Joe may be one of the hardest working people I know. Several times a week, I see him sitting on a milk crate in front of his weathered, yellow Cutlass station wagon under the bridge next to my office. He spends hours stripping copper wire from its insulation to sell at the local scrap yard. He works efficiently with a just a few tools. Some days he works feverishly with small engine parts, digging through their housings for a scrap or two of copper like he is trying to shuck an oyster.
“Three Forty-One a pound today. Highest it’s been in a long time, “ he tells me as I look at the carefully wound brick of wiring at his feet. It’s shiny, and reminds me of gold. To him, it is.
“That’s a lot of work,” I tell him.
“It sure is. Tougher now that the price has gone up so high. These damn garbage men, they take all the good stuff – appliances and what have you. Before they go to the dump they detour to their buddies garage or some damned thing. So they are getting a pay check from the city and making money scrappin.” He neatly slits a length of red insulation and effortlessly removes another two feet of wire.
“You see that hockey game last night? Vancouver could not get a shot off.”
This was not an entirely surprising conversation starter from Joe. Scrap may be at $3.41 a pound, but that is not enough to pay for cable – not even basic. Therefore, Joe relies on the one channel he can receive on his television for all of his entertainment and news. It just so happens that the station Joe gets is our local NBC affiliate, channel 11, which had the game on last night.
It seems unfathomable to me the dire prospect of living without cable. But I wonder if for Joe this provides some sort of freedom. Maybe he is the new American – the anti-media-magnate. No more channel surfing, no more worrying about a misplaced remote, no Blackberry or email. I’ve checked Facebook three times just writing this – who’s crazy?
Joe goes home, his pockets filled with a few dollars from a very honest day’s work, turns on the TV (probably, GASP! from the button on the set) sits back in his faded recliner and relaxes. Whatever is on NBC is good enough…it is only television, after all. I just fretted for five minutes looking for a radio station to listen to on the TunedIn Radio app on my iPad for Chrissakes! I ask again, who is crazy? I feel like I am making a hundred decisions a day just to satiate my media fix.
Joe and I chatted for a few more minutes. Finished with the wire, Joe pulled out a brush and swept up the remnants of the insulation and scooped the debris into a cardboard box that he put into the back of his station wagon – a trait that speaks volumes about the kind of guy he is. Me? Well, I walked across the street, jumped in my car, checked my Blackberry, started the engine and started to flip through my satellite radio stations. Really, who is crazy?
(Joe has one very quirky trait. He has an interesting and conspiratorial view about the issue of stink bugs that are the bane of us here in Western PA. I need to do a little more digging on this with Joe – I’ll get back to you.)
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Furniture and Location
After thirteen years, one month and twenty-two days together, my two boys will not be sleeping in the same room tonight. (I am not counting the thirty-five weeks they spent in the kiddie pool of amniotic fluid in Bonnie’s stomach. I am also not counting the ten days Dylan spent in the NICU after he was born.) Suffice to say; along with the boys becoming teenagers, a switch was flipped that required some more…personal space.
There is nothing worse for a parent than not being able to come up with a reason to not allow something. “You have a perfectly good bike.” “We don’t need chocolate AND vanilla ice cream.” Even the parental fall back, “because I said so.” None of these were going to work. And to be truthful, Bonnie and I begrudgingly understood it. After all, we have a spare room inhabited only by the remaining gerbil. (Blackjack, the gerbil would be moved to the “computer” room. Does anyone else have names for rooms based upon contents and not function? The spare room has alternately been called “the gerbil room” and the “PS2 room” because the old Play Station game system lives there.)
The biggest challenge would be deconstructing the bunk beds – bought to be two single beds specifically for this inevitable occasion. I found an allen wrench that fit and Dylan and I took the bunks apart without anyone being crushed and me uttering not one single swear word. Once we moved the futon (bought from Ikea that came in a container as large as a shoe box holding enough wood to build an arc) and the antique armoire (not very fashion forward for a 13 year old) from the spare room, all that was left was to negotiate the bed and a desk to its new quarters.
The boys have been busy redecorating their new living spaces – Dylan in another room and Chris adjusting to life with a bed without a top. Posters are being re-hung and the futon has a new home in Chris’ room.
After college, I moved four times in six years - two apartments, an apartment with Bonnie and then our first house. Each time I moved a new chapter was starting for me (admittedly, I moved to my second apartment only because it had a balcony – but you get the idea.) For thirteen plus years, we have always said, “the boy’s room.” But as minor as this may seem, it is not lost on me that my kids are starting a new chapter. Today, it is a new space; someday it will be a new place.
And this is all as it should be. Cribs and bunk beds, or sharing a room – it’s all just furniture and location. The rooms will always be there, but the names will change; “the boys room,” “Chris’ room,” and eventually “Dylan’s old room.” But the names that stick, like Dylan, Chris, mom and dad…they can live anywhere.
There is nothing worse for a parent than not being able to come up with a reason to not allow something. “You have a perfectly good bike.” “We don’t need chocolate AND vanilla ice cream.” Even the parental fall back, “because I said so.” None of these were going to work. And to be truthful, Bonnie and I begrudgingly understood it. After all, we have a spare room inhabited only by the remaining gerbil. (Blackjack, the gerbil would be moved to the “computer” room. Does anyone else have names for rooms based upon contents and not function? The spare room has alternately been called “the gerbil room” and the “PS2 room” because the old Play Station game system lives there.)
The biggest challenge would be deconstructing the bunk beds – bought to be two single beds specifically for this inevitable occasion. I found an allen wrench that fit and Dylan and I took the bunks apart without anyone being crushed and me uttering not one single swear word. Once we moved the futon (bought from Ikea that came in a container as large as a shoe box holding enough wood to build an arc) and the antique armoire (not very fashion forward for a 13 year old) from the spare room, all that was left was to negotiate the bed and a desk to its new quarters.
The boys have been busy redecorating their new living spaces – Dylan in another room and Chris adjusting to life with a bed without a top. Posters are being re-hung and the futon has a new home in Chris’ room.
After college, I moved four times in six years - two apartments, an apartment with Bonnie and then our first house. Each time I moved a new chapter was starting for me (admittedly, I moved to my second apartment only because it had a balcony – but you get the idea.) For thirteen plus years, we have always said, “the boy’s room.” But as minor as this may seem, it is not lost on me that my kids are starting a new chapter. Today, it is a new space; someday it will be a new place.
And this is all as it should be. Cribs and bunk beds, or sharing a room – it’s all just furniture and location. The rooms will always be there, but the names will change; “the boys room,” “Chris’ room,” and eventually “Dylan’s old room.” But the names that stick, like Dylan, Chris, mom and dad…they can live anywhere.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Debunking the Myth - Why "Chasing Your Dream" is BS.
Last night I dreamt that I peed the bed. This is always a very dangerous narrative to have swirling around in your head in the middle of the night because of the very real possibility that you may actually pee in bed. Anyway, it woke me up (in my dream) and I went downstairs in a house that was a mish-mash of my first house and a four star restaurant. It also had women who would cut your hair. So, I sat down in a barber chair and the lady began to give me my no-fuss buzz cut – but with scissors. It took forever and she stopped several times to help out the wait staff for the restaurant.
During these breaks I would look in a mirror that was suspended in mid-air and wonder why in the hell she was doing this with scissors when shears (is that what they are called?) would be so much faster. Anyway, during one of these intermissions, someone came up to me and asked me if I wanted to adopt the puppy that wandered in. So this stranger, who was recognizable to me in the dream but unknown in real life, and I went into the living room where the little puppy was being cuddled by a full-grown male lion. One of us remarked that it would make an awesome YouTube video. Neither of us remarked that the lion seemed out of place.
Things get fuzzy after that. I awoke, for real, and was infinitely relieved that I wasn’t relieved, though I really did have to pee. It was during this toe-banging free darkened trip to the bathroom that it hit me what a crock of shit it is about: chasing, following, capturing, running down, etc. your dreams really is.
When someone says, “I always dreamed of…” I want say, “Really? You really had that dream? You sure you weren’t confusing that with the dream about your buddy’s mom down the street who asked you to hand her the shampoo while she was showering?”
See, I think anyone who says “it was always my dream to…” is a liar. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I am the only one whose dreams feel like Dali and Warhol were turned loose in a Crayola factory with a tank of helium and a case of absinth. But I doubt it.
It may be your goal or even your fantasy to spend your life fetching Lady Gaga her Diet Snapple. But trust me, in your dream that Diet Snapple would be at the convenience store on Mars – and you wouldn’t think twice about going there to get it.
During these breaks I would look in a mirror that was suspended in mid-air and wonder why in the hell she was doing this with scissors when shears (is that what they are called?) would be so much faster. Anyway, during one of these intermissions, someone came up to me and asked me if I wanted to adopt the puppy that wandered in. So this stranger, who was recognizable to me in the dream but unknown in real life, and I went into the living room where the little puppy was being cuddled by a full-grown male lion. One of us remarked that it would make an awesome YouTube video. Neither of us remarked that the lion seemed out of place.
Things get fuzzy after that. I awoke, for real, and was infinitely relieved that I wasn’t relieved, though I really did have to pee. It was during this toe-banging free darkened trip to the bathroom that it hit me what a crock of shit it is about: chasing, following, capturing, running down, etc. your dreams really is.
When someone says, “I always dreamed of…” I want say, “Really? You really had that dream? You sure you weren’t confusing that with the dream about your buddy’s mom down the street who asked you to hand her the shampoo while she was showering?”
See, I think anyone who says “it was always my dream to…” is a liar. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I am the only one whose dreams feel like Dali and Warhol were turned loose in a Crayola factory with a tank of helium and a case of absinth. But I doubt it.
It may be your goal or even your fantasy to spend your life fetching Lady Gaga her Diet Snapple. But trust me, in your dream that Diet Snapple would be at the convenience store on Mars – and you wouldn’t think twice about going there to get it.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Losing To My Kids - So They Think
I get it; my kids are coming into their intellectual, athletic and know-it-all prime. But why does that have to be at my expense?
Last week I picked them up at our local field where they were watching a lacrosse tournament with their “we are da badasses” group of friends. In one corner of a field, they and their buddies were firing lacrosse balls into a net while another kid clocked their shots with a radar gun.
Routinely, these boys were zipping shots in the low to mid-sixties. Now, all six foot two inch, two-hundred pounds of a reasonably in shape forty-two year old should certainly be able to muster the energy to get something close to that. One would think. After I was told reluctantly that I could give it a shot, I cranked the lacrosse ball a whopping forty-eight miles per hour. I also managed to damn near need Tommy John surgery.
“Alright, “ I said, “Well, I will be at the refreshment stand.”
It was yet another example that the list of things I should be able to do better than a thirteen year old is diminishing faster than a co-ed’s inhibitions on a booze cruise.
Because of this continued depletion of self-worth, I have retreated to secret little pleasures that only I know about. Where I am my own competition – where success and failure are determined by my own hand. That is to say, I go to Apple’s App Store.
At Christmas, my ever thoughtful wife bought me an iPad, thus giving me access to thousands of apps of which I have absolutely no need for and largely do not understand.
Recently, I downloaded a game called “Rat On A Skateboard.” It is, so goes the cliché, what it is. You control a little rat with aviator sunglasses as he tools through a cartoonish urban setting. You tap the screen to make him do tricks, all the while avoiding the bouncing basketballs. Yes, it’s stupid – and also uncannily addictive. The point is, it was my game. I learned to grind some rails and flip the tiny skateboard to amass extra points.
When I broke a hundred points I was thrilled. When I scored a personal best 131, I was ecstatic. Then, one day my son Dylan was playing with my iPad and said, “Dad, what’s this skateboard game?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s a work application that I use to develop depreciation schedules for outside the box, going forward, value added capital appropriations.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, “Well I just scored 235 points.”
I considered deleting the game to avoid having to look at a score I will never beat prominently displayed at the top of the screen. My son tells me to use that as an incentive to get better. He doesn’t understand that the 131 was an anomaly – it is not unusual for me to score in the fifties.
I will never beat 235 and I will never shoot a lacrosse ball faster than my kids. On the other hand, I get to be their dad – beat that!
Last week I picked them up at our local field where they were watching a lacrosse tournament with their “we are da badasses” group of friends. In one corner of a field, they and their buddies were firing lacrosse balls into a net while another kid clocked their shots with a radar gun.
Routinely, these boys were zipping shots in the low to mid-sixties. Now, all six foot two inch, two-hundred pounds of a reasonably in shape forty-two year old should certainly be able to muster the energy to get something close to that. One would think. After I was told reluctantly that I could give it a shot, I cranked the lacrosse ball a whopping forty-eight miles per hour. I also managed to damn near need Tommy John surgery.
“Alright, “ I said, “Well, I will be at the refreshment stand.”
It was yet another example that the list of things I should be able to do better than a thirteen year old is diminishing faster than a co-ed’s inhibitions on a booze cruise.
Because of this continued depletion of self-worth, I have retreated to secret little pleasures that only I know about. Where I am my own competition – where success and failure are determined by my own hand. That is to say, I go to Apple’s App Store.
At Christmas, my ever thoughtful wife bought me an iPad, thus giving me access to thousands of apps of which I have absolutely no need for and largely do not understand.
Recently, I downloaded a game called “Rat On A Skateboard.” It is, so goes the cliché, what it is. You control a little rat with aviator sunglasses as he tools through a cartoonish urban setting. You tap the screen to make him do tricks, all the while avoiding the bouncing basketballs. Yes, it’s stupid – and also uncannily addictive. The point is, it was my game. I learned to grind some rails and flip the tiny skateboard to amass extra points.
When I broke a hundred points I was thrilled. When I scored a personal best 131, I was ecstatic. Then, one day my son Dylan was playing with my iPad and said, “Dad, what’s this skateboard game?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s a work application that I use to develop depreciation schedules for outside the box, going forward, value added capital appropriations.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, “Well I just scored 235 points.”
I considered deleting the game to avoid having to look at a score I will never beat prominently displayed at the top of the screen. My son tells me to use that as an incentive to get better. He doesn’t understand that the 131 was an anomaly – it is not unusual for me to score in the fifties.
I will never beat 235 and I will never shoot a lacrosse ball faster than my kids. On the other hand, I get to be their dad – beat that!
Sunday, May 29, 2011
This Is My Yard (I Mean Field)
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| Feng Shui - 13 year old boy style |
I heard that quote on a radio interview some years ago. I am not quite so poetic, so more likely would have said, “Until the kid’s leave the house for good, our yard will continue to look like hell.”
Buying a house with a big, fenced in yard was important to Bonnie and me. We had a dog and two boys and wanted plenty of room for all three. What was not considered was that we bought the only house in the neighborhood with a big, fenced in yard. (It has become so popular it is not uncommon at all to have neighborhood kids playing there when my kids are not even home.)
Our yard is now a field…and a beat up one at that. It is not lush, full or thriving. It barely supports life. It does support upwards of ten teenagers at a time, and serves as a lacrosse field, football field, a made-up game field. It does not, though, serve as lawn.
That ship has sailed. I didn’t acquiesce easy. I tried to fertilize, but soon realized that fertilizer is not resistant to the thunderous trampling of kids. (“It weeds, it feeds, it causes third degree burns…keeping kids off your lawn for years!”) Conscientious golfers replace their divots; the boys create them…willfully and with malice.
Aside from a flower bed near the house that my wife tends and small garden in the back, the kids have co-opted the rest. Just yesterday, my son Dylan asked if we could buy some field paint so he could line the yard. He was totally serious. Before I said, “no,” I admit I thought the idea was be pretty cool. That is how much I have given it over to them.
And all of that is okay. It won’t be long until they are gone. The grass will grow. The lawn will be lush, full and thriving. I will miss the clover and the dirt and the weeds. I will miss running over the lacrosse balls when I mow and finding the stray hockey stick. My yard looks like hell, just the way I like it.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Insane Religious News Of The Week
I observed two confounding and equally ludicrous religious events this week. And as usually occurs to me as I bear witness to such things, I find myself more amazed at the folks who buy into these shenanigans than the actual source itself.
First, Harold Camping’s rapture, or as I like to call it, “Real World – Heaven” seemed to be complete bullshit. More striking than there being no divine lift off of saved souls, however, was that so many people had such devout hope that this would happen, they gave away their possessions and awaited the witching hour with more anticipation than Arnold waiting for Maria to run to the grocery store.
When a rapture (which I long thought was just a Blondie song) is second fiddle to the real religious news of the week, you can be assured we are walking on shaky celestial ground.
This week, the United Stated Conference of Catholic Bishops released a 140+ page report that largely blamed the pedophilia amongst some of its priests on the sexual revolution of the fifties and sixties.
“That’s it,” the Bishop exclaimed! “It’s not our fault after all!”
Harold Camping has more clout. He certainly has a better PR team. Who is crazier, I ask, the people who cashed in their 401(k) for Camping or the Catholic Bishops who thought this report had any redeeming value?
Back in my “going to confession days”, I never once remember telling a priest, “Yes, Father, I was disrespectful to my parents. But it wasn’t really my fault. I just read No One Hear Gets Out Alive, the Doors biography, and Jim Morrison was a real malcontent. So I figured, what the hell, I might as well be one too.”
It never worked that way. But the Catholic Church is proving that it never let responsibility get in the way of covering their ass.
At no charge, I could have written the real report.
“Dear Flock, we lost our way. Over the past decades, we employed pedophiles. These scumbags preyed on the most innocent amongst us, our children. Nothing can undo that damage. Worse yet, is that instead of assisting authorities in any investigation, we became complicit to these crimes by turning these criminals loose on other children in other parishes. There is no excuse. We have failed in unimaginable ways. Starting today, we have invited law enforcement into our ranks and have opened our doors to prosecutors. Our goal is to root out and bring to justice these pedophiles.”
I could be wrong, but it sounds better than blaming Jim Morrison.
First, Harold Camping’s rapture, or as I like to call it, “Real World – Heaven” seemed to be complete bullshit. More striking than there being no divine lift off of saved souls, however, was that so many people had such devout hope that this would happen, they gave away their possessions and awaited the witching hour with more anticipation than Arnold waiting for Maria to run to the grocery store.
When a rapture (which I long thought was just a Blondie song) is second fiddle to the real religious news of the week, you can be assured we are walking on shaky celestial ground.
This week, the United Stated Conference of Catholic Bishops released a 140+ page report that largely blamed the pedophilia amongst some of its priests on the sexual revolution of the fifties and sixties.
“That’s it,” the Bishop exclaimed! “It’s not our fault after all!”
Harold Camping has more clout. He certainly has a better PR team. Who is crazier, I ask, the people who cashed in their 401(k) for Camping or the Catholic Bishops who thought this report had any redeeming value?
Back in my “going to confession days”, I never once remember telling a priest, “Yes, Father, I was disrespectful to my parents. But it wasn’t really my fault. I just read No One Hear Gets Out Alive, the Doors biography, and Jim Morrison was a real malcontent. So I figured, what the hell, I might as well be one too.”
It never worked that way. But the Catholic Church is proving that it never let responsibility get in the way of covering their ass.
At no charge, I could have written the real report.
“Dear Flock, we lost our way. Over the past decades, we employed pedophiles. These scumbags preyed on the most innocent amongst us, our children. Nothing can undo that damage. Worse yet, is that instead of assisting authorities in any investigation, we became complicit to these crimes by turning these criminals loose on other children in other parishes. There is no excuse. We have failed in unimaginable ways. Starting today, we have invited law enforcement into our ranks and have opened our doors to prosecutors. Our goal is to root out and bring to justice these pedophiles.”
I could be wrong, but it sounds better than blaming Jim Morrison.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Our Ghostly Misadventure In Savannah
Barry, the affable and southerly guide for the ghost tour my wife and I recently took in Savannah insists there is a difference between a ghost and a spirit. A ghost, he says, “is circular, repeating the same thing again and again.” A spirit, on the other hand, “is linear – and back for unfinished business.” Dave, the affable and northerly blogger insists he is full of shit.
Regardless, we encamped in a “trolley” for the hour tour around nighttime Savannah to be regaled by stories that included (of course): orphans who died in a fire, a woman who drowned (but really didn’t) on Friday the 13th, and the ghost (or spirit, I forget) who walks through the cemetery.
The “highlight” of the excursion (if you discount the drunk who stuck his head into the trolley and yelled “boo!” while we were waiting to leave) was a slow drive past the Sorrel-Weed House. The short story is that Francis Sorrel was caught by his wife having an affair with a slave. The distraught wife tossed herself off a second story balcony. Two weeks later, the slave was lynched and hung in the attic. This was terrible for all those involved in pre-Civil War Savannah society, but great news for the hawkers of ghost tours in 2011.
What really cemented this house in the ghost tour itinerary, however, was the Sci-Fy show “Ghost Hunters,” which profiled the house in 2005. During their time on the property, they recorded, on something called an EVP, the voice of a woman saying, “Get out, get out – help me – oh my God.”
So, for non-believers like my wife and me, Barry played the recording. Admittedly, I have never heard a ghost or spirit. But this I can report, the recording played more like a podcast than that of a ghost. In fact, in some ways it was more intelligible than our guide’s southern drawl.
The only comment my wife made upon hearing this was, “I want to come back here tomorrow and see this house in the day time. It is gorgeous!”
One conclusion I came to is that ghosts and spirits seemed to have largely gone the way of the horse and carriage. That is to say, they are dated. All the stories we heard were well over a hundred years old. Where’s the story about the salesman who died on the treadmill in the Marriott last week and now haunts the hospitality room looking for a bottle opener and a hooker?
Maybe the afterlife has free Wi-Fi and so there is no need to stick around, unfinished business or not. Or maybe, just maybe, ghosts and sprits don’t exist!
The tour did provide us with plenty of sightseeing opportunities that we made mental notes of for the next day. The Colonial Park Cemetery was one of them. Barry told us that a spirit walks back and forth and once sat next to an art student on a bench. (Neither the spirit nor the art student is available to confirm this.) We didn’t see the spirit or the art student, but we did see a dog pissing on someone’s grave. Or did we?
 |
| Sorrel-Weed House |
Regardless, we encamped in a “trolley” for the hour tour around nighttime Savannah to be regaled by stories that included (of course): orphans who died in a fire, a woman who drowned (but really didn’t) on Friday the 13th, and the ghost (or spirit, I forget) who walks through the cemetery.
The “highlight” of the excursion (if you discount the drunk who stuck his head into the trolley and yelled “boo!” while we were waiting to leave) was a slow drive past the Sorrel-Weed House. The short story is that Francis Sorrel was caught by his wife having an affair with a slave. The distraught wife tossed herself off a second story balcony. Two weeks later, the slave was lynched and hung in the attic. This was terrible for all those involved in pre-Civil War Savannah society, but great news for the hawkers of ghost tours in 2011.
What really cemented this house in the ghost tour itinerary, however, was the Sci-Fy show “Ghost Hunters,” which profiled the house in 2005. During their time on the property, they recorded, on something called an EVP, the voice of a woman saying, “Get out, get out – help me – oh my God.”
So, for non-believers like my wife and me, Barry played the recording. Admittedly, I have never heard a ghost or spirit. But this I can report, the recording played more like a podcast than that of a ghost. In fact, in some ways it was more intelligible than our guide’s southern drawl.
The only comment my wife made upon hearing this was, “I want to come back here tomorrow and see this house in the day time. It is gorgeous!”
One conclusion I came to is that ghosts and spirits seemed to have largely gone the way of the horse and carriage. That is to say, they are dated. All the stories we heard were well over a hundred years old. Where’s the story about the salesman who died on the treadmill in the Marriott last week and now haunts the hospitality room looking for a bottle opener and a hooker?
Maybe the afterlife has free Wi-Fi and so there is no need to stick around, unfinished business or not. Or maybe, just maybe, ghosts and sprits don’t exist!
The tour did provide us with plenty of sightseeing opportunities that we made mental notes of for the next day. The Colonial Park Cemetery was one of them. Barry told us that a spirit walks back and forth and once sat next to an art student on a bench. (Neither the spirit nor the art student is available to confirm this.) We didn’t see the spirit or the art student, but we did see a dog pissing on someone’s grave. Or did we?
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