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.
Monday, June 27, 2011
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.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Keep on Rockin'
As I was leaving a Wal-Mart after purchasing a few things for my office, the bubbly store worker that helped make sure that I wasn't stealing the DVD player that set off the store's anti-theft alarm told me, "I hope the rest of your day rocks!"
I like her. Want to know why? Because I totally do want the rest of my day to rock!
Wouldn't it be nice if this was a standard parting wish? Who doesn't want to be wished a day that will rock?
Heck, I don't just want the rest of my day to rock, I want it to rock...in the way that Jack Black believes that it should in "School of Rock." Or, in the way that Dee Snider and Twisted Sister implored 15-year-old me to rock once upon a time.
(Side note: A friend of mine in California, Pablo, used to randomly walk up to me and say, "What do you want to do with your life?" and before I could answer would screech, "I wanna rock!" If you think it's weird watching Dee Snider singing it while Neidermeyer from "Animal House" gets pummelled in the classic '80's video, imagine it with a 5-foot-8 Hispanic guy yelling it two inches from your ear.)
One of my brother-in-law's likes the expression "rock on." However, I don't really want to rock on. I just like it when I'm simply supposed to rock. I don't want to be told to keep doing it. Well, unless I'm at a .38 Special concert, and I'm supposed to be "Rockin' Into the Night"...then I suppose that's ok. Kind of hard to ignore the raw Florida/Southern Rock power of .38 Special.
I tried passing it along, but it turns out that it doesn't sound right when I tell someone that I hope the rest of their day rocks. It just sounds odd. When I tell people to f-ck off, that seems to come out right. I think I just look more like someone that would tell you to do that, then would tell you to go ahead and rock.
Still, I hope that it catches on, because despite my outward demeanor, I'm perfectly ok with having my day rock.
I like her. Want to know why? Because I totally do want the rest of my day to rock!
Wouldn't it be nice if this was a standard parting wish? Who doesn't want to be wished a day that will rock?
Heck, I don't just want the rest of my day to rock, I want it to rock...in the way that Jack Black believes that it should in "School of Rock." Or, in the way that Dee Snider and Twisted Sister implored 15-year-old me to rock once upon a time.
(Side note: A friend of mine in California, Pablo, used to randomly walk up to me and say, "What do you want to do with your life?" and before I could answer would screech, "I wanna rock!" If you think it's weird watching Dee Snider singing it while Neidermeyer from "Animal House" gets pummelled in the classic '80's video, imagine it with a 5-foot-8 Hispanic guy yelling it two inches from your ear.)
One of my brother-in-law's likes the expression "rock on." However, I don't really want to rock on. I just like it when I'm simply supposed to rock. I don't want to be told to keep doing it. Well, unless I'm at a .38 Special concert, and I'm supposed to be "Rockin' Into the Night"...then I suppose that's ok. Kind of hard to ignore the raw Florida/Southern Rock power of .38 Special.
I tried passing it along, but it turns out that it doesn't sound right when I tell someone that I hope the rest of their day rocks. It just sounds odd. When I tell people to f-ck off, that seems to come out right. I think I just look more like someone that would tell you to do that, then would tell you to go ahead and rock.
Still, I hope that it catches on, because despite my outward demeanor, I'm perfectly ok with having my day rock.
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