The Murky Socio-Economics Of School Pictures

It’s time for the annual emptying of the checking account that comes under the guise of School Pictures.  It’s not that we don’t want pictures of our kids, it’s just that we don’t want a lot of pictures of our kids.  Buying school pictures is like paying for twenty gallons of gas and only getting to put five gallons in your tank.

“Only buy what you want,” the uninitiated may say.  I scoff.  It’s IMPOSSIBLE to buy what you want.  The economic geniuses behind the available packages know exactly what you want; therefore, they construct said packages to include “almost” what you want.  This forces you into either buying a package that includes things like a diamond encrusted picture frame, or relegates you to the dreaded a-la-cart section, where an extra 5x7 can require a hardship distribution from your 401(k).

This year we have a choice of seven packages.  At the low end is the “Entry” package, which should be called the “entry package for parents who don’t care about their child” because the only photo you get is a Polaroid picture they take when your kid is in line.  At the high end is the “Ultimate” package which includes a hologram image of your child beamed onto the roof of your house. 

This is Sally, before her parents ruined her

There are all sorts of add-ons and special offers available.  But the one I find most compelling is the “Premium Retouching” option.  For $12 you can have your child’s photo “retouched”, and for free you get to ruin any semblance of self-esteem they may have.  “Sally, remember how we couldn't use you in the family Christmas picture last year because of the acne and yellow teeth?  Well, we are going to get your school pictures retouched!  Finally, a picture that won’t be embarrassing!”  If you think your child won’t be bringing that up in therapy in a few years you are mistaken.

We settled on the “Value” package which means one of the grandparents is getting downsized to a 3 x 5.  I was pulling for the “Family” package only because it sounds like we are truly invested in our kids.  “Oh, we always get the Family package.  It’s just so us!” 

The pictures will show up in a few weeks.  We will liberate the few that we need and relegate the balance to a drawer.  If they don’t fit, we can douse them in that extra fifteen gallons of gas and set it on fire.  Maybe that will drown out that annoying hologram on my snobby neighbor’s house.

A Street Artist, A Walking Stick And A Lesson In Living

Olu, pronounced “Oh-Lou”, is a black man in his late fifties with great, rounded shoulders and an easy manner.  He’s a business man, artist and a sage.  Olu sits on a low wall outside of a restaurant in downtown Cleveland where he carves elaborate walking sticks with a folding knife.

Olu and Me in his studio

“That’s beautiful,” I told him as I walked up to him.  Across his lap was a piece of cedar about four feet long and an inch or two thick.  He held it firm in one hand, turning it, as the other gripped the knife and gingerly transformed the wood into an ornate and rustic piece of art.  Where he stripped the bark, the alabaster of the pulp provided a contrast to the dark exterior.

“My raw materials are cheap,” he said with a smile.

“How long does it take to make one of them?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “each one takes about eight to ten hours.  I try to get about five dollars an hour to help with my room.  This one here is about sixty dollars, but I am willing to negotiate.”  Business man.

As he handed the mostly completed stick to me, I immediately noticed the intricate detail of the face.  It reminded me of something you would see on Easter Island or from a market in Jamaica.

“Where do you get the inspiration for the design?”

He chuckled.  “I don’t get inspiration.  I look at the stick and listen to what it wants to be.  Then I just bring it out.  I guess you could say I uncover what is already there.” He grabs another piece of cedar, raw and untouched.  “Like this one here.  I was looking at it this morning and I see a wizard.” Artist.  (Those words have really stuck with me the last few days.  Maybe I am reading too much into it, but I like that idea.)

The Handle

“How did you start doing this?” I knew I was asking a lot of questions, but his story was compelling.

“Well,” he stopped working and looked at me, “Seven years ago I had surgery on both of my knees.”  He pulled up one of his pant legs to reveal a massive scar.  “I could only walk with two canes - hobbling around, mostly.  I was miserable.  One day I asked God what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  So I just pulled out a knife and started carving a few bumps and rings in one of my canes.  One day, a guy asked me where I got that old cane with the design in it.  When I told him I made it he asked if he could buy it.  I said, ‘sure.’  God kinda led me here.  I’m grateful.”  Sage.

There was no way I was leaving without the walking stick. 

While Olu uncovered what was already in that ordinary piece of cedar, I uncovered something that was already there, too.  I uncovered a talented artist who claims he can’t draw.  I uncovered a wise man that is probably often overlooked because his studio is a wall. 

For fifty dollars I have a very fine piece of original art – the only one like it in the entire world.  But it hangs on my wall not as art, it hangs there to remind me that there is a lot in this world to uncover if we are just willing to look.  And of course, it reminds me of Olu.

Adolescent Psychology, Gazelle Livers and Ping Pong

Building your child’s self-esteem is a pillar of adolescent psychology.  Doing so instills your child with a sense of self-worth and confidence, which seem like pretty good traits.  Go ahead – Google it.  I did, and the results all pretty much say something like, “Hence it is not surprising that parents and clinicians want to foster self-esteem in young people.”  To that I say, fuck that noise, especially if it comes at the expense of my self-esteem and self-worth and confidence.

When a badass dad lion in Africa has a son, he isn’t thinking about building up his son's self-esteem, he is thinking that in a few short years that little bastard is going to be competitor number one for a gazelle liver.  You know what badass dad lion does?  He sure as hell doesn’t show his son how to gouge a liver out of a gazelle.  Oh no, he eats every damn liver he can.

All of which brings me to ping pong, which for purposes of this story, will be a metaphor for a gazelle liver.  Over the summer, the boys and their friends have been playing copious amounts of ping pong in our basement.  A month or two ago, I thought I would enter the fray and play them.  I hadn’t played ping pong in some time, but nonetheless, I of course considered myself awesome, certainly capable of beating my two fourteen year olds.  Possessing such confidence, I thought during the first match that I should “take it easy” and then promptly lost 21-8.

“Okay,” I thought, “enough with that strategy, time to show them the mane and the big scary teeth.” And then I lost 21-12.

But once your cub discovers how tasty a liver is, the cat (so to speak) is out of the bag.  So then I determined that to rightly assume my place in the pride, I had to not only just win, I had to completely dominate.  I played ferociously.  When a ball offered itself to be spiked, I not only wanted to smack it, I wanted to crack the ball off of my son’s sternum (after it hit on his side of the net, of course.) 

My record improved dramatically, which is to say I no longer lost every game, just most games.  On the rare occasion that I won, I rocked it.  I talked smack.  I screamed things like, “I’m dominating you!”  And then they would beat me again.

So my new and possibly controversial advice is this.  Kick their ass while you still can.  Don’t feel bad about it.  In fact, relish it. You’re certainly not “fostering their self-esteem” by handing them a liver in a nice patch of tall grass.  And then, when they are better than you, when they routinely beat you at ping pong, pat yourself on the back.  Your kids are supposed to be better than you.  

Where Dave Uncovers A Conspiracy To Overthrow The World From The Front Seat Of His Car

I’m in my car in the parking lot of Home Depot, George Harrison on the radio, and I'm staring at the back of a package of Mylar numbers, considering that a strange little accident may have led to me uncovering a hidden agenda with the potential for world domination.

A couple of days ago my neighbor backed into my mailbox.  This was either a) an accident as he claimed, or b) a purposeful act because he didn’t like it.  Dutifully, he went out and bought me a new one and offered his sincere (or contrived) apology.  With the new mail box installed I went to Home Depot to buy some new numbers.

I was thankful that my house number is simply 121 (this is a foreshadowing of things to come) and that my neighborhood decided to not number houses with thirty or forty numbers.  That always seemed awful damned contentious to me.  I could never understand long house numbers.  It serves zero purpose other than what appears a lame attempt at status.

But back to me sitting in the car.  For some reason, I turned the package of numbers over and read this.  “This package contains 32 total characters: 4 each of 1-2-3 & 0; 3 each of 4-5-7 & 8; 2 each of 6 & 9.”  What the hell is up with that disparity?  Since when have numbers been relegated to such classification?  What, 6 is not as prominent as 1?  This seems like an overt attempt to profile numbers and to minimize some of these numbers directly out of existence. 

Conspiracy?

Since I pretend to be a writer, I thought I would pretend to be a journalist and called the offending company.  (A company whose zip is 45231, by the way.)  I talked to Len in customer service.

“Len,” I said, “What’s up with the disparity of numbers in your product?”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” he responded, “Let me look.”  After a few keystrokes (he was either looking at the product data or emailing the FBI my phone number) he said, “Not really sure.  I guess it is from their market research.”

“Curious, don’t you think, Len?”

“I guess some numbers are used more than others,” he said.

Len drank the Kool-Aid.

But the scary thing is, if Len is right, and his company did do market research, who is the cabal behind slowly eliminating numbers so that businesses like Len’s eventually stop making certain numbers altogether?  If the package of numbers I have is any indication of the future, numbers will soon be: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 0. Then: 1, 2, 3, 0.  Let your mind get around that!  (As I mentioned earlier, my house number is 121.  Accident?  I think not.)

You may ask, “What would be the motive behind this?”  It’s quite obvious this is an attempt to bring about social discord and revolution.  Think of it in these terms.  Your telephone number has ten digits, and currently there are ten numbers, 0-9.  Now, if you limit the available numbers to 1, 2, 3, and 0 the possible ten digit phone number combinations greatly decrease.  Are you ready to give up your phone?  Extrapolate that.  Ready to give up your Social Security Number?  Grasp the hugeness of this issue?

Am I wrong?  Maybe.  But if I’m not, this may be the last dispatch you will have from me.  I changed “Len’s” name out of courtesy, but if I disappear, his real name is in the notebook on my bar.  And by the way, the company that made the Mylar numbers?  Their phone number has six 0’s.

I Went Away With My Kids And Thank God We Didn't Bond

I have taken “guy trips” that have included stops in: Vegas, New Orleans, Myrtle Beach, Virginia Beach, Chicago and Baltimore.  I can assure you they all included copious amounts of alcohol and activity that was borderline hedonistic.  I usually came home exhausted and broke.  One time I came home without a driver’s license and credit card and a very bad limp.  (That was the New Orleans trip and I am still trying to put together the timeline on that one.)

These trips were memorable and epic.

When I mentioned to my wife that I wanted to take another “guy trip” with my two boys, my wife did everything but make a hotel reservation for me amid proclamations that sounded a lot like, “They won’t be young forever.”  (Or it could have been, “You won’t be young forever.”)

Dylan, Chris and I Being Awesome

A week later, Dylan, Chris and I were in my car heading across Pennsylvania Route 6 toward Wellsboro, PA, an area known as the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon.  We were going to spend three days in the 

mountains hiking and biking and basically guying it up. 

It would be easy to be nostalgic about a trip like this and wax on about father/son bonding.  But really, there was none of that.  That’s right.  We did not bond.  At all.

Bonding can be defined as “join or to be joined securely to something else.”   Well, we really didn’t need joined.  I found out we are joined.

We hiked the gorges and rode bikes along the trail next to Pine Creek.  We had lunch on picnic tables with not a soul in sight.  We ate Italian two nights in a row.  We did a little swimming and I caught up on some reading.  We argued about whether or not the bird we saw was an eagle (it was) and we did some ball-

busting – which is an awesome guy thing to do.  We just had fun.

So we didn’t “bond.”  For me this trip was validation.  It was validation that I have two awesome kids who are well adjusted and can laugh at themselves (when not laughing at each other).  It was validation that we (though they would never admit such a thing) get along pretty well.  It was validation that trips don’t have to end with a limp and a call to your credit card company to prove you had one hell of a great time.  And it was validation that, thankfully, we didn’t need to bond.

Painting Is Not An ED Commercial

You know the commercial that shows a young couple walking into one of those big box home improvement stores where they are excited and notably hand in hand?  They stand in front of the thousands of paint choices and laugh and giggle like they are picking out cupcakes.  They go home, still laughing, and start prepping some room for painting – maybe she dabs paint on his cheek and you wonder if this is an erectile dysfunction commercial because all those ED commercials are like that.  Some couple is “folding laundry together” and then a glance, which in the real world means, “get away from me” but in the commercial leads to sex.  But this couple isn’t having sex – yet – because they are having a great time painting.  And the room looks awesome.  They pull the tape off and the husband painted the Last Supper or some Andy Warhol work.  The couple hugs and smiles and are so proud of the really fun day the husband grinds up a bunch of Viagra and snorts it off his wife’s bosom. 

That’s bullshit.

When Bonnie and I were in our local home improvement store today she was holding two paint swatches which were dissimilar only in the way that a one additional drop of tan added to a fifty-five gallon drum of light tan paint would make.

“Which one do you think?" She said.

“I want nothing to do with this,” I said, “whatever.”  I was filled with despair.

What a difference, huh?

One of the things I hate about painting is that you have to prepare for it like a goddamn shuttle launch.  Curtains have to come down, cover plates have to come off, holes need fixed – then sanded, and baseboards need taped.  Furniture needs moved.  Basically you spend an hour doing things and you haven’t even opened your paint.  At least when you dig a ditch the very first thing you do is dig.

All I think about as I am carefully – and by carefully I mean not really giving a shit – painting is that when I am finished I will have another hour of work.  It's almost unnerving.  Those silly curtains and cover plates, well, they don’t reinstall themselves.  And then you have to clean the paintbrush.  Fortunately we have a slop sink in our furnace room that is perfect for this sort of thing.  Unfortunately, the furnace room is full of nine years of various boxes/accessories/Costco 300 packs of toilet paper so I end up straddling parts of a bunk bed and an old speaker while I clean the brush. 

And even then it’s not over.  All the photos and shelves and other stuff bought at those godforsaken parties your wife goes to has to go back up on the walls.

When I finally finished I wasn’t feeling joyous and what I felt like snorting wasn’t Viagra.  Forget The Last Supper, I was just happy I didn’t drip any paint on the carpet.  Those commercials really are bullshit.  Imagine that.

(Aged Parchment.  We painted the family room Aged Parchment.  Add a drop of tan to a fifty-five gallon drum of light tan.)

Dave Finally Buys A Damn Pillow - An Update

There is no way that being in Kohl’s department store should make you feel like an elitist, but as I stood in front of a wall of pillows that’s exactly how I felt.  There were all these pillows for queen and twin beds, but not a damn one for a king.  It’s not my fault we have a king size bed.  It’s not like we bought it to shove it up the ass of the bourgeois.  We just own a big bed, okay?  But now, I can’t find a king pillow and I am losing my mind. 

I spent thirty seconds massaging one of those Tempur-Pedic pillows, and man, they seem really badass.  But I feared that their weird shape, with that dip in the middle, would prove a costly mistake or possibly suffocate me if I fell asleep drunk.

What gets me is I wouldn’t even be here if a) my cheap pillow would have lasted longer than eight years, b) I could learn to love sleeping on something that felt like shredded corrugated cardboard, and c) I would have manned up at Bed Bath and Beyond a few days before (and as tragically outlined in my previous post.)

I was only at Kohl’s because I hate the thought of going to Walmart – whose parking lot I just pulled into.  The entirety of Kohl’s could fit into our local Walmart’s bathroom.  The only thing our Walmart doesn’t have is a hotel and spa.  Although the store is so massive it could be I just didn’t see it.

After walking three miles, and then back one mile since the pillows are decidedly NOT where I was told they were (thanks elderly greeter) I was in front of more pillows.  And by now, the entire experience had started to weigh on me.  I was exhausted and exasperated.  (However, on a fun side note, I was using the bathroom at Walmart – the one with Kohl’s inside of it – and while I was washing my hands a woman walked into the men’s room.  The timing was either good or bad depending on how you look at it.)

Stoned Sheep

As much as I hate to admit it, Walmart has their inventory issue solved.  Within thirty-seconds I found what I was looking for, a super firm pillow.  I was happy.  And then I read the package.  It said it had a “3 inch gusset for back and side sleepers.”  I’m a dedicated stomach sleeper, and what the hell is a gusset as it relates to a pillow?  Does anyone even look for such a distinction?  And if you do, are you crazy?  I buried that away the same way I ignore the warning labels on alcohol.  But the other weird thing was the picture of nine sheep on the plastic cover – all looking like they just came off a forty-eight hour bender at Studio 54.  Wigged out sheep does not inspire visions of Kate Upton dreams.  The whole thing makes you question the real meaning behind counting sheep (of all things), doesn’t it?

But since I had already spent too long on this endeavor and since I was becoming borderline manic, I bought the beast.  When I got home, I wrestled the pillow case on which made me feel like I was putting a condom on a flaccid elephant. 

When I crawled into bed that night, I tossed caution to the wind and turned onto my stomach, didn’t think of sheep (mostly) and embraced my elitism.  I don’t know if it was the beer or the pillow, but damn, I slept well.