplexed about why people had such a problem with him. Again, most comedy writers can easily relate.
And, then the guy had an inferiority complex. He was the first vice president...and the first to point out that it's a stupid position. While he helped shape the Declaration of Independence, he was in England when the Constitution was being written and was hearing about things a month after they happened, causing him to be pretty useless (Thomas Jefferson was stuck in the same way, but he wasn't quite the worrier that Adams was). And, when he finally got to be president, it lasted for one-term and he was defeated by one of his friends (Jefferson), who completely ripped him in public.
He also had a wife that was much better liked than he was...another thing that most comedy writers can get. People liked Abigail Adams so much that they would keep writing to her even when they weren't on speaking terms with her husband. We're not talking about just anyone... most of the Founding Fathers thought that John Adams most redeeming quality was Abigail. Its like having all of your peers tolerate having you at a party, because that's the only way that your wife will come (something that I'm pretty sure has happened with me personally).
Plus, while Adams was more of a legal writer in public life, the guy was a closet romantic...writing heartfelt letters to the woman he loved. He was the proverbial pain in the ass with a heart of gold, which is how most writers see themselves. He couldn't even stay angry at Jefferson, trading letters with him during retirement right up until they both died. (If you don't know the story, Adams and Jefferson both died on the same day, July 4, 1826...or exactly 50 years after they signed the Declaration of Independence.)
Wasn't really a good president, spent time worrying that everyone liked and respected his peers more than him, but was too stubborn to ever go away. Where he alive today, he probably would've made it through law school and then gone to write for a David E. Kelley law drama...where he'd fit right in.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Sick
I hate being sick.
They always say that doctors make the worst patients. Well, apparently, I missed my calling because I hate feeling under the weather. I despise it.
And, when I don't feel well, I am even more miserable to be around than normal...and that's saying something.
Earlier this week, I had to got to a sleep-study to see if I have sleep apnea. The video that they show you to explain what's going to happen, which features a bald guy with glasses. The only other patient at this place was another guy that was bald, with glasses. I have no idea why my bald, bespectacled brethren are the poster children for sleep issues, but apparently we are.
Here's the thing about a sleep-study...you don't sleep. They hook you up to various electrodes that measure this and that. Then they go into another room to make sure that the camera and intercom works so that they can watch you all night. Then they tell you to relax and go to sleep.
Sure.
You're alone in a room with a TV and a Sleepmatic bed, and a stranger watching you in another room. As I flipped through the channels on the TV, I noticed that it got the Playboy channel. Apparently there's a fertility clinic in another part of the building. Then I remembered the stupid camera and intercom. So, instead I watched the Bill Murray classic, "Meatballs" and "Mythbusters" until they told me that I needed to try to sleep.
Oh, I laid there. I tried to roll over, entangling myself in the wires. Finally, I semi-rolled onto my shoulder and stayed there. Time past slowly. When I drifted off a little bit, the person buzzed in to tell me to try to lay on my back. So, I did. And then I laid there some more. And, then I had to go to the bathroom. The more I tried to not think about having to go to the bathroom, the more that I had to. Finally, I had to figure out how to do that.
Here's the thing, the intercom can buzz in to you, but they don't really tell you how to signal them. I tried to just say, "I have to go to the bathroom" in a normal voice. Nothing happened. I tried it a little louder. Nothing.
I started trying to find some paper to write a note to hold up to the camera when the intercom buzzed and the voice on the other end said, "Do you need to use the bathroom?"
After that, I started the whole process again until finally I heard them waking up the other patient. Then they came for me. I don't know how much I actually slept, but it didn't feel like much at all.
With glue and adhesive from the electrodes still all over me, I went to my office. I finally left early to go try to get some sleep and when I woke up, I had a 102-degree fever.
For the rest of the week, I've been miserable and I've had to restrain myself from inflicting that misery on too many others. My staff seemed annoyed that I didn't want to talk to them, but in reality, when I'm sick I normally have to hold my tongue to keep from screaming at anyone and everyone. As it was, I came dangerously close to telling one of the owners of the company that work for to go do something unseemly with his laptop computer.
I'm not any better at home. I don't like people touching me when I'm sick...which is an issue with two kids around. The more I don't want them to touch me, the more they want to...in part, because they figure if they get sick they can hang out an watch TV. Funny that I never get to do that.
Instead, I just end up in some sort of sickness purgatory...forcing myself to do whatever I can, while not really accomplishing anything.
At the end of the workweek, I finally had occasion to talk to my boss on the phone. I sounded like Froggy from "The Little Rascals," which was actually a step-up. For the past two days, I've sounded like Harvey Fierstein. He helpfully pointed out that I sounded horrible. Thankfully, it would've hurt my throat too much to unleash a torrent of obscenities.
Worse than my voice, I'm coughing...which is pretty much the most obnoxious symptom there is. Vomitting and diarhea can at least be done in private. There's no way to get around people knowing that you're coughing and there's no way for others to hide their distasteful looks that you're spreading germs. You can do the Dracula cover -- coughing into the crook of your arm -- all you want...it doesn't make any difference. Lepers are treated more sympathetically than someone with cough.
I'd love to think that I'm going to get to rest over the weekend, but I don't really have those things. I just have different jobs that I do on the weekend, with different people that I have to try not to yell at.
Meanwhile, I'm sucking down so many vitamins that GNC should be offering me a stock option. Anytime now, all that immunity boosting better start paying off soon, or there's going to be a whole lot of yelling going on up in here.
As soon as I can actually talk, that is.
They always say that doctors make the worst patients. Well, apparently, I missed my calling because I hate feeling under the weather. I despise it.
And, when I don't feel well, I am even more miserable to be around than normal...and that's saying something.
Earlier this week, I had to got to a sleep-study to see if I have sleep apnea. The video that they show you to explain what's going to happen, which features a bald guy with glasses. The only other patient at this place was another guy that was bald, with glasses. I have no idea why my bald, bespectacled brethren are the poster children for sleep issues, but apparently we are.
Here's the thing about a sleep-study...you don't sleep. They hook you up to various electrodes that measure this and that. Then they go into another room to make sure that the camera and intercom works so that they can watch you all night. Then they tell you to relax and go to sleep.
Sure.
You're alone in a room with a TV and a Sleepmatic bed, and a stranger watching you in another room. As I flipped through the channels on the TV, I noticed that it got the Playboy channel. Apparently there's a fertility clinic in another part of the building. Then I remembered the stupid camera and intercom. So, instead I watched the Bill Murray classic, "Meatballs" and "Mythbusters" until they told me that I needed to try to sleep.
Oh, I laid there. I tried to roll over, entangling myself in the wires. Finally, I semi-rolled onto my shoulder and stayed there. Time past slowly. When I drifted off a little bit, the person buzzed in to tell me to try to lay on my back. So, I did. And then I laid there some more. And, then I had to go to the bathroom. The more I tried to not think about having to go to the bathroom, the more that I had to. Finally, I had to figure out how to do that.
Here's the thing, the intercom can buzz in to you, but they don't really tell you how to signal them. I tried to just say, "I have to go to the bathroom" in a normal voice. Nothing happened. I tried it a little louder. Nothing.
I started trying to find some paper to write a note to hold up to the camera when the intercom buzzed and the voice on the other end said, "Do you need to use the bathroom?"
After that, I started the whole process again until finally I heard them waking up the other patient. Then they came for me. I don't know how much I actually slept, but it didn't feel like much at all.
With glue and adhesive from the electrodes still all over me, I went to my office. I finally left early to go try to get some sleep and when I woke up, I had a 102-degree fever.
For the rest of the week, I've been miserable and I've had to restrain myself from inflicting that misery on too many others. My staff seemed annoyed that I didn't want to talk to them, but in reality, when I'm sick I normally have to hold my tongue to keep from screaming at anyone and everyone. As it was, I came dangerously close to telling one of the owners of the company that work for to go do something unseemly with his laptop computer.
I'm not any better at home. I don't like people touching me when I'm sick...which is an issue with two kids around. The more I don't want them to touch me, the more they want to...in part, because they figure if they get sick they can hang out an watch TV. Funny that I never get to do that.
Instead, I just end up in some sort of sickness purgatory...forcing myself to do whatever I can, while not really accomplishing anything.
At the end of the workweek, I finally had occasion to talk to my boss on the phone. I sounded like Froggy from "The Little Rascals," which was actually a step-up. For the past two days, I've sounded like Harvey Fierstein. He helpfully pointed out that I sounded horrible. Thankfully, it would've hurt my throat too much to unleash a torrent of obscenities.
Worse than my voice, I'm coughing...which is pretty much the most obnoxious symptom there is. Vomitting and diarhea can at least be done in private. There's no way to get around people knowing that you're coughing and there's no way for others to hide their distasteful looks that you're spreading germs. You can do the Dracula cover -- coughing into the crook of your arm -- all you want...it doesn't make any difference. Lepers are treated more sympathetically than someone with cough.
I'd love to think that I'm going to get to rest over the weekend, but I don't really have those things. I just have different jobs that I do on the weekend, with different people that I have to try not to yell at.
Meanwhile, I'm sucking down so many vitamins that GNC should be offering me a stock option. Anytime now, all that immunity boosting better start paying off soon, or there's going to be a whole lot of yelling going on up in here.
As soon as I can actually talk, that is.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Wit
As we were getting ready to drive to Detroit for my niece's high school graduation party, Casey walked up to me and said, "How old are you again?"
"Forty-three," I replied.
"Huh," he said. "I could've sworn it was in the 50s."
I love that kid. I'd like to kill him most of the time, but I love that kid. Not that long ago, when his brother was annoying him, Casey exclaimed, "Stop being annoying like me!"
Of course, Amy thinks that he takes after me. That doesn't really bode well for what she thinks of me, because he drives her nuts. Casey, for his part, does still view me as a co-conspirator... and apparently I'm not good at setting myself apart as an adult.
All too often, when Casey is pretending to be a zombie to frighten Marty -- who's an easy mark, since his entire strategy is just to say, "I am a zombie" -- I guess I'm not really supposed to join in. (Have I mentioned just how easy a mark Marty is?)
Casey, of course, was all about going to the graduation party. His cousin is a beautiful 18-year-old girl, with many friends just like herself. Casey considers himself to be in his element in that crowd. There's a possibility that someday life with slap the ego out of him, but it would take a lot to get him to notice.
He believes himself not just popular, but a stellar singer and dancer who is only days away from being discovered ala Justin Bieber. Unfortunately, his opinion of his talents and the reality don't really mesh.
I'll give him credit, though, he goes along to his own beat. He was in an Apple store playing with a new iPod. While Marty was playing games on a different model, Casey was wearing headphones hovering over one of the displays. I wandered past one time to find him watching an episode of "The Office." A few minutes later, I looked again and noticed him bobbing his head. Then, with the headphones on, he was dancing as though he was all set for a flashmob to show up and join him.
When I walked over to see what he was listening to, I found out that it was '60s bossa nova king Sergio Mendes.
While Casey is the one that normally hurls insults at me, it's not like he's entirely alone.
One day, as they were climbing into the minivan, Marty looked at me and said, "When you and mom get divorced, we're going to go live with Mom and her new husband. Just so that you know."
Picking up the cue, Casey said, "It's not that we don't like you, it's just that we like Mom better."
"Yeah," Marty said. "She's our mom after all."
As I tried to debate whether to ask if Mommy's new husband had a name -- fearing that I might get an answer -- Casey smirked at me and said, "Don't worry, maybe you can dress up like a baby and start coming to our daycare."
I love that kid.
"Forty-three," I replied.
"Huh," he said. "I could've sworn it was in the 50s."
I love that kid. I'd like to kill him most of the time, but I love that kid. Not that long ago, when his brother was annoying him, Casey exclaimed, "Stop being annoying like me!"
Of course, Amy thinks that he takes after me. That doesn't really bode well for what she thinks of me, because he drives her nuts. Casey, for his part, does still view me as a co-conspirator... and apparently I'm not good at setting myself apart as an adult.
All too often, when Casey is pretending to be a zombie to frighten Marty -- who's an easy mark, since his entire strategy is just to say, "I am a zombie" -- I guess I'm not really supposed to join in. (Have I mentioned just how easy a mark Marty is?)
Casey, of course, was all about going to the graduation party. His cousin is a beautiful 18-year-old girl, with many friends just like herself. Casey considers himself to be in his element in that crowd. There's a possibility that someday life with slap the ego out of him, but it would take a lot to get him to notice.
He believes himself not just popular, but a stellar singer and dancer who is only days away from being discovered ala Justin Bieber. Unfortunately, his opinion of his talents and the reality don't really mesh.
I'll give him credit, though, he goes along to his own beat. He was in an Apple store playing with a new iPod. While Marty was playing games on a different model, Casey was wearing headphones hovering over one of the displays. I wandered past one time to find him watching an episode of "The Office." A few minutes later, I looked again and noticed him bobbing his head. Then, with the headphones on, he was dancing as though he was all set for a flashmob to show up and join him.
When I walked over to see what he was listening to, I found out that it was '60s bossa nova king Sergio Mendes.
While Casey is the one that normally hurls insults at me, it's not like he's entirely alone.
One day, as they were climbing into the minivan, Marty looked at me and said, "When you and mom get divorced, we're going to go live with Mom and her new husband. Just so that you know."
Picking up the cue, Casey said, "It's not that we don't like you, it's just that we like Mom better."
"Yeah," Marty said. "She's our mom after all."
As I tried to debate whether to ask if Mommy's new husband had a name -- fearing that I might get an answer -- Casey smirked at me and said, "Don't worry, maybe you can dress up like a baby and start coming to our daycare."
I love that kid.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Father's Day
Today is Father's Day, which is always an odd day for me. My father died when I was seven - in 1975 - and that event is probably the single biggest of my life, realistically. His death changed and shaped almost everything from that time forward. I bear only a passing resemblance in a lot of ways to my three siblings, the youngest of which is still 10 years older than me, primarily because of the difference in the amount of time that we had a father.
I don't drink more than socially because of him. I don't say goodbye to people because of his death. I spent most of my life afraid that I was going to die in my early-40's the way that he did. I almost didn't have children because of my fears that any child might have to experience what I did. And, my development as a person has always been a little off due to not having had a father.
My father was colorful. A star high school basketball player, instead of college, he chose to marry my mother and become a bookie. I don't know that he chose to be an alcoholic. In piecing together stories, I'm not entirely sure that he wasn't already an alcoholic by the time that he was making those decisions in his late teens.
He was also big...6-foot-6 and at his heaviest around 300 pounds. Into my 20's when I would go back to my hometown of Wilmington, Delaware, I would still be introduced to certain groups of people as "Big Paul's youngest." I would then be greeted with stories, memories of me as a toddler at either a bar or a racetrack. The local horse racing establishment, Delaware Park, was an unintentional playground for me. To this day, I remember the smell of the stale beer, the cigar smoke and the old men that would greet my father as he walked through the concourse. I still have memories of the early-70's decor of the offices, where I was left sometimes with a secretary so that my father could tend to business. Ironically, when I tried to take my own son to the park to watch some early morning training sessions on a trip, I was banned from walking with him through the same building, since it's now a casino.
My father died when I was young enough that I have really only fleeting memories of him. I remember more of my early childhood than most people...things that I committed to my a section of my consciousness right after he died in an effort to remember. But those memories are through the prism of a child. They're not firm. They don't have any frame of reference.
I remember the good. The time that he bought me chicks at Easter even though we lived in an apartment. The Christmas that he hit a big bet - in addition to making book, he turned too much of the profit around on bets of his own - and I awoke to a living room full of unwrapped toys, bought on a Christmas Eve shopping spree.
He loved movies, one of the things that were imparted on me, and he was fairly indiscriminate in what he exposed me to. I saw "The Godfather" during its original run, which would have made me 4-years-old. I remember going to see Bond movies with him and, infamously, to see Ralph Bakshi's X-rated animated film "Fritz the Cat."
He also exposed me to live theater, taking me to my first full-length production, "Jesus Christ Superstar."
Of course, I also remember the bad. The fact that my piggy-bank never seemed to actually hold any of the money I was given at birthdays. The fights with my mother, the later ones that frequently resulted in my dad going to live with my grandmother.
Waking up to use the bathroom when I was first sleeping in a bed to find a kitchen full of men playing cards, the boisterous nature of which caused some nightmares that I can still recall. The times that I was still at a bar past midnight when I was 4 and 5-years-old. The depression that one time led him to tear apart his own mother's place in search of a gun. And, the final stages of his life, when he was vomiting blood from perforated ulcers that were unable to heal because of his addiction to alcohol.
I remember where I was when the news came that he had died and one of the only real things that I can pinpoint about what I felt about that is that there wasn't surprise. I don't remember crying that much - although certainly I could just have pushed that aside - although I do remember stealing away from the get-together after his funeral to go cry by myself. Famously, I apparently walked into the wake for my father and exclaimed, "Well, there you are!" to the casket, starting a lifetime of using humor to try to deflect having to expose real feelings. His mother, my grandmother, who had already lost a husband and two children previously, sat at his wake loudly commenting about the people coming to show their respects. In her defense, she was hard of hearing and believed herself to be whispering. She wasn't.
For years, my father's grave was unmarked...something that my siblings and I would continually catch grief about from his extended family. My sister was the executor of his will and, being 23 at the time of his death, was a little overwhelmed. My mother, at that point mostly disabled from a car accident, was only involved to a point. And, my brothers were still teenagers. Nobody at the time knew what they were doing, and at a certain point, nobody wanted to go back and correct it.
Last year, the 35th since his death, I finally went through the process of getting a headstone for my father through the VA. It was a little more tricky since I was doing it decades later and most of his Army file was destroyed in a fire in the '70's, but eventually everything was signed that needed to be signed and I got an e-mail from the cemetery letting me know that the stone was in place.
Someday, I'll probably go see it.
My sons don't really know much about this. The man that they call Grandpa is really my best friend's father...the head of the family that I lived with during most of my teen years. They kind of know that I have siblings that aren't my best friend and his brothers, but only vaguely. When I mention my sister, most of the time they think I'm referring to my other best friend - their godmother, the woman that introduced their parents.
When the death of my father came up about a month ago, my two boys jumped up, suddenly worried that something had happened to their "Grandpa." When it was explained that the reference was to my actual father, they calmed down and went back to watching SpongeBob.
Eventually, as they get older, they'll start to catch on to the stories about their real grandfather. At some point, I'll let them hear it all. Both the good and the bad. By the time that they hear it though, hopefully the positive influences that they're getting from some of the same male role models that helped move me into manhood will already be what defines them.
Every day, though, I say a little prayer that one of the positive influences on their life is me. I learned what not to do from my father, but thankfully, many men stepped forward during my childhood to try to teach me the right way. With luck, what I pass along to my two sons will honor what they imparted on me.
And, maybe...just maybe...I can also impart a little of the good from "Big Paul."
I don't drink more than socially because of him. I don't say goodbye to people because of his death. I spent most of my life afraid that I was going to die in my early-40's the way that he did. I almost didn't have children because of my fears that any child might have to experience what I did. And, my development as a person has always been a little off due to not having had a father.
My father was colorful. A star high school basketball player, instead of college, he chose to marry my mother and become a bookie. I don't know that he chose to be an alcoholic. In piecing together stories, I'm not entirely sure that he wasn't already an alcoholic by the time that he was making those decisions in his late teens.
He was also big...6-foot-6 and at his heaviest around 300 pounds. Into my 20's when I would go back to my hometown of Wilmington, Delaware, I would still be introduced to certain groups of people as "Big Paul's youngest." I would then be greeted with stories, memories of me as a toddler at either a bar or a racetrack. The local horse racing establishment, Delaware Park, was an unintentional playground for me. To this day, I remember the smell of the stale beer, the cigar smoke and the old men that would greet my father as he walked through the concourse. I still have memories of the early-70's decor of the offices, where I was left sometimes with a secretary so that my father could tend to business. Ironically, when I tried to take my own son to the park to watch some early morning training sessions on a trip, I was banned from walking with him through the same building, since it's now a casino.
My father died when I was young enough that I have really only fleeting memories of him. I remember more of my early childhood than most people...things that I committed to my a section of my consciousness right after he died in an effort to remember. But those memories are through the prism of a child. They're not firm. They don't have any frame of reference.
I remember the good. The time that he bought me chicks at Easter even though we lived in an apartment. The Christmas that he hit a big bet - in addition to making book, he turned too much of the profit around on bets of his own - and I awoke to a living room full of unwrapped toys, bought on a Christmas Eve shopping spree.
He loved movies, one of the things that were imparted on me, and he was fairly indiscriminate in what he exposed me to. I saw "The Godfather" during its original run, which would have made me 4-years-old. I remember going to see Bond movies with him and, infamously, to see Ralph Bakshi's X-rated animated film "Fritz the Cat."
He also exposed me to live theater, taking me to my first full-length production, "Jesus Christ Superstar."
Of course, I also remember the bad. The fact that my piggy-bank never seemed to actually hold any of the money I was given at birthdays. The fights with my mother, the later ones that frequently resulted in my dad going to live with my grandmother.
Waking up to use the bathroom when I was first sleeping in a bed to find a kitchen full of men playing cards, the boisterous nature of which caused some nightmares that I can still recall. The times that I was still at a bar past midnight when I was 4 and 5-years-old. The depression that one time led him to tear apart his own mother's place in search of a gun. And, the final stages of his life, when he was vomiting blood from perforated ulcers that were unable to heal because of his addiction to alcohol.
I remember where I was when the news came that he had died and one of the only real things that I can pinpoint about what I felt about that is that there wasn't surprise. I don't remember crying that much - although certainly I could just have pushed that aside - although I do remember stealing away from the get-together after his funeral to go cry by myself. Famously, I apparently walked into the wake for my father and exclaimed, "Well, there you are!" to the casket, starting a lifetime of using humor to try to deflect having to expose real feelings. His mother, my grandmother, who had already lost a husband and two children previously, sat at his wake loudly commenting about the people coming to show their respects. In her defense, she was hard of hearing and believed herself to be whispering. She wasn't.
For years, my father's grave was unmarked...something that my siblings and I would continually catch grief about from his extended family. My sister was the executor of his will and, being 23 at the time of his death, was a little overwhelmed. My mother, at that point mostly disabled from a car accident, was only involved to a point. And, my brothers were still teenagers. Nobody at the time knew what they were doing, and at a certain point, nobody wanted to go back and correct it.
Last year, the 35th since his death, I finally went through the process of getting a headstone for my father through the VA. It was a little more tricky since I was doing it decades later and most of his Army file was destroyed in a fire in the '70's, but eventually everything was signed that needed to be signed and I got an e-mail from the cemetery letting me know that the stone was in place.
Someday, I'll probably go see it.
My sons don't really know much about this. The man that they call Grandpa is really my best friend's father...the head of the family that I lived with during most of my teen years. They kind of know that I have siblings that aren't my best friend and his brothers, but only vaguely. When I mention my sister, most of the time they think I'm referring to my other best friend - their godmother, the woman that introduced their parents.
When the death of my father came up about a month ago, my two boys jumped up, suddenly worried that something had happened to their "Grandpa." When it was explained that the reference was to my actual father, they calmed down and went back to watching SpongeBob.
Eventually, as they get older, they'll start to catch on to the stories about their real grandfather. At some point, I'll let them hear it all. Both the good and the bad. By the time that they hear it though, hopefully the positive influences that they're getting from some of the same male role models that helped move me into manhood will already be what defines them.
Every day, though, I say a little prayer that one of the positive influences on their life is me. I learned what not to do from my father, but thankfully, many men stepped forward during my childhood to try to teach me the right way. With luck, what I pass along to my two sons will honor what they imparted on me.
And, maybe...just maybe...I can also impart a little of the good from "Big Paul."
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Hangin' Tough
Casey is preparing to make his stage debut in a children's production of "The Jungle Book." While he was at the rehearsal two nights ago, my cell phone rang and I couldn't quite get to it. When I listened to the message, what I heard was, "Um...hi...um...Casey took a little spill...we're pretty sure that nothing's broken..."
Always a fun thing to hear in relation to your 6-year-old. Luckily, we were only about three blocks away, so Amy raced over like any good concerned parent would. Turns out that while sitting on a table that he shouldn't have been on, Casey fell off and slammed his face into another table. When she texted me a picture, he looked like DeNiro in "Raging Bull."
Once he arrived home, he tried to stop Amy from telling me what had happened, not realizing that I already knew. Ever since, he's tried to hide the true story of his black-eye, not thinking that it sounds manly enough...falling from a table while rehearsing a musical. As we were driving to the library last evening, Casey said to me, "Will you stop telling people how I got my black-eye?" I wasn't sure who I had actually told, so I asked for a clarification. "You keep telling all the people that you know," he said. "What do you want me to tell them?," I asked, "That you got into a fight?"
"Yeah," he said. "Tell them that I was in a fight."
I offered up that we could just tell people that he was in a motorcycle accident, but he felt that we didn't want to oversell it. Of course, always being helpful, Marty altered the story with one tiny little detail...instead of just a fight, Casey got into a fight with WWE star John Cena in his version. Somehow, that met with his little brother's approval.
Enjoying his new tough guy look, I've caught Casey looking at himself in the mirror. This morning, I walked by to find him gazing at himself and saying, "Who are you looking at?" I stopped him and corrected him. "No, no," I said, in my best "Father Knows Best" voice. "You're supposed to say, 'Are you talkin' to me? I don't see no one else here, so you must be talkin' to me." From the other room, Marty yelled, "Is that for real? Are you really supposed to say that?" As I left the bathroom, Casey was practicing his Travis Bickle.
Casey also at one point walked into the room, threw up the old double horns above his head and exclaimed, "Rock-N-Roll!" Apparently a black-eye gives a kid that listens to Allison Krauss and Justin Bieber license to act like he's been hanging out with Slash.
The danger here is that Casey is now enjoying his bad-ass look that he might decide to try to replicate it once he heals. That's just what I need is a kid that wants to perpetually look like Rocky Balboa after 10-rounds. It's not like my kids aren't weird enough as it is.
Unfortunately, Marty is less clear on the concept. Instead of a black-eye, he's shooting for a busted nose. He believes that a bloody nose is a tough guy hallmark. Odd that it's the kid how wants people to believe that he got into a fight with a professional wrestler that I have to worry about less.
Always a fun thing to hear in relation to your 6-year-old. Luckily, we were only about three blocks away, so Amy raced over like any good concerned parent would. Turns out that while sitting on a table that he shouldn't have been on, Casey fell off and slammed his face into another table. When she texted me a picture, he looked like DeNiro in "Raging Bull."
Once he arrived home, he tried to stop Amy from telling me what had happened, not realizing that I already knew. Ever since, he's tried to hide the true story of his black-eye, not thinking that it sounds manly enough...falling from a table while rehearsing a musical. As we were driving to the library last evening, Casey said to me, "Will you stop telling people how I got my black-eye?" I wasn't sure who I had actually told, so I asked for a clarification. "You keep telling all the people that you know," he said. "What do you want me to tell them?," I asked, "That you got into a fight?"
"Yeah," he said. "Tell them that I was in a fight."
I offered up that we could just tell people that he was in a motorcycle accident, but he felt that we didn't want to oversell it. Of course, always being helpful, Marty altered the story with one tiny little detail...instead of just a fight, Casey got into a fight with WWE star John Cena in his version. Somehow, that met with his little brother's approval.
Enjoying his new tough guy look, I've caught Casey looking at himself in the mirror. This morning, I walked by to find him gazing at himself and saying, "Who are you looking at?" I stopped him and corrected him. "No, no," I said, in my best "Father Knows Best" voice. "You're supposed to say, 'Are you talkin' to me? I don't see no one else here, so you must be talkin' to me." From the other room, Marty yelled, "Is that for real? Are you really supposed to say that?" As I left the bathroom, Casey was practicing his Travis Bickle.
Casey also at one point walked into the room, threw up the old double horns above his head and exclaimed, "Rock-N-Roll!" Apparently a black-eye gives a kid that listens to Allison Krauss and Justin Bieber license to act like he's been hanging out with Slash.
The danger here is that Casey is now enjoying his bad-ass look that he might decide to try to replicate it once he heals. That's just what I need is a kid that wants to perpetually look like Rocky Balboa after 10-rounds. It's not like my kids aren't weird enough as it is.
Unfortunately, Marty is less clear on the concept. Instead of a black-eye, he's shooting for a busted nose. He believes that a bloody nose is a tough guy hallmark. Odd that it's the kid how wants people to believe that he got into a fight with a professional wrestler that I have to worry about less.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Hug Me
Today is National Hug Day or National Hugging Day...or something like that. Truth be told, I wasn't listening that closely when the radio person mentioned it. However, whatever it was, I can tell you that it struck fear into me...right until I remembered that no one actually looks at the various "days" that they stick on those calendar sites. Kind of like the way that Catholics don't really pay attention to what saints day it is (today is St. Barnabas for any lapse readers).
Thank goodness that National Hug Day is unlikely to catch on, because I don't like to be hugged. Really, according to the professionals, I am "adverse to human contact." Some women that I've dated might disagree with this, but I think that works for me. I have a simple rule...I don't touch you, and you don't touch me.
That does, though, lead to many, many awkward moments. When I lived in Los Angeles, everyone would be hugging hello all around me...and I would stand in the middle of the action as though protected by a force field. I've actually been standing amongst a group where someone was hugging everyone goodbye, took a step towards me, was repelled by the force field and moved on to the next person. It's almost like a superpower.
Of course, some people insist on hugging me whether I like it or not. My former brother-in-law's family has hugged me my entire life (they're Italian). I female comic I know greets everyone with a hug and a kiss. Then there's my Armenian friend Grace who was actually offended by my touch aversion. In part, I believe that was ego...she's stunningly beautiful and I'm pretty sure a guy not wanting to touch her was probably more unlikely to her than if an actual alien showed up at her doorstep. She insisted not only that I hug her, but that I do so in proper Mediterranean fashion with a kiss on each cheek. Being socially awkward, for the most part, I don't do that right. The one time I did, Grace literally stopped a party to announce that I had finally figured out how to greet someone properly.
Oddly, I'm the only one in my household like this. Amy has no qualms about hugging people. Marty's female classmates come up and hug him "hello" in greeting. Casey hugs everyone. He and his kindergarten pals give each other bro hugs when they see each other for God's sake.
Of course, as a father, I'm can't very well not hug my sons. But, man, do they push their luck. My sons are the polar opposite of me. They seemingly can't stand it if they're not touching someone. If that someone happens to be me, that's fine with them. They want to hug, sit next to me, sit on my lap, ride on my back and worst of all, put their feet on me when we're sitting on the couch. Drives me crazy, but I take it...mostly so that they don't end up like me.
But, if Victorian sensibilities were to come back into vogue, I would be perfectly ok with that.
Thank goodness that National Hug Day is unlikely to catch on, because I don't like to be hugged. Really, according to the professionals, I am "adverse to human contact." Some women that I've dated might disagree with this, but I think that works for me. I have a simple rule...I don't touch you, and you don't touch me.
That does, though, lead to many, many awkward moments. When I lived in Los Angeles, everyone would be hugging hello all around me...and I would stand in the middle of the action as though protected by a force field. I've actually been standing amongst a group where someone was hugging everyone goodbye, took a step towards me, was repelled by the force field and moved on to the next person. It's almost like a superpower.
Of course, some people insist on hugging me whether I like it or not. My former brother-in-law's family has hugged me my entire life (they're Italian). I female comic I know greets everyone with a hug and a kiss. Then there's my Armenian friend Grace who was actually offended by my touch aversion. In part, I believe that was ego...she's stunningly beautiful and I'm pretty sure a guy not wanting to touch her was probably more unlikely to her than if an actual alien showed up at her doorstep. She insisted not only that I hug her, but that I do so in proper Mediterranean fashion with a kiss on each cheek. Being socially awkward, for the most part, I don't do that right. The one time I did, Grace literally stopped a party to announce that I had finally figured out how to greet someone properly.
Oddly, I'm the only one in my household like this. Amy has no qualms about hugging people. Marty's female classmates come up and hug him "hello" in greeting. Casey hugs everyone. He and his kindergarten pals give each other bro hugs when they see each other for God's sake.
Of course, as a father, I'm can't very well not hug my sons. But, man, do they push their luck. My sons are the polar opposite of me. They seemingly can't stand it if they're not touching someone. If that someone happens to be me, that's fine with them. They want to hug, sit next to me, sit on my lap, ride on my back and worst of all, put their feet on me when we're sitting on the couch. Drives me crazy, but I take it...mostly so that they don't end up like me.
But, if Victorian sensibilities were to come back into vogue, I would be perfectly ok with that.
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