While I was writing the previous post, Marty came over and sat down and wanted to know what I was doing. "What's a sitcom?," he said, looking at my computer screen.
My explanation tellingly had to involve "iCarly" because Marty really doesn't watch network television. He also doesn't watch reruns. Never mind that when I was his age, I not only could quote whole episodes of "The Brady Bunch," but also "The Partridge Family," "The Monkees," "The Munsters," "The Addams Family," "McHale's Navy," "Hogan's Heros," "Bewitched," "I Dream of Jeanie," and probably another 10 shows that I'm not even thinking of.
"Why are you calling it My Life as a Sitcom?," he asked.
"Well, I used to live in Los Angeles, some of my best friends wrote for sitcoms, and now our life is kind of like a lot of the stuff that they used to write," I explained.
"Wait a second," Marty said. "Is this a blog?"
When I admitted that it was, Marty ran off yelling, "Mom! Dad's blogging!"
He eventually came back and actually read what was written of the post at that point. Oddly, what bothered him was that I had left out some small details. He was unfazed though by the fact that his name is changed in the blog, which is what I actually expected to be questioned on. In retrospect, though, he's written plenty of stories on his own, so changing someone's name for story purposes didn't really bother him. Me leaving out exactly how he had asked his mother to speak to his little brother, though, was apparenlty annoying.
It wasn't stated, but I now have to start checking the internet history on the computer, just to make sure that Marty doesn't decide to do some blogging of his own.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Car Trip
Yesterday, I had to drive to the Chicago suburbs to look at some equipment that a theater undergoing a renovation was selling off. At the last minute, I decided to ask Marty if he wanted to come with me.
10 hours non-stop with my 8-year-old son.
My first clue about what the journey would be was when we were first getting on the Indiana turnpike and Marty noted that the choices were Ohio or Chicago as we came out of the toll booth. A couple of miles down the road, he mentioned that it was good that we had chosen the Chicago ramp. "If we went to Ohio, we'd have to come all the way back through Indiana to get to Chicago."
A few minutes later, after he had already gotten tired of playing Zombie Duck Hunt on his iPod, I got this..."I don't understand the theories of football."
For the record, I only got about two questions into trying to find out what he didn't understand before just giving up (his answers amounted to "everything").
Then, I got the first joke of the day. "What kind of food does the Easter Bunny eat at the movies?," I was asked. "Hop corn."
At a rest stop, after he noticed some Chicago Cubs merchandise -- which he's designated as his favorite sports team for no real reason -- he also noticed the White Sox stuff next to it. "Who are the White Sox?," he asked. "They're a sports team," I said. "Yeah, but what do they play...football? Soccer?," he said. I explained that they were a baseball team and that Chicago actually has two professional baseball teams. "Why?," he asked. "Do they get to play if the Cubs get sick or something?"
A little while later, he noted another group of road signs. "We can either go to Chicago or Des Moines," he said. I told him that we most definitely weren't going to Des Moines. When he wanted to know why, I had to tell him that I was not going to Iowa and that I didn't really like the Hawkeye state. When pressed to admit why, I told the story of having a tire going flat in Iowa and being stuck for several hours trying to find any place that had an air hose that wasn't frozen.
That led to a conversation about Marty's new favorite subject -- U.S. states. He asked if he had ever been in West Virginia before and I had to tell him that while he's been close to the WV border, he never actually went into the state. When he said that he wanted to rectify that, again I was busted for my lack of enthusiasm. Turns out that I don't really care about going back to a lot of states. (He was later disappointed when his requests to go to St. Louis and/or Wisconsin were denied.)
I told Marty that mostly West Virginia was just hills and mountains. Turns out that actually appealed to him. He told me that was also why he wanted to go to Colorado. I explained that there was a significant difference between the Appalachians and the Rockies. I've been scared a couple of times driving in the Appalachians, but I've never thought that I was going to die, like I have driving down from the Rockies.
That made Marty laugh hysterically. "I don't know why I'm laughing about my dad thinking that he was going to die," he said, between guffaws. I could've let it go, but being his father, I felt the need to teach him one of the rules of comedy...tradgedy plus time equals funny. "So, it can be funny," I said. "Because nothing actually happened to me. I didn't die." "Well, of course, you didn't die," he said. "If you had, then there wouldn't be anyone driving the van right now."
At the rest stop, Marty had bought an Invisible Ink book based on "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?" He was using his pen to reveal the answers and then asking me the questions. When I started getting too many right, he switched and started giving me the answers and made me guess the questions. He hit a question about mythology...a word that he surprisingly didn't know. When he asked for an explanation, I did so...branching out to explaining the mythologies of the Greek, Roman and Norse gods. To demonstrate the similarities between the gods, I brought up that there have been episodes of Spongebob Squarepants where they refer to Triton and others where they refer to Posiedon. When I finished, he said, "I didn't understand a single thing you just said because I was busy thinking about how much I love lemonade, but heard something about Spongebob. I heard that part since I like Spongebob so much."
I suppose that I should've asked if he loved Spongebob as much as lemonade.
He loved lemonade so much that when we finally arrived at the location of the theater sale, he ended up having to use the restroom three times in a half-hour period.
After we had first looked at the equipment on sale, I needed to think about what I was willing to buy for my community theater. So, Marty and I went to have lunch at a restaurant called The Sugar Bowl. Marty frequently dislikes restaurants, but how could he turn down one that had sugar right there in the title?
As I was looking things up on my phone, Marty was busy running through an idea for a Spongebob episode that involved Patrick and Spongebob peeing on everything. Conversely, the Greek family sitting behind us were discussing whether Columbia or Boston College offered a better Masters program. I was only half paying attention to anything, so I was hearing things like, "So, then they start peeing on a police officer..." "I totally love the neighborhood around Columbia..." "And, then just as they're about to pee on a jellyfish..." "I hate Boston..."
After we were done with our meal, our waitress -- who was actually part of the family behind us -- came to the table with our bill. "I was born in California," Marty announced. "Really," she said. "What part?" "Los Angeles." "LA, huh?," she said, "Cool." "I was born the day before Halloween," he added. "I was born the day after Halloween," she said. "No, I said the day before," Marty insisted. "I got that," she assured him. "You were born October 30th, I was born on November 1st. It's all good." That seemed to satisfy him, but...
He repeated his proclomations with the girl at the cash register -- who I'm pretty sure was the cousin of our waitress -- adding, "I was born the day before Halloween, not the day after like her."
Actually, that was a pretty good conversation with a stranger for him.
After I bored him by going back to the theater and buying a few lights and cables...and annoyed him by not allowing him to just go anywhere he wanted in the mostly empty theater...Marty finally wanted to know what fun Chicago thing we were going to do.
We decided to take a drive by Lake Michigan, since Marty didn't see the point of going to Chicago if you're not going to see the lake. As we got close, I got off Lake Shore Drive and drove by Lincoln Park Zoo. After asking Marty if he wanted to stop and take a quick walk through the zoo, I said that I was going to have to try to find someplace to park and that might not be easy. "Then why the heck did you get my hopes up to go to the zoo?," my son admonished.
We finally did manage to come up with parking and took our walk. A brisk walk because it was 29-degrees with a nice stiff breeze coming off the lake. Right after we got into the zoo, we stopped to try to decide where we wanted to go with our limited time. As we talked, a park squirrel started to approach us along the railing.
Marty eyed the rodent suspiciously. I told him to just ignore the squirrel, that it was just looking for food. "I don't have any nuts, Mr. Squirrel," Marty said. I started to walk away and realized that Marty wasn't coming with me. I turned around to see Marty turning out his pockets with the squirrel at his feet, trying to prove that he did not have any food with him.
As we walked around, I somehow mentioned his little brother Casey. "I've been having so much fun in Chicago," he said. "That I forgot all about that little devil."
Little devil is his new nickname for his sibling. Apparently there are more on a list on his iPod, but little devil is his current favorite. Of course, every time that I hear this, I think of the Harvey comics character Hot Stuff...who it turns out, Casey actually does look a little bit like.
The problem with having a kid that seems to be geared towards the bainy side, is that at places like zoos, they want to read everything. We got stuck in the bird house, as Marty had to read and then identify the different birds. And, he was a little too excited about the puffins. I also was treated to sea lion jokes at that exhibit (See? Lion.).
Finally, it was time for us to go. As I started down Lake Shore again, my cell phone rang. Being in the middle of a city with a tough cell phone law, I yelled that I didn't have any hands free options with me and handed the phone back to Marty. I heard him speaking to his mother for a few minutes and just as he was asking to talk to Casey, he complained that the line had gone dead.
He tried to call back, but he's not used to my Blackberry. Amy ended up with a two-minute voice mail that sounded a little like, "I did push that...now what? It says connected. I don't know, I don't hear anything. There was just that one ladies voice..."
We managed to make it home without too much incident. There was a reasoned argument by Marty about why he should be allowed a Happy Meal ("A, I'm hungry. B, I want a toy. A is obviously more important than B...but I really do want a toy."), that was hard to argue.
We're actually returning to Chicago in a couple of weeks as a family, but the banter will be more muted with the sibling arguments going on. Still, 10 straight hours with my 8-year-old son did help remind me why I love him so much. You only get so many times to build memories like that. Maybe, I'll even be inspired to take Marty on a road trip so that he can see West Virginia for himself.
Then again, probably not.
10 hours non-stop with my 8-year-old son.
My first clue about what the journey would be was when we were first getting on the Indiana turnpike and Marty noted that the choices were Ohio or Chicago as we came out of the toll booth. A couple of miles down the road, he mentioned that it was good that we had chosen the Chicago ramp. "If we went to Ohio, we'd have to come all the way back through Indiana to get to Chicago."
A few minutes later, after he had already gotten tired of playing Zombie Duck Hunt on his iPod, I got this..."I don't understand the theories of football."
For the record, I only got about two questions into trying to find out what he didn't understand before just giving up (his answers amounted to "everything").
Then, I got the first joke of the day. "What kind of food does the Easter Bunny eat at the movies?," I was asked. "Hop corn."
At a rest stop, after he noticed some Chicago Cubs merchandise -- which he's designated as his favorite sports team for no real reason -- he also noticed the White Sox stuff next to it. "Who are the White Sox?," he asked. "They're a sports team," I said. "Yeah, but what do they play...football? Soccer?," he said. I explained that they were a baseball team and that Chicago actually has two professional baseball teams. "Why?," he asked. "Do they get to play if the Cubs get sick or something?"
A little while later, he noted another group of road signs. "We can either go to Chicago or Des Moines," he said. I told him that we most definitely weren't going to Des Moines. When he wanted to know why, I had to tell him that I was not going to Iowa and that I didn't really like the Hawkeye state. When pressed to admit why, I told the story of having a tire going flat in Iowa and being stuck for several hours trying to find any place that had an air hose that wasn't frozen.
That led to a conversation about Marty's new favorite subject -- U.S. states. He asked if he had ever been in West Virginia before and I had to tell him that while he's been close to the WV border, he never actually went into the state. When he said that he wanted to rectify that, again I was busted for my lack of enthusiasm. Turns out that I don't really care about going back to a lot of states. (He was later disappointed when his requests to go to St. Louis and/or Wisconsin were denied.)
I told Marty that mostly West Virginia was just hills and mountains. Turns out that actually appealed to him. He told me that was also why he wanted to go to Colorado. I explained that there was a significant difference between the Appalachians and the Rockies. I've been scared a couple of times driving in the Appalachians, but I've never thought that I was going to die, like I have driving down from the Rockies.
That made Marty laugh hysterically. "I don't know why I'm laughing about my dad thinking that he was going to die," he said, between guffaws. I could've let it go, but being his father, I felt the need to teach him one of the rules of comedy...tradgedy plus time equals funny. "So, it can be funny," I said. "Because nothing actually happened to me. I didn't die." "Well, of course, you didn't die," he said. "If you had, then there wouldn't be anyone driving the van right now."
At the rest stop, Marty had bought an Invisible Ink book based on "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?" He was using his pen to reveal the answers and then asking me the questions. When I started getting too many right, he switched and started giving me the answers and made me guess the questions. He hit a question about mythology...a word that he surprisingly didn't know. When he asked for an explanation, I did so...branching out to explaining the mythologies of the Greek, Roman and Norse gods. To demonstrate the similarities between the gods, I brought up that there have been episodes of Spongebob Squarepants where they refer to Triton and others where they refer to Posiedon. When I finished, he said, "I didn't understand a single thing you just said because I was busy thinking about how much I love lemonade, but heard something about Spongebob. I heard that part since I like Spongebob so much."
I suppose that I should've asked if he loved Spongebob as much as lemonade.
He loved lemonade so much that when we finally arrived at the location of the theater sale, he ended up having to use the restroom three times in a half-hour period.
After we had first looked at the equipment on sale, I needed to think about what I was willing to buy for my community theater. So, Marty and I went to have lunch at a restaurant called The Sugar Bowl. Marty frequently dislikes restaurants, but how could he turn down one that had sugar right there in the title?
As I was looking things up on my phone, Marty was busy running through an idea for a Spongebob episode that involved Patrick and Spongebob peeing on everything. Conversely, the Greek family sitting behind us were discussing whether Columbia or Boston College offered a better Masters program. I was only half paying attention to anything, so I was hearing things like, "So, then they start peeing on a police officer..." "I totally love the neighborhood around Columbia..." "And, then just as they're about to pee on a jellyfish..." "I hate Boston..."
After we were done with our meal, our waitress -- who was actually part of the family behind us -- came to the table with our bill. "I was born in California," Marty announced. "Really," she said. "What part?" "Los Angeles." "LA, huh?," she said, "Cool." "I was born the day before Halloween," he added. "I was born the day after Halloween," she said. "No, I said the day before," Marty insisted. "I got that," she assured him. "You were born October 30th, I was born on November 1st. It's all good." That seemed to satisfy him, but...
He repeated his proclomations with the girl at the cash register -- who I'm pretty sure was the cousin of our waitress -- adding, "I was born the day before Halloween, not the day after like her."
Actually, that was a pretty good conversation with a stranger for him.
After I bored him by going back to the theater and buying a few lights and cables...and annoyed him by not allowing him to just go anywhere he wanted in the mostly empty theater...Marty finally wanted to know what fun Chicago thing we were going to do.
We decided to take a drive by Lake Michigan, since Marty didn't see the point of going to Chicago if you're not going to see the lake. As we got close, I got off Lake Shore Drive and drove by Lincoln Park Zoo. After asking Marty if he wanted to stop and take a quick walk through the zoo, I said that I was going to have to try to find someplace to park and that might not be easy. "Then why the heck did you get my hopes up to go to the zoo?," my son admonished.
We finally did manage to come up with parking and took our walk. A brisk walk because it was 29-degrees with a nice stiff breeze coming off the lake. Right after we got into the zoo, we stopped to try to decide where we wanted to go with our limited time. As we talked, a park squirrel started to approach us along the railing.
Marty eyed the rodent suspiciously. I told him to just ignore the squirrel, that it was just looking for food. "I don't have any nuts, Mr. Squirrel," Marty said. I started to walk away and realized that Marty wasn't coming with me. I turned around to see Marty turning out his pockets with the squirrel at his feet, trying to prove that he did not have any food with him.
As we walked around, I somehow mentioned his little brother Casey. "I've been having so much fun in Chicago," he said. "That I forgot all about that little devil."
Little devil is his new nickname for his sibling. Apparently there are more on a list on his iPod, but little devil is his current favorite. Of course, every time that I hear this, I think of the Harvey comics character Hot Stuff...who it turns out, Casey actually does look a little bit like.
The problem with having a kid that seems to be geared towards the bainy side, is that at places like zoos, they want to read everything. We got stuck in the bird house, as Marty had to read and then identify the different birds. And, he was a little too excited about the puffins. I also was treated to sea lion jokes at that exhibit (See? Lion.).
Finally, it was time for us to go. As I started down Lake Shore again, my cell phone rang. Being in the middle of a city with a tough cell phone law, I yelled that I didn't have any hands free options with me and handed the phone back to Marty. I heard him speaking to his mother for a few minutes and just as he was asking to talk to Casey, he complained that the line had gone dead.
He tried to call back, but he's not used to my Blackberry. Amy ended up with a two-minute voice mail that sounded a little like, "I did push that...now what? It says connected. I don't know, I don't hear anything. There was just that one ladies voice..."
We managed to make it home without too much incident. There was a reasoned argument by Marty about why he should be allowed a Happy Meal ("A, I'm hungry. B, I want a toy. A is obviously more important than B...but I really do want a toy."), that was hard to argue.
We're actually returning to Chicago in a couple of weeks as a family, but the banter will be more muted with the sibling arguments going on. Still, 10 straight hours with my 8-year-old son did help remind me why I love him so much. You only get so many times to build memories like that. Maybe, I'll even be inspired to take Marty on a road trip so that he can see West Virginia for himself.
Then again, probably not.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Cool Kid
As alluded to previously, the coolest person in my household happens to be the youngest, 5-year-old Casey.
I suppose as a parent there should just be a supposition that at the very least the kids are going to think that they're cooler than you. I'm sure that part is true no matter who we're talking about. In a couple of years, the horde of kids that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have taken on will, I'm sure, consider themselves both smarter and cooler than their parents (and they could be half right).
My problem with this is that everyone believes that Casey is the coolest member of our family. I'm at least a marginally accomplished person. I've lived in L.A. I've been around celebrities. The above-mentioned Mr. Pitt once almost ran over me in his SUV. I write about sports. I've been on staff at the very hip webzine, 2Walls.
And, Amy was an officer in the Air Force, dealing with things like missiles and satellites. In some quarters, that would be considered pretty cool.
Marty, his older brother, started trying to write his own books when he was three. So, at some point there's a decent chance that he'll grow into his own coolness, say around the time that he's hitting college.
But, no, Casey holds the title of coolest.
As near as I can figure it, it's because the rest of us have some kind of stress, anxiety and/or social disorder. I'm not going to entirely say that Casey doesn't have any of that -- he's got my genes, has to have some -- but for some reason it doesn't affect him the same way.
He's always been this way, too. When he was 2-years-old, I would have him out at a store and people would walk by and say 'hi' to him by name. People that I had never seen before. When he got a little bit older and it would happen, I started asking, "Who was that?" The only response that I ever got was, "Oh, that's my friend."
Once at a local Memorial Day celebration, Amy and Casey went and sat in an open area. Suddenly, a couple of kids saw Casey and came over to sit with him. The next thing my wife knew, she was surrounded by kids that she didn't know.
It's gotten to the point that when he was four, we were at a Cubs game in Chicago and had parked by DePaul University. As we were going to our car on a late Friday afternoon, Casey started to wander into the open door of a just starting college party. We rushed to grab him, not so much because we were worried about his safety. No, we were worried that if he got inside the college kids would ask the rest of us to leave, but would let Casey stay.
At his godmother's hip Hollywood wedding in Texas (side note: entertainment industry weddings are hardly ever actually in Los Angeles. It's just one of those things.), we couldn't find Casey. Not in any sort of stress inducing way, we just weren't sure where he had gotten to. As we were talking about it, who comes sauntering out of the middle of the dance floor in search of a bottle of water? That's right, as a preschooler, he was already acting like he was out at a club.
He walks into sporting arenas bobbing his head along to hip-hop music that he's never heard before. He slumps on the couch eating pizza and playing video games as though this were his off-campus apartment. He walks up to people in stores and strikes up conversations. When a girl says hi to him, and you teasingly ask if that's his girlfriend, the response is usually, "No, but she wants to marry me." When he tries on clothes at Old Navy, he blends in with the manequins.
There's nothing that you can really do about it. I'm not really sure what happens with cool kids. I have no personal experience to draw upon. I don't know what cool kids grow up to be. The only aspiration that we've been able to get out of Casey thus far is that he wouldn't mind being rich.
My only real hope at this point is that by the time he's a teenager, he'll be able to help us get into restaurants that we might otherwise have trouble getting seated in. Then again, I guess there's alway the possibility that they'll just seat him and leave the other three of us standing behind the velvet rope. I would love to say that he would never leave us behind, but that would be untrue. Truth is he finds our lack of coolness a little unseemly.
Eventually, I'll get used to the fact that the little one fancies himself a modern-day Fonzie but it probably won't be any time soon.
I suppose as a parent there should just be a supposition that at the very least the kids are going to think that they're cooler than you. I'm sure that part is true no matter who we're talking about. In a couple of years, the horde of kids that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have taken on will, I'm sure, consider themselves both smarter and cooler than their parents (and they could be half right).
My problem with this is that everyone believes that Casey is the coolest member of our family. I'm at least a marginally accomplished person. I've lived in L.A. I've been around celebrities. The above-mentioned Mr. Pitt once almost ran over me in his SUV. I write about sports. I've been on staff at the very hip webzine, 2Walls.
And, Amy was an officer in the Air Force, dealing with things like missiles and satellites. In some quarters, that would be considered pretty cool.
Marty, his older brother, started trying to write his own books when he was three. So, at some point there's a decent chance that he'll grow into his own coolness, say around the time that he's hitting college.
But, no, Casey holds the title of coolest.
As near as I can figure it, it's because the rest of us have some kind of stress, anxiety and/or social disorder. I'm not going to entirely say that Casey doesn't have any of that -- he's got my genes, has to have some -- but for some reason it doesn't affect him the same way.
He's always been this way, too. When he was 2-years-old, I would have him out at a store and people would walk by and say 'hi' to him by name. People that I had never seen before. When he got a little bit older and it would happen, I started asking, "Who was that?" The only response that I ever got was, "Oh, that's my friend."
Once at a local Memorial Day celebration, Amy and Casey went and sat in an open area. Suddenly, a couple of kids saw Casey and came over to sit with him. The next thing my wife knew, she was surrounded by kids that she didn't know.
It's gotten to the point that when he was four, we were at a Cubs game in Chicago and had parked by DePaul University. As we were going to our car on a late Friday afternoon, Casey started to wander into the open door of a just starting college party. We rushed to grab him, not so much because we were worried about his safety. No, we were worried that if he got inside the college kids would ask the rest of us to leave, but would let Casey stay.
At his godmother's hip Hollywood wedding in Texas (side note: entertainment industry weddings are hardly ever actually in Los Angeles. It's just one of those things.), we couldn't find Casey. Not in any sort of stress inducing way, we just weren't sure where he had gotten to. As we were talking about it, who comes sauntering out of the middle of the dance floor in search of a bottle of water? That's right, as a preschooler, he was already acting like he was out at a club.
He walks into sporting arenas bobbing his head along to hip-hop music that he's never heard before. He slumps on the couch eating pizza and playing video games as though this were his off-campus apartment. He walks up to people in stores and strikes up conversations. When a girl says hi to him, and you teasingly ask if that's his girlfriend, the response is usually, "No, but she wants to marry me." When he tries on clothes at Old Navy, he blends in with the manequins.
There's nothing that you can really do about it. I'm not really sure what happens with cool kids. I have no personal experience to draw upon. I don't know what cool kids grow up to be. The only aspiration that we've been able to get out of Casey thus far is that he wouldn't mind being rich.
My only real hope at this point is that by the time he's a teenager, he'll be able to help us get into restaurants that we might otherwise have trouble getting seated in. Then again, I guess there's alway the possibility that they'll just seat him and leave the other three of us standing behind the velvet rope. I would love to say that he would never leave us behind, but that would be untrue. Truth is he finds our lack of coolness a little unseemly.
Eventually, I'll get used to the fact that the little one fancies himself a modern-day Fonzie but it probably won't be any time soon.
Monday, March 14, 2011
State of Mind
Marty and Casey keep playing this iPhone app called "Stacking the States." It's one of those educational ones...they answer multiple choice questions about states and then they've got to stack them on top of each other to hit a certain point. It's kind of like reverse "Tetris."
Of course, the first problem with this is that Casey can't read. Or, at least in grand kindergarten fashion, he claims that he can't read. Of course, when he wants to read he suddenly knows a lot more words. But, in this case, even Marty has trouble figuring out how to pronounce some city and landmark names that he's been unfamiliar with until now. So, what that means is that when Casey plays the game, it really means that I'm playing the game. It goes something like this:
Casey: "What's the answer?"
Me: "I can't see the screen. What's the question?"
Casey: "I can't read it."
Me: "Try to read it."
Casey: "What...state...has...Mmmm...Mmmm...Ah...Nnnn....Ick..."
Me: "Let me just see the stupid thing...Monticello."
Casey: "Yeah, which one. (Looking at the screen again) Montana, Texas, Indiana or Virginia."
Me: "I thought you can't read."
Casey: "I can't. Where's Monticello?"
It goes on like that for the better part of an hour most of the time.
More troubling though is that Marty has now started to build an affinity for certain states. There's always been talk of states, I guess, in our house because we have that weird quirk where all four members of our family were born in different states...me in Delaware, Amy in Indiana, Marty in California and Casey in Michigan. Not even all of our pets are from the same state. So, I suppose it's not surprising that there would be interest in the geography of the U.S. Which, I'm totally fine with.
However, it's the states that he's taken a liking to that have me perplexed. First, there's Alaska. I suppose that's not entirely unthinkable. It's way up north. It's big. It's got stuff like moose and reindeer. I've never been overly interested in it, but I've never been as big on the Upper Penisula of Michigan, or Northern Wisconsin or, well, Canada as other people I know. To me, Alaska has always just been some giant landmass state that is economically important because of it's huge reserve of natural resources. I know, having talked to others, that there's some romantic, Jack London-y, part to it. It's supposedly breathtaking (never been there, but Amy has...which now makes her fascinating to Marty). I don't get romantic about the northern climates...I prefer desserts...but if that's what you like, then have at it.
But, his other new favorite state in Nebraska. Nebraska?! The freakin' Cornhusker state. What's worse, he keeps wanting me to like Nebraska, too. Amy, who has been riding the wave of her Alaskan triumph, of course made sure to note that she "kind of" likes Nebraska.
This is a problem, because -- no offense to Tom Osbourne and the boys -- but I don't really like Nebraska. I've never been a fan of the plains states, if you must know. Many people I like have a strong affinity for Kansas, so perhaps I would make an exception there, but otherwise I could do without the flattened view and amber waves of grain.
Now, admittedly, my problem with the state of Nebraska is strictly a selfish one. I have never spent a great deal of time there. What I have done, however, on multiple occasions, is drive through the state coming or going to a coast. It's flat and it's long and that's no fun.
Ever had to drive through Nebraska in the middle of the night in a moving van, with bad shocks and nothing but an AM radio? Well, you haven't lived until you've tried it. I listened to an hour long show with people talking about alien abductions as though they were fact based events...and almost panicked when it went off the air, becuase it had taken me an hour just to find something that remotely interesting to keep me from becoming hypnotized by the straight, straight, straight road ahead.
I don't why it's such a problem for me to have a son that now likes a state where I've had to avoid sleeping truckers coming into my lane repeatedly or where my lasting culinary impression is stale coffee from a Love's Truck Stop.
Just to add insult to injury, Marty also kind of likes Rhode Island. He finds it interesting because it's the smallest state (which the opposite is also the appeal of Alaska). However, I'm from Delaware...otherwise known as the second smallest state (even though it's the First State). I grew up hating Rhode Island and it's stupid smaller square mileage than my birth state. Not even the Farrelly brothers repeated attempts to make me think Providence is a great place has changed my mind.
Since I value individuality, I should be happy that Marty has his own likes and dislikes. His own thoughts and ideas. His own dreams.
I just wish he were more like me.
Of course, the first problem with this is that Casey can't read. Or, at least in grand kindergarten fashion, he claims that he can't read. Of course, when he wants to read he suddenly knows a lot more words. But, in this case, even Marty has trouble figuring out how to pronounce some city and landmark names that he's been unfamiliar with until now. So, what that means is that when Casey plays the game, it really means that I'm playing the game. It goes something like this:
Casey: "What's the answer?"
Me: "I can't see the screen. What's the question?"
Casey: "I can't read it."
Me: "Try to read it."
Casey: "What...state...has...Mmmm...Mmmm...Ah...Nnnn....Ick..."
Me: "Let me just see the stupid thing...Monticello."
Casey: "Yeah, which one. (Looking at the screen again) Montana, Texas, Indiana or Virginia."
Me: "I thought you can't read."
Casey: "I can't. Where's Monticello?"
It goes on like that for the better part of an hour most of the time.
More troubling though is that Marty has now started to build an affinity for certain states. There's always been talk of states, I guess, in our house because we have that weird quirk where all four members of our family were born in different states...me in Delaware, Amy in Indiana, Marty in California and Casey in Michigan. Not even all of our pets are from the same state. So, I suppose it's not surprising that there would be interest in the geography of the U.S. Which, I'm totally fine with.
However, it's the states that he's taken a liking to that have me perplexed. First, there's Alaska. I suppose that's not entirely unthinkable. It's way up north. It's big. It's got stuff like moose and reindeer. I've never been overly interested in it, but I've never been as big on the Upper Penisula of Michigan, or Northern Wisconsin or, well, Canada as other people I know. To me, Alaska has always just been some giant landmass state that is economically important because of it's huge reserve of natural resources. I know, having talked to others, that there's some romantic, Jack London-y, part to it. It's supposedly breathtaking (never been there, but Amy has...which now makes her fascinating to Marty). I don't get romantic about the northern climates...I prefer desserts...but if that's what you like, then have at it.
But, his other new favorite state in Nebraska. Nebraska?! The freakin' Cornhusker state. What's worse, he keeps wanting me to like Nebraska, too. Amy, who has been riding the wave of her Alaskan triumph, of course made sure to note that she "kind of" likes Nebraska.
This is a problem, because -- no offense to Tom Osbourne and the boys -- but I don't really like Nebraska. I've never been a fan of the plains states, if you must know. Many people I like have a strong affinity for Kansas, so perhaps I would make an exception there, but otherwise I could do without the flattened view and amber waves of grain.
Now, admittedly, my problem with the state of Nebraska is strictly a selfish one. I have never spent a great deal of time there. What I have done, however, on multiple occasions, is drive through the state coming or going to a coast. It's flat and it's long and that's no fun.
Ever had to drive through Nebraska in the middle of the night in a moving van, with bad shocks and nothing but an AM radio? Well, you haven't lived until you've tried it. I listened to an hour long show with people talking about alien abductions as though they were fact based events...and almost panicked when it went off the air, becuase it had taken me an hour just to find something that remotely interesting to keep me from becoming hypnotized by the straight, straight, straight road ahead.
I don't why it's such a problem for me to have a son that now likes a state where I've had to avoid sleeping truckers coming into my lane repeatedly or where my lasting culinary impression is stale coffee from a Love's Truck Stop.
Just to add insult to injury, Marty also kind of likes Rhode Island. He finds it interesting because it's the smallest state (which the opposite is also the appeal of Alaska). However, I'm from Delaware...otherwise known as the second smallest state (even though it's the First State). I grew up hating Rhode Island and it's stupid smaller square mileage than my birth state. Not even the Farrelly brothers repeated attempts to make me think Providence is a great place has changed my mind.
Since I value individuality, I should be happy that Marty has his own likes and dislikes. His own thoughts and ideas. His own dreams.
I just wish he were more like me.
Spineless
I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, but I've become a wuss. At least at my day job.
Now, I'm talking about a specific type of wuss. Certain types, I didn't really need to become...I was born into it. I'm not an outdoorsman. I don't like guns. Aside from the cartoon type, I'm not a fan of violence. I've been leery of motorcycles since I was about nine and a cousin was paralyzed in an accident. With very few exceptions, I haven't faced many physical confrontations that I haven't tried to joke my way out of. And, I'm sure that my lack of misogyny qualifies me as a wuss in the eyes of some of my brethren.
No, what I'm talking about is that I've become a company wuss. Not that long ago, I used to make firm decisions, confident in myself to the point that I feared no repercussions. If those above me in a company were really dumb enough to disagree with me in situations where I was so clearly right, then...well, I didn't care. If a company was going to get rid of me for exercising sound judgment, then I could live with that.
Now? Well, I can't make any freakin' decisions without first second guessing myself and then calling and/or e-mailing everyone and their brother to build agreement. Because, I can't have a decision come back on me, because I actually have gotten myself into a situation where I can't really afford to lose a job.
Of course, many, many, responsible adults spend their entire adult life making sure not to lose a job, and many of them progress quite nicely up the corporate ladder. Heck, many of the smarter ones passed me by on my different stops when this VP or that one decided that they were more fun to have around than me and my "honesty."
But, for one thing, it's a little late for me to be starting to do this...I've lived my life on this obnoxious path so long that it feels completely disingenious to me that I've started being afraid of my own corporate shadow. I feel like the older salesmen in "Glengarry Glen Ross," terrified of third place.
Second, I only work a day job because...well, I need money. And, unlike some of my more successful friends, I'm not able to actually pay the bills with what my creative endeavors bring in. It used to be that meant that I didn't care about my day job, so I didn't really care what they thought of me. Now, however, I've hit that age where I'm well aware of what the job market thinks of many of my middle management peers. I spent years analyzing the data about over-40 workers. So, I'm stuck.
I should take solace in the fact I actually am still a firm decision maker in other aspects. When I'm dealing with the community theater, I help guide decisions left and right. By it's nature, I have to make decisions as a writer. I don't usually have to make decisions normally, but I do have a respected voice in my role as a local sports writer.
Instead, that almost makes it worse. If I'm not a wuss other places, why do I have to be one any place?
Oh, well, at least I know that I can come home each night to the respect of my wife and children.
OK, stop laughing. Would it kill you to just humor me once and a while?
Now, I'm talking about a specific type of wuss. Certain types, I didn't really need to become...I was born into it. I'm not an outdoorsman. I don't like guns. Aside from the cartoon type, I'm not a fan of violence. I've been leery of motorcycles since I was about nine and a cousin was paralyzed in an accident. With very few exceptions, I haven't faced many physical confrontations that I haven't tried to joke my way out of. And, I'm sure that my lack of misogyny qualifies me as a wuss in the eyes of some of my brethren.
No, what I'm talking about is that I've become a company wuss. Not that long ago, I used to make firm decisions, confident in myself to the point that I feared no repercussions. If those above me in a company were really dumb enough to disagree with me in situations where I was so clearly right, then...well, I didn't care. If a company was going to get rid of me for exercising sound judgment, then I could live with that.
Now? Well, I can't make any freakin' decisions without first second guessing myself and then calling and/or e-mailing everyone and their brother to build agreement. Because, I can't have a decision come back on me, because I actually have gotten myself into a situation where I can't really afford to lose a job.
Of course, many, many, responsible adults spend their entire adult life making sure not to lose a job, and many of them progress quite nicely up the corporate ladder. Heck, many of the smarter ones passed me by on my different stops when this VP or that one decided that they were more fun to have around than me and my "honesty."
But, for one thing, it's a little late for me to be starting to do this...I've lived my life on this obnoxious path so long that it feels completely disingenious to me that I've started being afraid of my own corporate shadow. I feel like the older salesmen in "Glengarry Glen Ross," terrified of third place.
Second, I only work a day job because...well, I need money. And, unlike some of my more successful friends, I'm not able to actually pay the bills with what my creative endeavors bring in. It used to be that meant that I didn't care about my day job, so I didn't really care what they thought of me. Now, however, I've hit that age where I'm well aware of what the job market thinks of many of my middle management peers. I spent years analyzing the data about over-40 workers. So, I'm stuck.
I should take solace in the fact I actually am still a firm decision maker in other aspects. When I'm dealing with the community theater, I help guide decisions left and right. By it's nature, I have to make decisions as a writer. I don't usually have to make decisions normally, but I do have a respected voice in my role as a local sports writer.
Instead, that almost makes it worse. If I'm not a wuss other places, why do I have to be one any place?
Oh, well, at least I know that I can come home each night to the respect of my wife and children.
OK, stop laughing. Would it kill you to just humor me once and a while?
Friday, March 11, 2011
Whatever You Call It
My older son, Marty, has a condition called Asperger Syndrome. It's kind of a high functioning autism that has started to gain more recognition. If you've watched television recently, one of the couples on "Parenthood" have a son with it and, while it's never mentioned, the son on "The Middle" basically fits the clinical description. That show even references the type of social skills class that Marty participates in at his school. It also got a lot of publicity when former baseball standout Curt Schilling -- who's kind of a loudmouth -- started talking about his son's diagnosis...or, I guess, more specifically started promoting his wife's book about it.
On the one hand, it's taxing as a parent to deal with any anomalies in your children. I think most of society still harbors a fear of being different. A lot of people give talk to not caring about that -- including me, since I've had people make the comment that I seem to care less about what people think of me more than anyone they've ever met -- but in reality, there's still that part of our genetic code that tries to get us to stick with the tribe. I think we're predisposed to fear any problem with our children, no matter what it is.
Now, Asperger's -- which I mispronounce and misspell on a regular basis -- really isn't the worst thing that your child can have. Heck, I would run out of room if I was to try to list every other possibility that would be worse.
The biggest issue with Asperger's is that Marty can be easily distracted, has trouble controlling his emotions and can be socially awkward.
On the plus side though, his mind functions in ways that other people's don't, which can lead to moments of great creativity. If you've read this blog, you've heard about Marty's movie pitches that he's still hoping to force his way into Nickelodeon's office to deliver. And, the social awkwardness can offer some unique insight into human interactions. He doesn't understand how things like conversations are supposed to work, so while it can be painful to watch at times...it can also lead to comedic moments as he misinterprets what the norm is supposed to be.
Of course, you don't always know when these things are going to come up. From August until March, I spend every Friday night covering first high school football and then basketball. In my absence, the rest of my family has a tradition of Friday "movie nights" where the boys get to eat dinner in the living room and have popcorn.
Well, with the end off my coverage responsibilites for the season, I ended up with a Friday night at home.
This caused Marty great consternation, because having me around changed the routine of the movie night. Initially, Marty had his mind set that I should have to go to the newspaper and spend my Friday night there whether they needed me or not. Then, he thought that I should just go any place...as long as it wasn't at home. Finally, there was progress made and I was going to be allowed to stay in the house, so long as I stayed completely out of site. In the end, the compromise was that I could stay...however, I had to pretend not to be home.
Oddly, even though I was trying to pretend not to be there, Marty was still allowed to ask me to grab him the bag of Doritos from the refrigerator or have me provide answers for his "Stack The States" app.
Of course, the truly fun part of all of this for me are the times that a professional is describing parts of Marty's diagnosis and I start getting glances from my wife. The ones where she seems to be noticing similarities between what they're talking about and me. Sure, I guess that on a certain level, my inability to stop myself from saying exactly what I'm thinking at all times can be seen as socially awkward I suppose. And, sure, I'm kind of easily distracted. And, I usually can't remember what someone was taking about 10 minutes ago, because I didn't really care what they were talking about...and it was 10 minutes ago.
All of that stuff seems perfectly normal to me, but if that's not your reality, man, well who am I to quibble. We're all on our own trip, man. (I also sometimes start channeling Dennis Hopper...but I'm not sure that really has anything to do with any sort of autistic condition).
On the one hand, it's taxing as a parent to deal with any anomalies in your children. I think most of society still harbors a fear of being different. A lot of people give talk to not caring about that -- including me, since I've had people make the comment that I seem to care less about what people think of me more than anyone they've ever met -- but in reality, there's still that part of our genetic code that tries to get us to stick with the tribe. I think we're predisposed to fear any problem with our children, no matter what it is.
Now, Asperger's -- which I mispronounce and misspell on a regular basis -- really isn't the worst thing that your child can have. Heck, I would run out of room if I was to try to list every other possibility that would be worse.
The biggest issue with Asperger's is that Marty can be easily distracted, has trouble controlling his emotions and can be socially awkward.
On the plus side though, his mind functions in ways that other people's don't, which can lead to moments of great creativity. If you've read this blog, you've heard about Marty's movie pitches that he's still hoping to force his way into Nickelodeon's office to deliver. And, the social awkwardness can offer some unique insight into human interactions. He doesn't understand how things like conversations are supposed to work, so while it can be painful to watch at times...it can also lead to comedic moments as he misinterprets what the norm is supposed to be.
Of course, you don't always know when these things are going to come up. From August until March, I spend every Friday night covering first high school football and then basketball. In my absence, the rest of my family has a tradition of Friday "movie nights" where the boys get to eat dinner in the living room and have popcorn.
Well, with the end off my coverage responsibilites for the season, I ended up with a Friday night at home.
This caused Marty great consternation, because having me around changed the routine of the movie night. Initially, Marty had his mind set that I should have to go to the newspaper and spend my Friday night there whether they needed me or not. Then, he thought that I should just go any place...as long as it wasn't at home. Finally, there was progress made and I was going to be allowed to stay in the house, so long as I stayed completely out of site. In the end, the compromise was that I could stay...however, I had to pretend not to be home.
Oddly, even though I was trying to pretend not to be there, Marty was still allowed to ask me to grab him the bag of Doritos from the refrigerator or have me provide answers for his "Stack The States" app.
Of course, the truly fun part of all of this for me are the times that a professional is describing parts of Marty's diagnosis and I start getting glances from my wife. The ones where she seems to be noticing similarities between what they're talking about and me. Sure, I guess that on a certain level, my inability to stop myself from saying exactly what I'm thinking at all times can be seen as socially awkward I suppose. And, sure, I'm kind of easily distracted. And, I usually can't remember what someone was taking about 10 minutes ago, because I didn't really care what they were talking about...and it was 10 minutes ago.
All of that stuff seems perfectly normal to me, but if that's not your reality, man, well who am I to quibble. We're all on our own trip, man. (I also sometimes start channeling Dennis Hopper...but I'm not sure that really has anything to do with any sort of autistic condition).
Thursday, March 10, 2011
You are what you watch
I'm a little concerned about what the television commercials that air during the shows that I've been watching mean about me. Especially, when it comes to cable television where there's a lot of target marketing by companies looking for a cutrate way to hit their likely customers.
For instance, I was watching a rerun of "The Jeffersons"...before you say anything, it was a flashback episode and anyone that can resist a little peak into the lives of George and Weezy before they moved on up has some sort of genetic deficiency. Anyway, I couldn't help but notice that there seemed to be numerous firms that thought that I might have a structured settlement from a lawsuit, but still might be in economic crisis and willing to sell the monthly payments to them for a lump sum payment. I'm not sure that I'm truly the target for the ad since a) I don't actually have a structured settlement and b) I'm smart enough to realize that the lump sum payment that they're offering is significantly less than the actual value of the settlement.
I've also found that frequently cable television believes that I am a female with acne that hasn't taken advantage of the advances in blemish medication that ProActiv has made. While I appreciate what they've done for the likes of Jessica Simpson, I'm still not sure that they were aiming for me.
Maybe the problem is that I'm watching shows that I'm not supposed to be watching. Maybe that's because, when I do watch television, I frequently have difficulty deciding what to watch. Realistically, if you were an advertiser trying to get my attention, you would put an add on the programming "Guide" that I continuously scroll through trying to find something of interest. That's how the Pay-Per-View movie people end up with a chunk of my money every month. You'd have just as much success putting advertising on the DVR menu screen. I tend to stare at that a lot as well.
I'm not saying that I have a problem with the bad advertising -- well, maybe with the structured settlement people...that seems kind of unethical and slimy -- I've always had an affinity for bad commercials.
I'm old enough that I remember when the UHF stations were the domain of "As Seen on TV" advertising. (If you don't understand the terminology, for God's sake, that's what Wikipedia is for.) To this day, I harbor a grudge that I was never able to buy a set of Ginsu knives. I try to get Casey to say into his toy microphone, "Hey, good looking, we'll be back to pick you up later!" And, I'm one of about 15 people that got the joke in Cameron Crowe's "Say Anything" that referenced a late night ad for a soul music compliation.
Really, I actually am a sucker for the Time Life series infomercials. Many is the time that my wife has been perplexed as she's entered the room to find me watching a half-hour infomercial hosted by the likes of Billy Dee Williams or John Sebastian or the two guys that are still playing as America hawking some music collection or other. I find it somehow soothing to watch 10 second snippets of old songs being lip-synched to on "Ed Sullivan," or "American Bandstand, " or "Hullabaloo." I don't even minded the stilted sales pitch that always includes something like, "A generation of performers stepped forward to put their mark on the musical landscape and change the way that we listened to pop music forever." And, then they cut to a clip of Herman's Hermits or Gerry and the Pacemakers, putting much more significance on the role of "Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter" to the British Invasion than I probably would.
Perhaps I should just stick to that and leave my viewing of old television shows to my various DVD box sets (although I'm still stuck without "Happy Days" or "The Dick Van Dyke" show sets, so there's only so much that I can do there).
But, at least I'll know who to call if my dumbass lawyer ever agrees to have a $500,000 settlement spread out over five years of monthly payments.
For instance, I was watching a rerun of "The Jeffersons"...before you say anything, it was a flashback episode and anyone that can resist a little peak into the lives of George and Weezy before they moved on up has some sort of genetic deficiency. Anyway, I couldn't help but notice that there seemed to be numerous firms that thought that I might have a structured settlement from a lawsuit, but still might be in economic crisis and willing to sell the monthly payments to them for a lump sum payment. I'm not sure that I'm truly the target for the ad since a) I don't actually have a structured settlement and b) I'm smart enough to realize that the lump sum payment that they're offering is significantly less than the actual value of the settlement.
I've also found that frequently cable television believes that I am a female with acne that hasn't taken advantage of the advances in blemish medication that ProActiv has made. While I appreciate what they've done for the likes of Jessica Simpson, I'm still not sure that they were aiming for me.
Maybe the problem is that I'm watching shows that I'm not supposed to be watching. Maybe that's because, when I do watch television, I frequently have difficulty deciding what to watch. Realistically, if you were an advertiser trying to get my attention, you would put an add on the programming "Guide" that I continuously scroll through trying to find something of interest. That's how the Pay-Per-View movie people end up with a chunk of my money every month. You'd have just as much success putting advertising on the DVR menu screen. I tend to stare at that a lot as well.
I'm not saying that I have a problem with the bad advertising -- well, maybe with the structured settlement people...that seems kind of unethical and slimy -- I've always had an affinity for bad commercials.
I'm old enough that I remember when the UHF stations were the domain of "As Seen on TV" advertising. (If you don't understand the terminology, for God's sake, that's what Wikipedia is for.) To this day, I harbor a grudge that I was never able to buy a set of Ginsu knives. I try to get Casey to say into his toy microphone, "Hey, good looking, we'll be back to pick you up later!" And, I'm one of about 15 people that got the joke in Cameron Crowe's "Say Anything" that referenced a late night ad for a soul music compliation.
Really, I actually am a sucker for the Time Life series infomercials. Many is the time that my wife has been perplexed as she's entered the room to find me watching a half-hour infomercial hosted by the likes of Billy Dee Williams or John Sebastian or the two guys that are still playing as America hawking some music collection or other. I find it somehow soothing to watch 10 second snippets of old songs being lip-synched to on "Ed Sullivan," or "American Bandstand, " or "Hullabaloo." I don't even minded the stilted sales pitch that always includes something like, "A generation of performers stepped forward to put their mark on the musical landscape and change the way that we listened to pop music forever." And, then they cut to a clip of Herman's Hermits or Gerry and the Pacemakers, putting much more significance on the role of "Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter" to the British Invasion than I probably would.
Perhaps I should just stick to that and leave my viewing of old television shows to my various DVD box sets (although I'm still stuck without "Happy Days" or "The Dick Van Dyke" show sets, so there's only so much that I can do there).
But, at least I'll know who to call if my dumbass lawyer ever agrees to have a $500,000 settlement spread out over five years of monthly payments.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Back In...Well, I Guess I'm Wearing Blue
OK, so it has been noted that the blog kind of went into hibernation mode there for a little while. I can honestly say that it was for good reason.
For starters, I'm the president of the board of a community theater. It's actually "theatre." I'm not entirely sure why the people that started the thing 20-some years ago went with that, but they did. It's also the board of "governors," as opposed to "directors." Again, not entirely sure why...although, I guess with all of that we probably really should all be speaking with Madonna-like fake British accents.
In any case, back in November the theater was approached about possibly buying an out of use church building. So, we quietly went about trying to find larger donors that might help make that happen and originally we were to try to have it done in the spring. However, at the end of January, the church that still owned the building told us that they had another buyer come forward and that they would give the group 30 days to come up with the money, otherwise they would have to accept the offer of the other prospective buyer.
Want to know what it's like to try to help organize people into raising $50,000 in 30 days? Apparently, it's not impossible because we managed to do it. But, man, did I spend a lot of time talking to people...including the press, which I think is always odd for a writer. You're being interviewed by someone that's going to write about you...you kind of feel like you should interview the person back and write about them, just to make things even.
Plus, the average age of the other board members is somewhere north of 70...and that's with adding in the one 27-year-old. On the plus side, many of them are retired so they've got time to do things like run down to a court house to get paperwork or call on prospective donors. On the other hand, there's are other issues that come into play...like hoping they won't fall while trying to enter said courthouse and end up with broken bones.
Thanks to a lot of effort by a lot of people -- both the people that were already involved with the community theater and others in the local community that just stepped in to help -- we actually did close on the new building a week ago.
So, now I'm obstinantly overseeing a group that now needs to renovate a building into a theater, raise the money to do that, decide on the building plans for doing that, figure out the ADA (American Disabilities Act) requirements for it, and come up with a way to generate enough funds to do things like pay for the utilities on the building. I get paid to manage one business, and now my volunteer job just turned into managing another one.
Oh, and I'm supposed to direct the season's first play...a task that I'm desperately hoping to pass off to a local college student so that I might have the chance to, you know, sit down every once and a while.
The second thing is that, while this was going on, I was also covering the Indiana high school girls basketball tournament as part of my sports writing gig. While normally that keeps me busy for about 2-2 1/2 weeks, this year one of the local team's made it to the state finals...which means that I spent a whole lot of the last month writing about girls basketball.
The good thing is that, I played basketball, I like basketball, so I don't really mind writing about it. And, I've kind of become the newspaper's de facto girls basketball person, so after five years of covering the local sports scene, I actually sometimes know what I'm talking about.
And, I get to find out what some of the newer music is. If I wasn't hanging out in gyms with blaring sound systems, I probably wouldn't know songs like DJ Khaled's "All I Do Is Win" and Taio Cruz's "Dynamite." My 5-year-old son, Casey, would, but then he's cooler than me (more on how pathetic it is to have a 5-year-old that's cooler than you are in a later post). I did find it interesting the team earlier this season that warmed up to Taylor Swift's "Speak Now" in its entirety the first week that it was released. Let's just say that it's not really chock full of future jazz band standards.
Speaking of...I can't honestly say that when I was a lad that I was really envisioning the day that Ozzy Osbourne and AC/DC would become staples of the pep bands (and, thanks to the movie "Megamind" my sons now also walk around singing "Crazy Train" and "Highway to Hell"...although they'll usually change the latter to either 'heck' or 'heaven' if asked...after a 10 minute conversation where Marty argues that he doesn't understand why 'hell' is a bad word).
Likewise, I didn't see "Don't Stop Believing" having a 30 year run as a standard. I'm also still trying to figure out where along the line Bruce Channel's "Hey Baby" became a call-and-response high school band number. I'm assuming that it was sometime after "Dirty Dancing" since that's the only way that most people know that song...but it must have been sometime when I was in California and not really going anywhere near most high school events (with the exception of going to see LeBron James play...but even that was at UCLA's Pauley Pavilion). I do like the one that some of the high school bands now do with Bon Jovi's "Living On a Prayer"...where they stop playing and the student section sings the refrain acapella. Anyone who's ever spent time in a karaoke bar knows how much fun it is to have a crowd of people wailing, "Whooah, we're halfway there...Whoo-ah!, living on a prayer..."
These are the kinds of things that I wonder to keep my mind off of the fact that all of the parents of the current high schoolers are very much my peers. And, the fact that in the not too distant future, a lot of them will be younger than me...despite the fact that I'm still six years removed from my own oldest kid hitting high school.
The downside to covering high school girls basketball in Indiana is...well, that seems like it should be kind of self-explanatory. During the tournament's second or third weekend, I was among my press row brethren when one of them mentioned that we were lucky to be there because we could have the misfortune of being in Los Angeles, sitting in a luxury box, watching the NBA All-Star game. I was dumb enough to point out that the last time that the NBA All-Star game was in L.A., I actually was in a luxury box watching the Rookies vs. Sophomores game that featured LeBron James, Dwayne Wade, Carmelo Anthony, et al.
A friend and colleague from the South Bend Tribune looked at me after I relayed that information. "And, now you're here with us," he said. "The Lord, Jesus Christ, does not like you."
Words to live by.
If someone ever writes a theme song for "My Life As a Sitcom," that's what I hope that it will be called.
For starters, I'm the president of the board of a community theater. It's actually "theatre." I'm not entirely sure why the people that started the thing 20-some years ago went with that, but they did. It's also the board of "governors," as opposed to "directors." Again, not entirely sure why...although, I guess with all of that we probably really should all be speaking with Madonna-like fake British accents.
In any case, back in November the theater was approached about possibly buying an out of use church building. So, we quietly went about trying to find larger donors that might help make that happen and originally we were to try to have it done in the spring. However, at the end of January, the church that still owned the building told us that they had another buyer come forward and that they would give the group 30 days to come up with the money, otherwise they would have to accept the offer of the other prospective buyer.
Want to know what it's like to try to help organize people into raising $50,000 in 30 days? Apparently, it's not impossible because we managed to do it. But, man, did I spend a lot of time talking to people...including the press, which I think is always odd for a writer. You're being interviewed by someone that's going to write about you...you kind of feel like you should interview the person back and write about them, just to make things even.
Plus, the average age of the other board members is somewhere north of 70...and that's with adding in the one 27-year-old. On the plus side, many of them are retired so they've got time to do things like run down to a court house to get paperwork or call on prospective donors. On the other hand, there's are other issues that come into play...like hoping they won't fall while trying to enter said courthouse and end up with broken bones.
Thanks to a lot of effort by a lot of people -- both the people that were already involved with the community theater and others in the local community that just stepped in to help -- we actually did close on the new building a week ago.
So, now I'm obstinantly overseeing a group that now needs to renovate a building into a theater, raise the money to do that, decide on the building plans for doing that, figure out the ADA (American Disabilities Act) requirements for it, and come up with a way to generate enough funds to do things like pay for the utilities on the building. I get paid to manage one business, and now my volunteer job just turned into managing another one.
Oh, and I'm supposed to direct the season's first play...a task that I'm desperately hoping to pass off to a local college student so that I might have the chance to, you know, sit down every once and a while.
The second thing is that, while this was going on, I was also covering the Indiana high school girls basketball tournament as part of my sports writing gig. While normally that keeps me busy for about 2-2 1/2 weeks, this year one of the local team's made it to the state finals...which means that I spent a whole lot of the last month writing about girls basketball.
The good thing is that, I played basketball, I like basketball, so I don't really mind writing about it. And, I've kind of become the newspaper's de facto girls basketball person, so after five years of covering the local sports scene, I actually sometimes know what I'm talking about.
And, I get to find out what some of the newer music is. If I wasn't hanging out in gyms with blaring sound systems, I probably wouldn't know songs like DJ Khaled's "All I Do Is Win" and Taio Cruz's "Dynamite." My 5-year-old son, Casey, would, but then he's cooler than me (more on how pathetic it is to have a 5-year-old that's cooler than you are in a later post). I did find it interesting the team earlier this season that warmed up to Taylor Swift's "Speak Now" in its entirety the first week that it was released. Let's just say that it's not really chock full of future jazz band standards.
Speaking of...I can't honestly say that when I was a lad that I was really envisioning the day that Ozzy Osbourne and AC/DC would become staples of the pep bands (and, thanks to the movie "Megamind" my sons now also walk around singing "Crazy Train" and "Highway to Hell"...although they'll usually change the latter to either 'heck' or 'heaven' if asked...after a 10 minute conversation where Marty argues that he doesn't understand why 'hell' is a bad word).
Likewise, I didn't see "Don't Stop Believing" having a 30 year run as a standard. I'm also still trying to figure out where along the line Bruce Channel's "Hey Baby" became a call-and-response high school band number. I'm assuming that it was sometime after "Dirty Dancing" since that's the only way that most people know that song...but it must have been sometime when I was in California and not really going anywhere near most high school events (with the exception of going to see LeBron James play...but even that was at UCLA's Pauley Pavilion). I do like the one that some of the high school bands now do with Bon Jovi's "Living On a Prayer"...where they stop playing and the student section sings the refrain acapella. Anyone who's ever spent time in a karaoke bar knows how much fun it is to have a crowd of people wailing, "Whooah, we're halfway there...Whoo-ah!, living on a prayer..."
These are the kinds of things that I wonder to keep my mind off of the fact that all of the parents of the current high schoolers are very much my peers. And, the fact that in the not too distant future, a lot of them will be younger than me...despite the fact that I'm still six years removed from my own oldest kid hitting high school.
The downside to covering high school girls basketball in Indiana is...well, that seems like it should be kind of self-explanatory. During the tournament's second or third weekend, I was among my press row brethren when one of them mentioned that we were lucky to be there because we could have the misfortune of being in Los Angeles, sitting in a luxury box, watching the NBA All-Star game. I was dumb enough to point out that the last time that the NBA All-Star game was in L.A., I actually was in a luxury box watching the Rookies vs. Sophomores game that featured LeBron James, Dwayne Wade, Carmelo Anthony, et al.
A friend and colleague from the South Bend Tribune looked at me after I relayed that information. "And, now you're here with us," he said. "The Lord, Jesus Christ, does not like you."
Words to live by.
If someone ever writes a theme song for "My Life As a Sitcom," that's what I hope that it will be called.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)