Sanity is a Pipe Dream

Observations At A Waterpark

2010-07-06T09:09:00.021-06:00

Yesterday we took the boys to a local water park for a day of splishing and splashing, slipping and sliding. I didn’t participate in much of said splishing, splashing, slipping, or sliding myself personally … it’s not really my thing. I did the Dad thing … parked myself on a lounge chair, kept all of our gear corralled, and paid for stuff.

I’m a Dad. It’s what I do.

It also afforded me the opportunity to people watch. You can learn a lot about the way things are and the times we live in by simply sitting behind your sunglasses with a book in your hand, watching, and listening. It’s a technique I developed over college summers working at Opryland and honed in airports all over this great land of ours as I traveled from city to city putting systems in hospitals. When done correctly, you see people at their most honest, even though sometimes all that you see is that all their 'most honest' means is that they honestly put on a show for the world.

Here are a few things I noticed yesterday.

The Music

The music that played over the sound system in the waterpark was not a radio broadcast. It was piped, much like the music was at Opryland. Unlike the Opryland music, though, the music in the waterpark was more recognizable. And none of it was current popular music.

No Miley Cyrus.
No Lady Gaga.
No hip-hop of any kind.
No Katy Perry.
No Green Day.
No Ke$ha.

What they played was music from my generation. Music from the Steve Miller Band’s ‘Book Of Dreams’ album. Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumours’. Early Journey … Departure, Escape, Frontiers. Madonna’s more upbeat stuff got some play. I heard quite a bit of Duran Duran, particularly the ‘Rio’ album.

I don’t know if they were intentionally targeting the 40-something parents of the kids, or if the Guitar Hero/Rock Band games have had some effect. But I don’t recall hearing “Poker Face”, “California Gurls”, or “Party in the USA”.

The Bathing Suits

This was an interesting mix. Bathing suits seem to actually be a bit more modest than I expected, particularly on the teenaged girls. I saw a lot of tankinis, and fewer string bikinis than I expected. Maybe they figured out that going down a 6 story waterslide isn’t conducive to having your string bikini stay put, but there are fewer than I expected. I even noticed a few one-piece suits on the teens.

The people who were letting it all hang out were the people my age. They weren’t doing as much on the slides … they were doing the sun god/goddess thing. The bathing suits were small.

The people, on the other hand, were in most cases, not.

Thankfully, I saw no Speedos on men.

The People

At one point I spoke to a park employee who worked in a supervisory capacity. The ‘alpha’ as we called it at Opryland (which is what they called it there as well) was about 8. So there were about 8,000 people in the park at the time I spoke to him. Based on his experience, that makes it the equivalent of a fairly busy Saturday. Given that, I believe I had a pretty decent cross-section of people to observe.

The comments I make here are generalities, and I freely admit as such. Having said that, this is what I noticed.

A. The easiest way to tell if someone was over or under 18 was to simply look at them. If they didn’t look like they had been a little too close to the paint counter at Lowe’s during that awful paint-can-shaker accident, they were probably below the age of consent. Easily 75% of the people over 18 at the waterpark had ink of some type.

B. Most of the aforementioned tattoos looked like the wearer had gotten drunk, stumbled into a tattoo parlor, and asked for the best tattoo they could get for the 50 bucks in their pocket. Repeatedly. To look at them, what I saw implied that very little went into the decision. No thought. No meaning. No significance. Mighty Mouse here, Eeyore there, lots of the classic Superman ‘S’. Tribal armbands galore.

One woman had the 23rd Psalm written on her back. She was a 55+-year-old sun goddess. It looked as if it were intended to be a simulation of how the passage was found on the original parchment. I kept expecting Indiana Jones to show up and take her away as his latest find.

Most of the tattoos looked old. There was very little bright, new ink, and that was mostly on college students. Maybe the fad is playing itself out.

C. You would think that with all of the advances in medical technology today that they could create a natural looking breast implant.

Apparently, they can’t.

It’s really simple. If you’re facing north, your breasts should be facing north as well. If your breasts are facing east and west, and I can see the insertion points where your ribs go into your sternum … yeah, that’s not natural. If the ‘WWE Diva’ look is what you’re going for, you nailed it. If not, you need to go back to your surgeon and ask for a refund.

D. I’m not sure if it’s the current trend toward the Brazilian wax or what, but as soon as the bottom of the vast majority of the bathing suits got wet … well, details began to appear. Significant details. ‘Remove all of the mystery’ details. If my career path had taken me down ‘OB/GYN Boulevard’, I would’ve felt like I was at work.

I don’t need to know the size of that particular piece of your female anatomy. Nor do I need to know that you have hardware in it. Do they not make bathing suits with liners in them anymore?

E. Along similar lines … if you have been a sun goddess since before “Dark Side Of The Moon” was released, your skin is going to look like my old softball glove. You know it … I know it … the American people know it.

Now, don't get me wrong. I’m glad you can still get in to that bikini. Heck, I think it's great that you’re proud of yourself and the way you look. I'm happy for you that you have the self-confidence to go out in public wearing a bikini at this point in your life.

But you’re 60 now. And if you put your feet flat on the edges of your lounge chair with your knees that far apart, your suit is going to gap in the front. The world doesn’t need to see your vulva. Stretch your legs out and cross your ankles, please.

F. Listening to the 25-ish guy next to you talk to his friends about how this or that tattoo was done by his cellie with a guitar string tattoo gun isn’t as interesting as one might think.

G. If you have any doubt whatsoever about the childhood obesity problem in this county, go to a waterpark.

I’m not talking ‘full figured’, nor am I talking about ‘big boned’. I’m talking about fat. I’m talking about making Eric Cartman look anorexic. I’m talking about 11 year old boys with bigger breasts than Kendra Wilkinson. I’m talking about 14 year old girls with stretch marks on the cellulite on their thighs.

We can’t all be Victoria’s Secret models or “The Situation” from Jersey Shore. I understand that. But the obesity problem I saw on display yesterday was a definite eye-opener.

It was the rule … not the exception.

H. Either my skin is thinner than it used to be, or the sun is more intense. When I was in elementary school, I spent all summer running around wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. By the time school started, my skin was the color of walnut wood stain.

When we got married in 1986, we would go to the apartment complex pool and cover ourselves with baby oil to enhance the sun. Every half hour, radio stations would remind us to ‘turn, so you don’t burn’. All summer long, and in the fall until it was just too cold, we either went to the pool or laid out on the apartment patio in chaise lounges.

Yesterday I was at the waterpark for 5 hours. Every 30-45 minutes, I coated everything I could reach in SPF45. It didn’t seem to matter. I’m so sunburned this morning I can hardly stretch my arms for fear that my skin will tear.

* * *

We stayed pretty much till closing. As we were leaving, both boys were excitedly talking about our next trip … which of their friends they would bring, what time we would get there, where they would start splishing and splashing, slipping and sliding.

So apparently, there will be more observations to follow.

Now, where’s my SPF100?

Saying Goodbye

2010-05-24T11:56:00.009-06:00

A lot of days are the pretty much the same. You wake up, grab a bite of breakfast, and get started with the day’s tasks, knowing that when you’re done you’ll lay back down between the sheets and start the whole process over again in the morning. Sometimes it seems like that’s all your life is … a giant task list to be performed.

Sometimes there are days in your life that change you.

Today was one of those days.

Today I sat in my car and watched my son scamper into elementary school. We’d sat in the car with a bag of donuts and had what we always call ‘Breakfast Club’, and when the time came I rolled it forward, stopped in my appointed spot, and told him it was time. I’ve probably done the same thing hundreds of times between two boys. But today was different.

Today was the last time it will happen for me in my life. We no longer have an elementary-aged child in our home.

We moved our oldest son from pre-school to that elementary school for kindergarten in August of 2001. For a little perspective, 1 and 2 World Trade Center in Manhattan were still standing when we walked out of there that day, My Lovely Bride in tears. The child I watched slam my car door shut a few hours ago was just 2 when we began entrusting our most prized possessions, one after the other, to the people ... teachers, administrators, lunch ladies, janitors ... who, for all intents and purposes, are that school.

Over our nine-year relationship with that building and the people in it, two teachers had the experience (and I’m sure it was an experience) of teaching both of our boys. One teacher actually had taught 4th Grade to both Yours Truly and My Lovely Bride. Then, as fate would have it, she ended up teaching 4th Grade to one of our sons before her retirement. We’ve watched one Principal retire, to be replaced by the sitting Assistant Principal. There was comfort there. One person had been in administration continuously for our entire relationship with the school.

Those are the facts. Facts are cold. Facts are hard. Facts are immutable. But facts aren’t what make today the event that it is.

The child who started our relationship with that school in 2001 will be a freshman in high school when school starts back. The child who yelled, “Love ya, Dad!” on his way inside today will begin the trek towards ‘teen’ when the bell next rings for him.

Two doors are closing today. My mind’s eye sees the oldest holding the middle school door open for the youngest. “Here, dude … take my place. I’m moving on.”.

We have no more children in our home. We now have two young men.

That realization changes a man.

Dependable Furniture

2010-05-04T17:27:00.001-06:00

In exchanging emails with a dear friend, she mentioned something that caught my eye. As adults we are so many different things for so many different people. We are, simultaneously:

The Parent.

The Spouse.

The Human Resource.

The Friend.

The Neighbor.

And many others.

Often times we play more than one of these roles simultaneously. Today I had lunch with a friend, my two sons, and his 14 year old daughter. All at once I was The Customer, The Parent, The Friend, and The Surrogate Uncle. Switching between those four roles was seamless; whoever had my attention at the time got the face, tone of voice, and body language I put on for that role.

Sometimes, between all of the roles we play in life as adults, we seem to more closely resemble dependable (if a bit outdated) furniture than the carefree people we were as teenagers.

Back then we were everywhere and nowhere. Here one minute and there the next. Out the door the ringing of the phone, keys in one hand and a Coke in the other. We were living in the moment.

Now, though, we're always there. Always around. Never far from reach.

Dependable furniture.

The more I think about it, that's a role, too. If my parents hadn't played the role of The Dependable Furniture, I couldn't have been the carefree person I was as a teenager. So I suppose it's my turn to play that role for my boys, and in doing so hopefully teach them by example so that they will remember how to do it for their children in case I'm not around.

So I'll take the frayed corners, the stains, and the old upholstery.

For now, anyway.

Tangible Evidence

2010-05-04T17:22:00.001-06:00

Often times it seems that so much time is spent getting things done during any given day. It's as if "Getting Things Done" is the primary focus of our lives. When exchanging phone calls with friends, the conversation always seems to either start or end with, "What're you doing today?". It's almost as if we're validated by how much we have to do or how much we've done.

But that's just it. How many times do we reach the end of the day with nothing really to show for our hard work except exhaustion?

Some nights I lay in bed recounting the day, and it hits me ... I have absolutely nothing to show for that day's work. 24 more hours of my life are gone with no tangible evidence of my existence. If I had accomplished none of what had left me exhausted at the end of the day it wouldn't have mattered more or less.

To be sure, the majority of days aren't like that. I can point to a mowed lawn, a bunch of papers for work, or the night's meal and say to myself, "See? You did something." Or perhaps I've put some process in place to make the day go smoother ... to provide more time for other things of more significance.

As I sit here and think about it, I spend a lot of time coming up with ways for others to be more productive. I have become an enabler of sorts, particularly where it comes to my children. So much is done behind the scenes to allow them the freedom to create and excel. This gives them something tangible that they can point to, which is extremely important at their ages as it builds the self confidence that they will need as adults if they are to move beyond me and my accomplishments. But merely being the enabler for my children often times leaves me with little else to point to aside from the tangible evidence of their day's work.

I wonder if I'm not alone.

Perhaps that's why so many parents do school projects for their children. You see it all the time. You're looking at the projects that line the school walls and there it is; work that leaves you thinking, "There's no way a fourth grader did that.".

I used to chalk it up as 'Little League Dad' syndrome, but maybe I've been wrong all this time. Maybe the parent wanted the 'A' so badly as a form of tangible evidence that the time they spent as an enabler for their child was not spent in vain that they were willing to push the child out of the picture altogether and do the project themselves.

If that's the case, maybe the parent should bake the child some cupcakes instead. At least that's a form of tangible evidence of a day's work that they both could enjoy.

The Science Of Commodification

2010-05-04T17:18:00.006-06:00

If you live long enough in America, you’ll see something you like change. Once in a while that change is for the better, but normally it’s not. And the agent of change is normally …

Money.

American business has the unique ability to anything into a commodity. The process goes something like this:

Someone creates something distinctive.
At first, a small subset of people like it, then suddenly it catches on.
As it catches on, it is recognized as potentially profitable by one forward thinking member of American Business.
Mass production begins.
Other, not-so-forward-thinking members of other American Businesses decide that if one is good, a hundred is better.

At that point, the thing that was once distinctive has become a commodity. And once an item has made the transition from being something distinctive to being a commodity, a process Merriam-Webster's calls ‘Commodification’, it’s downhill from there.

There are many examples. Here are just a few.

In the late 60’s, psychedelic clothes and psychedelic music formed the nervous system of the Counter-Culture (LSD was the neurotransmitter, but I digress). Psychedelia was unique. It was distinctive. And the same people who came out of the 50’s frowning upon the Beatniks frowned upon it.

The Beatniks of the 50’s stayed more or less to themselves, as they had nothing really to bind them. The Counter-Culture of the 60’s, however, had multiple binding agents. They had the war in Vietnam. They had the Civil Rights movement.

And they had coast-to-coast television.

As the evening news broadcasts covered the Counter-Culture, they brought it into the living room of Mom and Pop America … and more importantly, into the eyes and ears of Mom and Pop America’s teenage children. Those children identified more with the Counter-Culture's hippies than they did with their parent's Eisenhower 50’s. They wanted to be like the Counter-Culture's hippies, but they wanted to do it from the safety of their suburban neighborhoods.

The teenage children of Mom and Pop America also had access to the catalyst of the commodification process – disposable income.

If Mom and Pop America’s teenagers couldn’t go to The Haight, they could at least listen to the same music and wear the same clothes. Never mind that the people who were really in Haight-Ashbury got their clothes free from the Diggers ... suburban teenagers wanted to buy new clothes that just looked like Digger clothes from The Haight.

Once someone in American Business figured out what those teenagers wanted, there was money to be made. On television, in the schools, in the record stores and department stores, Flower Power and psychedelic colors were everywhere.

Almost overnight, the Counter-Culture had been commodified. And suddenly, what had been Counter-Culture had become Pop Culture.

Fast-forward fifteen or so years.

In the early 70’s a type of music was born in Birmingham, England. This music was contrary to the flowery pop music of the time … making full use of the tritone (or ‘The Devil’s Interval’) to create a hard, dark sound. This music stayed underground for many years and nearly died out completely during the late 70’s as disco took over the world. Then, perhaps as a revolt against the very music that nearly killed it, it came back in the 80’s.

Heavy Metal.

American Business pretty much ignored Heavy Metal until the day that Quiet Riot’s “Mental Health” passed Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” to become the best selling album in the land. And again, it was the teenagers of America, looking to distance themselves from their parents from the relative safety of their suburban homes, that drove the conversion of Heavy Metal from Black Sabbath to Whitesnake.

Once American Business commodified Metal, it was everywhere. Warrant, Whitesnake, White Lion, Great White, Ratt, Poison, Winger, Skid Row … the bands were everywhere, and they'd all been given the same formula. For the sake of example we'll talk about Skid Row's debut album. The formula was simple; First release a hard edged song (18 and Life), then release a power ballad (I Remember You). It worked every time.

And to this day, Metal is still trying to recover from the transition from distinctive musical genre to commodity.

Today, the undisputed master of commodification is Disney. Disney uses the Princess model to take the process of commodification and turn it into something that can be used repetitiously in a number of different environments.

When ‘The Little Mermaid’ became a hit, Disney began churning out movies with strong female leads (‘Beauty and the Beast’, ‘Aladdin’, ‘Pocahontas’, ‘Mulan’) and reviving others (‘Cinderella’, ‘Sleeping Beauty’, ‘Snow White’). Then, as the animated princesses became big, Disney began doing it with human girls (Hillary Duff became Lizzie McGuire, Miley Cyrus became Hannah Montana).

But why leave the boys out? Zach and Cody have seemingly become Disney’s first male princesses.

Then there are the Disney Princesses that both boys and girls can enjoy … High School Musical, Camp Rock, The Wizards of Waverly Place, and the newest of the Disney Princesses, the Jonas Brothers.

American Business has become the undisputed masters of the process of commodification. Some folks will say that it’s what makes American business great.

Is it? Really?

A Demigod Amongst Men

2010-05-04T17:15:00.002-06:00

The Greek gods are well known for not preferring the company of others in their own neighborhood when it comes to spending a night on the town. Apparently there’s not much to do on Olympus once the workday is done. It strikes me that someone with a little ambition and some venture capital would make a killing if they opened a movie theater, a couple of fast food joints, and maybe a Hooters up on ‘The Mountain’ (as the locals call it). But since no one has managed to accomplish that as of yet, and since the locals are pretty tired after a long day of controlling the seas and tossing lightning bolts around, the folks on The Mountain do the same thing a lot of people do; pack up a bag and head out of town for a weekend getaway. After all, isn’t it so much easier to let your hair down if you’re in a city where no one can recognize you?

Despite all of the available information about using protection, most Olympian gods tend to think they’re somehow different than the rest of us. And because of this almost pathological disregard for common sense, sometimes these little weekend getaways end up with the god heading back to The Mountain for work on Monday, relaxed and sated, while back on Earth some human female is standing in the bathroom of her apartment, naked from the waist down, with her head in her hands as she stares at the Clearblue Easy test stick she just peed on hoping against hope to see the words “Not Pregnant”. And it’s those times when the Clearblue Easy stick stops being the most sophisticated piece of technology you’ll ever pee on and instead becomes an announcement of a life-changing event that a Demigod, half resident of The Mountain and half resident of Pine Mountain Apartments, is born.

Most people think that things like that don’t happen today, but I’m here to tell you they do. And I have proof.

In 1963, a god named Aigaios needed a break. Now, being the god of sea storms, Aigaios wanted to come down off The Mountain but he still wanted someplace kind of close to the sea. So he popped down to Portsmouth, Maine for a weekend of R&R. He met a nice girl, had a great lobster dinner, and a fun time was had by all. That is, a fun time was had until Aigaios went back up to The Mountain and left the nice girl with a bit of a problem.

Nine months later, a demigod was born. This demigod, son of Aigaios the god of sea storms, we know today as …

Jim Cantore.

It’s so incredibly obvious. When a hurricane is about to make landfall, whom does The Weather Channel send to cover it? Jim Cantore. And without fail, he is always … ALWAYS … exactly where the storm makes landfall.

Why? Easy. The blood of Aigaios runs through his veins. Sea storms are attracted to Jim Cantore like moths to a flame. Why, I’d be willing to wager that Jim Cantore can’t even get near a coastline without bringing down a category three storm.

I imagine a small costal town. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is high in a cloudless azure sky. A light breeze is blowing in from the sea. Kids are playing volleyball in the sand as the tide lazily rolls in. It’s the type of day that belongs on a postcard.

A couple of locals come out of a seaside McDonald’s. The two men are standing by their cars in the parking lot, talking about nothing of significance, when one of them looks past his friend and across the street to the city pier.

“Hey, Fred … look over there. Isn’t that Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel?”

“Over where? I don’t see anything.”

Dark clouds quietly start to layer over the water on the horizon.

“Over there! Over by the pier.”

The light breeze begins to pick up.

“I don’t see anyth … crap, you’re right. That’s him.”

The first man reaches into his pocket and retrieves his cell phone. “Wilma, you’d better find the kids and start packing. I’ll explain when I get home.”

A Practical Application Of The Rules

2009-08-19T21:44:00.005-06:00

This morning we overslept. Not just a few minutes, mind you. A lot. It’s never good when the first two words out of your mouth at the beginning of a new day are “Oh” and an expletive.

It takes me much less time to prepare for the day than it does My Lovely Bride. Call it one of the perks of being male. Throw on a pair of jeans and a shirt with a collar (polos work nicely, thankyouverymuch) and you’re ready to get things underway. Given that, it fell upon me to get Sparky and Skillet up and moving while My Lovely Bride got ready.

Our children rise in the morning rather like Dracula. Once they get a good look at the sun, all you get is hisses. Today was no exception. The only difference between today and a normal school day was that our oversleeping put them behind the 8-ball as well. This lead to an interesting combination … hissing and griping. While one sounded like a tractor tire with a slow leak, the other went on and on about how unfair it was that they had to be rushed because we overslept. I didn’t rise to the bait, mainly because he was right. It was unfair.

Rule #1 in our house: Life Isn’t Fair.

I listened to the hissing and griping, satisfied that as long as they were shoveling in the Frosted Flakes and Fruity Pebbles we were making forward progress. Then it was on to the bathroom with them to begin the second half of school prep while I made Skillet his lunch for the day.

As an aside, if I had a dollar for every PB&J I’ve made over the past 13 years, I could retire in the lap of luxury that most only dream of.

Now they’re both through the second half of school preparedness. Clothes are on, deodorant is applied, teeth are brushed, and faces are wiped. They have stood for inspection and I have declared them A-1, ready for combat.

My Lovely Bride is, as of yet, nowhere to be found.

“You mean we busted our butts to get ready as fast as we could and Mom isn’t ready yet?”

“Guys, it takes ladies longer to get ready than it does us men. It just does. Trust me, they don’t like it anymore than we do.”

“That’s uncool, Dad.”

Rule #2 in our house: When In Doubt, Refer To Rule #1.

About this time My Lovely Bride appears. She looks as beautiful as ever, but she looks both harried and hurried. She zips past us on the way to the kitchen to gather her lunch and get her morning cup of coffee to go.

Sparky starts to say something. I silence him with a look. I’m pleased to see that though he may be a teenager, I still have enough command of The Force to keep him quiet. He’s not yet wise enough to realize that anything he could come up with at this point would be the wrong thing to say.

Rule #3 in our house: If Mom’s Not Happy, Ain’t Nobody Happy.

One of the benefits of telecommuting is that I am able to survive an oversleeping incident and still make it to work on time. My Lovely Bride, being a nurse, does not have that luxury. Backpacks are gathered, and everyone is out to the van. Busses were missed, and My Lovely Bride will be making school runs on her way to work.

As the van pulls out, I wave and go inside to get my day started. I spent pretty much the entire day out of the groove with work. It seemed like I was a step behind where I needed to be all day. Even with that, it’s nice to sit here at the end of the day and marvel that we were able to pull the morning off as well as we did.

But I sure wouldn’t want to have to do it like that all the time.

Rule #4 in our house: Never Make The Same Mistake Twice.

I’m going to bed. But not before double checking the alarm clock.

A Lot Has Happened In 23 Years

2009-08-18T20:32:00.018-06:00

On August the 23rd, My Lovely Bride and I will celebrate our anniversary. As I lay in bed thinking about our time together a few nights ago, I started wondering what else has been around as long as our marriage. What all has happened since the day she became the other half of my heartbeat?

Well, about the time my fiancée was picking out her wedding dress, a small part of the computer division of Lucasfilm known as The Graphics Group was bought by Apple Computer co-founder Steve Jobs. The Graphics Group was known for creating computer-generated effects such as the Genesis Effect in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Lucas needed a bit of capital due to his impending divorce, and Jobs offered him $5 million for the little division.

After making the purchase, Jobs decided that ‘The Graphics Group’ was a pretty uninspiring label and subsequently changed the name of his newly acquired special effects company to Pixar Animation.

Let’s see. A little more investigation reveals that close to the time we decided to move the wedding up from October to August, Out Of Africa won the Oscar for Best Picture. 23 years later, many people are still wondering what, exactly, the members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences were sharing in that bong. It must’ve been something extraordinary.

On April the 13th, one year and two days before the first time we would file taxes using the classification “Married Filing Jointly”, Pope John Paul II became the first Pope to officially visit a synagogue. During the lunch press conference, the Pope was overheard saying that he, "Just couldn’t get a corned beef and swiss on an onion roll like this in Vatican City".

A few days later, a treaty was signed ending the Three Hundred and Thirty Five Years War between the Netherlands and Isles of Scilly off the coast of the United Kingdom. These people were at war from 1651 to 1986 without a single shot being fired. Tensions escalated with the invention of the telephone, when the Prime Minister of the Netherlands began calling the random numbers in the Isles of Scilly asking if they had Prince Albert in a can.

As my future wife was deciding on the menu for the reception, Geraldo Rivera was opening Al Capone’s vault. In both cases there was quite a build up for something I never had the opportunity to personally enjoy. Our wedding reception had food I wasn't allowed to eat and a cake I could only look at. At least Al Capone's vault had whiskey in it.

Hands Across America happened about the time I finally lined up a job after college. I offered to hold hands with My Lovely Future Bride that day, but she said it was bad luck to participate in trendy events to raise awareness of issues most people are already aware of in the first place before the wedding.

In October, just as My Lovely Bride and I were starting to get used to being around each other all the time, a show opened in Her Majesty’s Theatre in London. I am proud to say that the love of my life and I outlasted Phantom of the Opera.

Not long after that, Boston First Baseman Bill Buckner let a slow rolling ground ball hit by Mookie Wilson go straight through the wickets, costing the Red Sox Game 6 and keeping The Curse alive a little longer. The love of my life and I have not outlasted that play … Red Sox fans STILL hate Billy Buck.

Lastly, on December 23rd of the year we were married, a light aircraft named Voyager became the first to fly completely around the earth without refueling. For 9 days, Voyager never touched the ground.

That’s nothing. My feet haven’t touched the ground since August 23, 1986. And I’m not planning to come down any time soon.

Like I Need An Extra Hole In My Head

2009-07-29T20:39:00.025-06:00

For several months I had been dealing with some pain in a tooth. Nothing major, really. Just a little discomfort with food that was quite hot or quite cold. The problem was easily controlled by simply chewing on the other side.

That all changed the day I bit down on a hot piece of chicken. Suddenly the pain went from nothing major to something more than major. A lot more than major. There was pain when I touched it. There was pain when I didn't touch it. There was pain when I drew in a deep breath and air went over it.

Chewing on the opposite side to control pain is one thing. I couldn't just stop breathing. So I was forced to do something that I hadn't done in several decades.

I called a dentist.

I don't have a regular dentist. The dentist I last went to see is probably dead by now. Given that, I would have to select one.

Now, I couldn't do this randomly. I am a highly organized person ('highly organized' is my preferred euphemism for 'anally retentive'), and as such I would have to have a definite selection process. Otherwise chaos would ensue, ultimately leading to the end of the Information Age and the beginning of a new Dark Age. No ... I couldn't have that on my conscience. So I developed a plan.

First I checked my dental insurance carrier's web site to see which dentists in my area were preferred providers. That seemed like a legitimate first cut. Once I got that list, I went to the Yellow Pages. Any dentist who's practice was without a web site was instantly eliminated from consideration.

I then pulled up a browser and starting surfing. The dental professional with the best web site would be declared the winner. How's that for organization?

After making my selection, it was time to make the call.

The young woman on the other end of the line was extremely polite. Almost too polite. Eddie Haskell polite. "Why, yes, we would be able to see you in the morning, Mr. Cleaver. Is Wally home?"

Next on her 'random unexpected caller in pain' checklist came 'Taking a History'.

"When was the last time you saw a dentist?" she asked me.

"Well, let's see. I can't really remember. Probably Nineteen Ninety ...."

"Uh, never mind." The sound of press-on nails rattling across a keyboard filled my ear. "Have you ever had tooth pain before?"

"Yes, I have."

"When was that?"

"I can't really remember. Probably Nineteen Ninety ..."

"I see." [clickety clickety click click] "Do you remember when you last had your teeth cleaned?"

"I think Reagan was President."

"First term, or second?" I started to take a liking to this young woman.

"First."

"I see." [clickety click]

She then directed me to forms on their web site that I was to print out and fill in before my appointment. They were standard history forms. As I filled them out, I wondered if anyone ever truthfully answered 'Yes' to the question, "Do you use any illegal drugs?", or whether it would change the course of the treatment of my toothache if it was discovered that I had an uncle who at one time thought he was St. Francis of Assisi.

I showed up the next day at my scheduled appointment time and was greeted by the receptionist, a pleasant young woman in her mid 20's. She politely took my forms, and offered me a small bottle of water. I took it even though I had no intention of drinking it and had a seat in the waiting room.

A search of the magazines revealed few choices of something manly to read. There is nothing worse than getting busted reading People or US Weekly in the waiting room. A copy of Time was sticking out of the bottom of the stack. That'll do, I thought to myself. I pulled it out and had a seat, hoping that the news in it wasn't too out of date.

That was when I noticed that Roosevelt was on the cover.

Teddy.

I was about halfway through an article written by a reporter who was embedded with the Rough Riders as they approached San Juan Hill when I heard my name called. I walked back, making idle chitchat with the dental hygienist, until I came to the room.

After all this time, a dental chair is a dental chair. Not much in the way of new dental chair technology ... they haven't changed over the years. I stretched out in the chair while the hygienist confirmed my identity, history, and complaint. She took an x-ray, and then told me the doctor would be in 'in a minute'.

Time passes slowly when you're stretched out in the dentist chair, waiting for Laurence Olivier to come in and ask you if it's safe.

Finally the doctor shows up. He's exceedingly polite and reassuring. By his mannerisms he's also confident in his abilities without being cocky. He's in control of the room and all in it.

He's also roughly my teenage son's age. Maybe.

Doogie asks me to open, then asks for something called an 'explorer'. 'Explorer', I soon discover, is the formal name for the big stainless steel hook dentists use to poke and scrape around in tender areas of the mouth. A little poking and scraping with the explorer achieves the desired effect ... both of my eyes are now in the same socket and I'm trying to develop the ability to bypass my mouth completely and breathe through my navel.

"Do you remember when you had that filling put in?" Doogie asks me as he scrapes a particularly tender area.

"I don't know. Probably during the Reagan administration."

"First or second term?"

Everyone in this office should try stand-up.

Doogie figures the filling in that tooth has come loose, so he's going to drill it out and put in a new one. This sounds much more reasonable than a root canal to me, so I accept his diagnosis. He then leaves the room to prepare what he needs to continue.

In his place there appears a new person. She's not dressed in scrubs, nor is she wearing a mask. She sits down in Doogie's chair and introduces herself as the Financial Consultant. She's been kind enough to contact my insurance and determine what they will pay, thereby determining what part of today's party I'm responsible for. She sits in Doogie's chair, looking at me with the same expression as a valet when they bring you your car. Then it hits me. They will be happy to alleviate my pain in exchange for my Visa card. I fish in my wallet for the plastic, and she's gone as quickly as she appeared.

There's a television on the ceiling of the room, and as a reward for turning over my credit card I am given the remote that controls it. The television is hooked up to DirecTV, and I begin looking for something to watch. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, on television during the day. I finally narrow my selections down to two choices, the Food Network or VH1 Classic. After a little consideration I conclude that it's probably better in the long run to drool over the Food Network than it is to sing along with VH1 Classic, so I settle for Emeril.

The hygienist comes back and jabs a swab in my mouth. "This is an anesthetic. It will numb the area before the doctor applies the Novocain", she says.

Emeril is pouring his black-eyed peas in a pot of broth when Doogie reappears. At least I think it's Doogie. It sounds like Doogie. It looks like Neil Armstrong just before he set foot on the surface of the moon. A couple of well placed jabs and I can feel the left side of my face going numb.

"How does that feel?" asks Doogie.

"Not too bad", I reply. "Not too bad at all. Y'know, the last time I had Novocain, the dentist came at me with a big silver syringe."

"I have one of those", says Doogie. "It's in a display case in my office."

I'm looking for Doogie's comedy DVD to hit the shelves any day now.

Doogie grabs his drill and gets to work just about the time Emeril says, "Let's kick it up a notch!" I'm hoping it's just unfortunate timing and not an omen.

Within seconds I see why Doogie is in a moon suit. The smoke coming out of my mouth clouds my view of Emeril. Luckily for me, the hygienist is standing beside my head with a hose. She's pouring water in as fast as she can, apparently in an effort to keep me from going up like a Malibu brush fire.

I table the idea of breathing through my navel and decide to move forward with the 'growing gills' option instead.

After a few minutes Doogie sits back, seemingly satisfied. As he goes to get what he needs for the next phase of our project, I stick my tongue up to my tooth and find that it now has a hole in it roughly the size of Donald Trump's ego.

An Ora-Jel commercial comes on the television. I decide that this is just not my lucky day.

A new doctor and hygienist come in for the filling. I'm not sure why. I didn't hear anyone tagging in or out behind me, nor did I hear a whistle indicating change of possession. Nonetheless, they are here ... moon suits and all.

Some kind of tight rubber band is placed around the offending tooth and a little tent is erected inside my mouth. I have to look around the tent to see Emeril preparing his chicken. The tent must serve some purpose, I think to myself, but I have to idea what that purpose might be. Maybe we're going to be tailgating later.

The doctor and the hygienist converse idly between themselves about upcoming meetings in the office, and whether or not lunch will be provided. Their conversation flows around me as if I were the potted plant in the corner of the room. Occasionally I am told to "bite, bite, bite" or "grind, grind, grind", but that's about it. I'm good with it. It's better than having someone with two hands, a foot, and a trowel in your mouth asking you questions that you feel obligated to answer.

They're done before Emeril can say, "BAM!" Doogie reappears out of thin air and puts a couple of finishing touches on the tooth. And, just that quickly, they take the tent down, Doogie's shaking my hand, and it's over.

The nice receptionist informed me on my way out that they had a slot open, if I'd like to stay for a cleaning. "No, thanks. I don't think I can hold my mouth open any longer." Don't call us, we'll call you.

Later on that afternoon, it hit me. I had just paid a man I'd never met before in my life to drill a hole in my head and fill it back up.

When I mentioned this to my friends, to a person they offered to do the work themselves next time for free.

Do I have great friends or what?

Reflections

2009-07-23T14:02:00.005-06:00

My friend's wife passed today.

To say her passing was unexpected is to understate what actually happened. They married fresh out of high school, and have been married for nearly 30 years. A visit to her Facebook page reveals the depth of her love for her husband. Particularly poignant is a reference to Nature, Time, and Patience being the best physicians ... and her comment above stating, "This is all I have except my wonderful husband."

I have spent the day emotionally numb. Yet as badly as I feel, I know that I cannot begin to plumb the depths of the grief my friend must be feeling. He was out of town for work. I have no doubt they spoke last night before going to bed, neither realizing that it would be their last conversation. Then the awful phone call waking him in a hotel room far from home.

The phone call that I always feared when I traveled for my job.

This is where one is supposed to make the statement that tomorrow is never guaranteed, so you live for today. The words ring hollow, though. Empty. Maybe later they will sound better. But not right now. Right now the wound is too raw to be bound by such a simple bandage.

As I sit in my office, Skillet comes up behind me.

"Dad, can I have some lunch?"

"Sure thing, Buddy."

A quiet moment passes.

"You okay, Dad?"

"No, not really, Buddy. A friend of mine's wife passed away today."

My son comes over to me and gives me a hug. Little pats on my chest. Whether he realizes it or not, he takes a little of my sorrow and tosses it aside for me.

Finally I look down. "PB&J, right?"

"Right."

"And I suppose you'll be wanting some chocolate milk to go with it."

"You bet. And chips."

If my friend should call upon me, I hope I'm as strong as my son.

A Night With The Kids

2009-07-22T15:45:00.004-06:00

Last night my lovely bride played Bunco with a group of ladies in the neighborhood. There are twelve of them ... each one gets a month to host. And last night's host was the mother of Skillet's best friend Jack.

Since it was just going to be the three of us at home, my intention was to take the boys out for a bite, followed by a trip to assassinate some time down at the mall. Being the helpful husband, I offered to include Jack. Jack's mother was grateful for the help.

Well, then Sparky decided that he'd like to take a friend as well. Ooooooo-kay. I'm not really too happy about it, but fair is fair. If one gets to bring a friend, so should the other. Now I have four boys in the van ... two 10 year olds and two 13 year olds.

The van trip to the mall was LOUD. The more they cut up, the tighter I clenched my jaw. This was turning in to the night that would never end ... and it had barely started.

40 bucks later, everyone was fed. We sat around the table talking trash about this or that, laughing, carrying on, and generally having as much merriment as one can have at Dairy Queen. I began to relax a bit.

Next, it was on to the mall.

The older boys split as soon as we got in, and the younger boys stayed with me in Borders for a bit. Then, as they tired of comic books, they split.

Before long it was 8:30. Two phone calls rounded up the boys, and we headed out of the back entrance toward the van.

As we hit the parking lot, I heard the following:

"Your dad is pretty cool."

It's all good. It's alllllll good.

When Did This Happen?

2009-07-17T19:14:00.004-06:00

Just a few minutes ago, I was mediating a disagreement between Sparky and Skillet. They were furious with each other. I was a peacekeeping force of one.

It took about fifteen minutes, but I was able to talk them back from the brink. Right now I can see them from my office window, playing together with a couple of Sparky's friends. And as I sit here watching them, a thought comes to mind. It's a scary thought.

When did I become the grownup? At what point did the guy who was the high school band geek and college sampler of intoxicants become ...

THE AUTHORITY FIGURE.

I think I remember when it started. 1996. Thirteen years ago.

We were giving Sparky his first bath.

When you're a brand new, first time parent, giving an infant a bath is a fiasco. I remember we had Sparky's hair all soaped up ... bubbles everywhere ... when we came to the sudden realization that we were going to need to rinse the baby's head.

Now, you'd think that this shouldn't come as a surprise to two college educated people in their early 30's. But as we looked down at the soapy baby kicking his feet in the water the light came on.

That soap's got to come off. And we didn't bring any kind of cup to use to rinse his hair. We were utterly and completely unprepared.

I ran downstairs and quickly grabbed the biggest cup I could find. I ran back up, taking the stairs two at a time, until I made it to the bathroom and gave it to my wife.

And as I watched the love of my life use the huge, yellow cup with my fraternity letters stamped on the side to rinse Johnson's Baby Shampoo out of our son's hair, I almost audibly heard the door close on a chapter of my life. I remember standing there, watching the soap come off his head and into the tub. And I remember thinking that during all of the times, in college and after, I had used that cup to hold a wide variety of beverages, never once had it crossed my mind that one day it would be used to help bathe a baby.

Not just a baby. My baby.

My son.

I'm the dad.

I guess that makes me ...

THE AUTHORITY FIGURE.

Just now, I heard them come inside. Footfalls in the hallway, getting louder with each step.

"Hey Dad ... wanna play something on the Xbox?"

I may be THE AUTHORITY FIGURE, but I don't have to be the grownup.

It's Not My Fault!

2007-01-23T09:03:00.000-06:00

A bald man with a moustache walks into room. At the center of the room are about a dozen folding chairs arranged in a rough circle. The bald man finds an empty chair and takes a seat.

Hello, my name is Crash, and I yell at the TV.

Hi Crash.

I’m not sure when I started. Possibly as a child, yelling at the black & white TV we had when I was young.

I’ll yell at anything. Sunday alone I yelled at two different football games, one Xbox 360 game, and an episode of Battlestar Galactica.

I’ve yelled at the History Channel.

I never intend to yell. I don’t even know I’m doing it. I’ll be in a room by myself, watching a ball game, and before I know it I’ll hear an announcement from one of my children.

“MOM! Dad’s yelling at the TV again!”

My belief is that the trait is genetically controlled. My father yelled at the TV. My grandfather probably yelled at the radio. I suspect if you follow my lineage far enough, you’ll find someone yelling at papyrus scrolls. Perhaps archaeologists have found cave drawings of one of my distant relatives yelling at other cave drawings.

The gene must be dominant. Mrs. Crash doesn’t yell at the TV. But Sparky and Skillet do. They’ll yell at their video games, or at Cartoon Network, or even at a rented movie.

So I have passed it on to them.

I wonder … if we’d have had a daughter, would she have gotten it? If not, it could mean that the trait only exists on the Y chromosome.

I smell a research grant.

If this is true … if it’s found to exist only on the Y chromosome … that could well prove to everyone (Mrs. Crash in particular) that it’s not my fault! I’m predisposed to this behavior. It’s beyond my control! It’s … It’s …

The bald man looks around the room. Baleful stares, some accompanied by weak smiles, greet him. He sits back down on his folding chair. An uncomfortable silence fills the room.

Hello, my name is Bill, and I yell at the radio in my car.

Hi Bill.

The Story of Tugs

2007-01-15T15:24:00.000-06:00

This is the story of a former work acquaintance. For the sake of discussion, let’s call her Tugs. Mrs. Crash reminded me of the story of Tugs after a posting by my friend Kimba.

Tugs was a contract worker who I met about 8 years ago. She would fly in on Monday to work with us, then fly out on Thursday to go back to her home for the weekend. Tugs was young, single, and not unattractive … a bit of a flirt as well.

One summer weekend, Tugs decided that she was in need of a bikini wax. But this time, she’d apparently decided that she could save some money by doing the job herself. She’d bought the kit over the weekend, and for some unknown reason had come to the conclusion that the perfect time to wax herself was Monday morning before she flew out of her home airport.

If you’re keeping score at home, that’s Questionable Decision #1. There will be more.

Just before she started, Tugs decided that rather than just wax the borders, she’d go for the full Brazilian treatment.

That would be Questionable Decision #2.

Now behold Questionable Decision #3.

The instructions that came with the home waxing kit said that longer hair worked better. They also said to work in small sections at a time, but Tugs was in a hurry to catch her flight. So, leaving things in their natural state, Tugs liberally applied the hot waxy mixture to her nether regions.

When she went to give the wax a sharp yank … well, bad things happened.

It hurt.

A lot.

A whole lot.

Enough that Tugs began to regret her decision to speed things up by doing it all at once.

At this point, time was starting to become a factor. There was a plane to catch. Tugs decided there wasn’t time to make this right, so she’d just wash the wax off.

That became Questionable Decision #4.

Well, as it turned out, washing off hardened wax from one’s nether regions wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be. The mixture on her loins became a sticky slag that hurt worse to remove than it had before the cleaning had commenced. Not only that, but the little of it that did try to come off on its own simply migrated south.

She now had 90 minutes to catch her flight.

Tugs now quickly got dressed in her business travel clothes … skirt, blouse, hose, and heels. Not want to soil her Victoria’s Secrets with the remnants of Questionable Decisions 1 - 4, she put her pantyhose on without the benefit of an undergarment layer.

This became Questionable Decision #5.

Between the walking, running, and normal hustle and bustle of air travel, the nylon of the panty section of the hose generated enough warmth to slightly melt the waxy mixture hidden under her business attire. As she sat in her first class seat with her legs crossed, the wax permeated the front panel of her pantyhose.

In the course of the flight, the wax reset.

Upon arriving, Tugs went to stand up and reclaim her luggage from the overhead. When she did, her pantyhose began to accomplish what she was unable to do for herself.

Tugs screamed. Loudly. She bent back over quickly, nearly giving herself a concussion on the door of the overhead bin. Her seatmate began trying to help. What’s wrong? Is it your stomach? Maybe it’s your appendix! Someone help!

A full-blown scene ensued.

To her credit, she arrived at our site on time and worked out the day. She spent the rest of the day walking as if her shoes were full of broken glass, and someone asked her if she was okay … that’s how the story got out.

I honestly don’t know how she managed to resolve her problem. I wish I did. I’m sure there’s another story in the knowledge.

Who's in charge here, anyway?

2007-01-03T08:47:00.001-06:00

Ever have one of those days when you’re convinced the inmates are running the asylum?

In the course of her workday, my lovely bride has to deal with a lot of things. Of all of the things she has to deal with, healthcare insurance companies are probably the least fun to deal with. The story she told of her first day back at work after the holiday is a prime example of why.

She has been trying to get a particular insurance company to cover a medicine for one of her patients since the first week of November. At first, she called the company directly and spoke to a representative, giving them all of the information they required.

A week or two later, she was informed that the claim was denied. The reason? The information wasn’t on the company’s particular form.

So she called them back and got them to fax her a copy of the form. She filled it out with all of the data she had already provided over the phone and faxed it back to them

A week or two later, she was informed by the company that the claim was denied. The reason? They required documentation of the testing that led to the diagnosis that required the drug in question.

She dug through the patient’s chart and faxed the information.

A week or two later, she was informed by the company that the claim was denied. The reason? They required clinical documentation of the patient’s treatment to this point.

Again, she dug through the patient’s chart and faxed the information.

The week before Christmas, she was informed by the company that the claim was denied. The reason? To approve this particular drug, they needed to see a copy of the patient’s proposed treatment plan.

She got with the primary care provider for the patient, discussed the patient clinically, and faxed this information. She then called the company directly and asked if there was anything else at all that they needed to proceed with the claim. They said that this was the last piece they needed.

Yesterday morning (January 2nd) she received a call from the insurance company to inform her that they were denying coverage for the treatment.

The reason? As of January 1st, the patient was no longer covered by their insurance.

She didn’t know whether to pull her hair out or laugh at the insanity of it.

Football Should Be Played Outdoors

2007-01-02T10:22:00.000-06:00

I’m starting to think my children are hardwired in to the Matrix.

One day last week I was out at the mall and made a decision on impulse. Every child, I decided, needs to have a football. I had one, and I was the only child at home for most of my adolescence. I spent hours in the back yard pretending I was Fran Tarkenton, running the 2 minute offense for Minnesota at the end of the game. I moved the ball down the field to perfection before throwing the game winning touchdown pass to Sammy White or Ahmad Rashad (both of whom looked amazingly like a trash can lid hung from my mother’s clothesline).

My children have something I didn’t have; a brother to play with. We have a big enough back yard that they can run patterns. This would be great! But I decided to start slow … Nerf. We’ll start with a Nerf football, then work our way up.

I couldn’t wait to get it home and show them.

I walked in the door, and of our two children only Skillet was home. “Hey buddy! I gotcha something.”

His eyes lit up. “What, Dad!? Whatcha get me?!”

He hopped around the kitchen excitedly as I reached in the bag and pulled out a slightly smaller than regulation Nerf football. I popped it out of the box and tossed it to him.

The hopping stopped.

He looked it over, then looked up at me.

“Whazzit do?”

I was unprepared for the question.

“Do? It doesn’t do anything, buddy. You take it in the back yard and throw it. You and me and Sparky. Playing catch and stuff.”

Skillet looked at the ball. Then he looked up at me.

The ball. Me.

“That’s it?” The honesty of a seven year old.

“Yeah, man! It’ll be fun!”

The ball. Me.

“Uhhhh, thanks Dad.”

With that he trotted up to the bonus room, leaving me standing speechless in the kitchen as he went up to get on the Xbox.

To play Madden ’07.

I must find the red pill for him before it's too late.