We seem to have an addiction in the family. Yeah, we have alcoholics and we have workaholics and we have other -olics that I can't even imagine. No, this is a different vice, albatross, cross, whatever you wish to call it. We need chaos. Pressure, deadlines, too many balls in the air. If we don't have it, we make it. If we can't make it, we borrow others'. Our current drug of choice is a kitchen remodel. Good buzz, a bit pricey, but it should quiet the monster for at least a year, right? Right?
I slink out of the house on a beautiful, cool summer day to one of our regular dealers, a shady dude known as Mr. Home Depot, "D-poh" in the parlance of the street. I showered before I left the house, but I already feel dirty. I'm there for the second time in two days, looking to score a shower and a vanity, oh, yeah, and a faucet. I'm nervous, because I'm a poser. Not a contractor, you dig? Just a kid from the 'burbs. I grab one of the flat carts, trying to look mad. No basket cart for me, no way. I navigate to the back row, way past the paint and the pvc and light fixtures to the bathroom section. It's dark and scary, and frankly sort of seedy. So I grab my stash and slink to the front to pay for my haul. In and out, don't make eye contact with the other addicts and junkies. Get out to the parking lot with my huge-ass cart and my huge-ass boxes, trying to do this on the lo' down. Anonymous. Fumble for the key fob. Pop the trunk. Lift the tail gate. Got to load the Honda and get back to my 'hood.
I can barely lift the first box, which is the size of a coffin and weighs as much. Christ, the carton is bigger than than the bathroom where it will be installed. I get it man-handled onto the rear gate of my Element, and I go white. It's too fuckin' big to fit in the car. I'm naked in the parking lot, sweating cold rivulets of panic, watching the other addicts watch me. Oh shit, oh shit. I got to get out of there. I call my wife, needing to hear her voice, needing her to know that I can't get the fix home, no little pick-me-up coming home with Daddy. I'm busted and shaking and crazed.
And this preppy, tired looking 40'ish woman stops and smiles at me, shakes her head. She knows why I'm there. "Don't jam it in," she says. "Maybe put it on the roof." I think to myself, "Well if I could lift the monster that high off the ground, I'd just adjust my blue tights and red cape and fly the fucker home." Thanks a lot. At least she didn't point and just laugh. I'm in a bad way. Why did I ever get hooked on chaos in the first place?
But the next guy, he ambles over and stops. He looks at me, at Box-zilla, at the car. And he shrugs. "Need a hand? Looks heavy." No judgement. Just a do-gooder. And for the next ten minutes, as I try to get my lever my shit into the back of the damn car, at least three more guys quit their own missions for a moment and offer to help. Nice guys. Friendly faces. Helping out a brother in need. I say, "No thanks" but their kindness calms me down. I think. I find a knife in my kid's tackle box and cut Box-zilla down to size. When I'm done, I've jimmied the bastard in enough that it only hangs out the back the the car about four feet. I cram the other shit in and get ready to leave, when the prepster comes on out of the D-poh with her own little bag of goodies, and laughs. "So you jammed it in?" Bitch.
I get on home, shaking from my trip and praying to get the monkey off my back. The high of the fix doesn't last. Chaos keeps on calling.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Dear God,
How are you? Please take no offense that I have recently publicly identified myself an an atheist. I was tired. Today, I'm agnostic. For the record, on Saturday I was Episcopalian. Attention deficit, religious identity disorder?!? ADRID... Do they make a pill for that?
Respectfully, you have a tremendous sense of humor. The depth and breadth of your creations, and the interactions between them, create a panoply of ideas, emotions, and memories that spin this humble man's head in dizzying fashion. So, thank you for the last week. It was very entertaining. Can you take a minute to help me figure out how it is all connected?
As you know, we attended the annual clam bake in Wareham last weekend. It's been going on forever and a year, but the word on the street is this was the last year. The man who has done the heavy lifting (literally) for the event is tired. After all, he's raised (with his wonderful wife) four children to adulthood and a pack of grandkids that grows algebraically -- if not exponentially -- every year. He's done it all without expectations, and I think he is a classic stoic and noble. And his hands are always dirty. Oh, and he has cancer. He didn't tell anyone, of course, but word got out. Maybe someone will step up and keep the fire burning (and the seaweed steaming), but if not, it has been an amazing run.
We drove up to Maine and spent some time on the water with friends. This family from Maryland we visited with has beautiful children and as a couple, a grace and bearing that makes one realize there are lots of really great, nice normal people on our little blue marble. We fetched sea glass from the shore, surfed in warm Maine water (...okay, there is no such thing, but it was water and we were in Maine), and kayaked out to this little lonely island to poke around an abandoned lighthouse. Exploring the island, I wondered what it was like a hundred years ago. I studied the pealing lead paint and contemplated our footprint on the environment. I imagined the world taken over by zombies and how this island would measure up as a refuge. Really.
We zipped over to Vermont for the wedding of a very good man. My in-laws took our our kids so my wife and I could play adults for a night. I remembered why we moved closer to them, and even with the oddness that is my wife's family (and I know odd families), I could not help but feel a brimming sense of joy that my son's grandfather thinks playing catch with him is better than anything else on the planet. I found myself, during the service at the wedding, reciting the Lord's Prayer and feeling comforted by its words and patterns. I looked at Jesus on the cross and wished it had gone otherwise for him; he seemed like a good fellow. I sat next to my wife and remembered our wedding, all of the hopes and dreams we had. It gave me a sense of optimism I hadn't felt in some time, knowing this young couple was going to give a life together a chance - I hope they realize their dreams and make some new ones on their journey together.
I crossed paths with my favorite uncle who was diagnosed with lung cancer and given two years to live...twelve or thirteen years ago. He's had a good hand all along. I saw my aunt (not my uncle's wife) and was oblivious to the fact she's still an alcoholic. I heard the theme song to Jaws in my head as we kayaked out to the aforementioned island and at the same time told my kids that sharks were not remotely interested in us. I slid head first into home in a meaningless softball game to break up the shutout the opposing pitcher was spinning. I was safe and my knees are killing me. A friend told me tragic news that was welcome tidings to her. I stayed up late to watch A-Rod hammer a walk-off homerun off a rookie in the fifteenth inning. Our puppy Abbott chewed his leash off to gain his freedom and then chewed off Hobbes' for good measure.
So, yeah, it was a good week. Rich. But I feel like a 7th grader reading a Bronte novel; I get the plot, character, and setting but have no idea what it means. So, sir or madam, any chance you could lend me your teacher's edition? I feel bad that I don't get it. I'm the dumb kid in class. But I do thank you for everything that you threw my way last week. For an atheistic leaning, currently lapsed Episcopalian agnostic, that sounds like a prayer. Or a request for a little extra help in the form of enlightenment.
Warmly,
Long
Respectfully, you have a tremendous sense of humor. The depth and breadth of your creations, and the interactions between them, create a panoply of ideas, emotions, and memories that spin this humble man's head in dizzying fashion. So, thank you for the last week. It was very entertaining. Can you take a minute to help me figure out how it is all connected?
As you know, we attended the annual clam bake in Wareham last weekend. It's been going on forever and a year, but the word on the street is this was the last year. The man who has done the heavy lifting (literally) for the event is tired. After all, he's raised (with his wonderful wife) four children to adulthood and a pack of grandkids that grows algebraically -- if not exponentially -- every year. He's done it all without expectations, and I think he is a classic stoic and noble. And his hands are always dirty. Oh, and he has cancer. He didn't tell anyone, of course, but word got out. Maybe someone will step up and keep the fire burning (and the seaweed steaming), but if not, it has been an amazing run.
We drove up to Maine and spent some time on the water with friends. This family from Maryland we visited with has beautiful children and as a couple, a grace and bearing that makes one realize there are lots of really great, nice normal people on our little blue marble. We fetched sea glass from the shore, surfed in warm Maine water (...okay, there is no such thing, but it was water and we were in Maine), and kayaked out to this little lonely island to poke around an abandoned lighthouse. Exploring the island, I wondered what it was like a hundred years ago. I studied the pealing lead paint and contemplated our footprint on the environment. I imagined the world taken over by zombies and how this island would measure up as a refuge. Really.
We zipped over to Vermont for the wedding of a very good man. My in-laws took our our kids so my wife and I could play adults for a night. I remembered why we moved closer to them, and even with the oddness that is my wife's family (and I know odd families), I could not help but feel a brimming sense of joy that my son's grandfather thinks playing catch with him is better than anything else on the planet. I found myself, during the service at the wedding, reciting the Lord's Prayer and feeling comforted by its words and patterns. I looked at Jesus on the cross and wished it had gone otherwise for him; he seemed like a good fellow. I sat next to my wife and remembered our wedding, all of the hopes and dreams we had. It gave me a sense of optimism I hadn't felt in some time, knowing this young couple was going to give a life together a chance - I hope they realize their dreams and make some new ones on their journey together.
I crossed paths with my favorite uncle who was diagnosed with lung cancer and given two years to live...twelve or thirteen years ago. He's had a good hand all along. I saw my aunt (not my uncle's wife) and was oblivious to the fact she's still an alcoholic. I heard the theme song to Jaws in my head as we kayaked out to the aforementioned island and at the same time told my kids that sharks were not remotely interested in us. I slid head first into home in a meaningless softball game to break up the shutout the opposing pitcher was spinning. I was safe and my knees are killing me. A friend told me tragic news that was welcome tidings to her. I stayed up late to watch A-Rod hammer a walk-off homerun off a rookie in the fifteenth inning. Our puppy Abbott chewed his leash off to gain his freedom and then chewed off Hobbes' for good measure.
So, yeah, it was a good week. Rich. But I feel like a 7th grader reading a Bronte novel; I get the plot, character, and setting but have no idea what it means. So, sir or madam, any chance you could lend me your teacher's edition? I feel bad that I don't get it. I'm the dumb kid in class. But I do thank you for everything that you threw my way last week. For an atheistic leaning, currently lapsed Episcopalian agnostic, that sounds like a prayer. Or a request for a little extra help in the form of enlightenment.
Warmly,
Long
Friday, July 10, 2009
LUFFEW
We've been married fifteen years. Today. 5,475 days, not counting leap years. Christ, I get bored in like twelve minutes. I fast forward through fight scenes. I get bored unless something or someone is actually burning, bleeding, or screaming.
Strangely, happily there has been no burning in our marriage. True, there has been a little bleeding. For example, I fell off a ladder this week. My wife (the topic of the entry) was holding it, right up until I asked her not to. No shit. I asked her to turn off the hose. Whomp! I dropped 16 feet. And bled a bit. But if you are paying close attention, she was holding the ladder. That is mature love. Not particularly poetic but oddly poignant.
Screaming? Some. Good natured, mostly. I'd like to tell you it was always impassioned and heartfelt. However, a lot of times one of us was dehydrated, hung-over, stupid, or in some other way being an ass. I have taken more than my fair share of turns being the jerk, but my wife ain't afraid to take her turns, either. Like I mentioned earlier, this love is adult, seasoned. Sort of like...well, the hell I know what it's like. (For the record, my first idea for a metaphor was smoked barbecued ribs.) Put it this way - every day I wake up and am surprised she is still here. She gets bored easily, too. And I'm a handful. Sexy. But a handful.
I could stay true to the genre and extol my wife's virtues, but that would be pedestrian, and given it's our anniversary, totally predictable. Can I skip to the end and tell you she had a lot to offer? Cute as hell. Complicated. Nuts. Unpredictable. Stubborn. Oh, wickedly stubborn. Patient. Okay, I'm not exactly skipping to the end... To summarize, I won and married up.
For the younger readers, there is no such thing as a fairy tale marriage. Watch "When Harry Met Sally" for a primer. For the folks who are long married, you go ahead and decide if we have have it good. We keep saying we do, which is miles harder to say than "I do."
But I know this (...and I know very little for sure...) - I am a better man and person because I met and married my wife. She may scratch her head at times and come up short when she weighs how things have played out, but I scored.
So, it's 1:00 a.m. Technically speaking, we are in our 16th year now. I wonder what this year will bring? Whatever shakes out, I know who will be holding my hand. Fifteen years? Easy.
Oh, thanks. And I love you.
Strangely, happily there has been no burning in our marriage. True, there has been a little bleeding. For example, I fell off a ladder this week. My wife (the topic of the entry) was holding it, right up until I asked her not to. No shit. I asked her to turn off the hose. Whomp! I dropped 16 feet. And bled a bit. But if you are paying close attention, she was holding the ladder. That is mature love. Not particularly poetic but oddly poignant.
Screaming? Some. Good natured, mostly. I'd like to tell you it was always impassioned and heartfelt. However, a lot of times one of us was dehydrated, hung-over, stupid, or in some other way being an ass. I have taken more than my fair share of turns being the jerk, but my wife ain't afraid to take her turns, either. Like I mentioned earlier, this love is adult, seasoned. Sort of like...well, the hell I know what it's like. (For the record, my first idea for a metaphor was smoked barbecued ribs.) Put it this way - every day I wake up and am surprised she is still here. She gets bored easily, too. And I'm a handful. Sexy. But a handful.
I could stay true to the genre and extol my wife's virtues, but that would be pedestrian, and given it's our anniversary, totally predictable. Can I skip to the end and tell you she had a lot to offer? Cute as hell. Complicated. Nuts. Unpredictable. Stubborn. Oh, wickedly stubborn. Patient. Okay, I'm not exactly skipping to the end... To summarize, I won and married up.
For the younger readers, there is no such thing as a fairy tale marriage. Watch "When Harry Met Sally" for a primer. For the folks who are long married, you go ahead and decide if we have have it good. We keep saying we do, which is miles harder to say than "I do."
But I know this (...and I know very little for sure...) - I am a better man and person because I met and married my wife. She may scratch her head at times and come up short when she weighs how things have played out, but I scored.
So, it's 1:00 a.m. Technically speaking, we are in our 16th year now. I wonder what this year will bring? Whatever shakes out, I know who will be holding my hand. Fifteen years? Easy.
Oh, thanks. And I love you.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Prime and Prejudice
A few years back, a student of mine gave me a book on prime number theory because he knew I liked math. Okay, he was ten and he picked out a book about Bernhard Riemann and the greatest unsolved problem in mathematics. Oh, his dad is researcher at Johns Hopkins and was voted top ten smartest Americans alive. And his mom has two doctorates and is a professor at Hopkins, too. What a bunch of slackers...
So I get this book and I'm gonna' read it, damn it. How hard can it be, honestly? I cruised through the first eighteen pages or so; the first chapter is essentially about a theoretical card trick and convergent series. But by chapter two, I start to dribble and drool a bit. The author gets into the history of mathematics in 18th century Germany and little anecdotes such as "Ah, shucks, wasn't Gauss a cut up in class! Oh, don't talk to me about Euler." Throw in a sentence like, "N / pi (N) - log N. (Pronounced "N over pi of N tends asymptotically to log N" by page 45 and I might as well be reading sanskrit. But... I. Am. Gonna'. Finish. The. Book. Damn. It.
Three years later, I am finally done with the freakin' book. Guess what? I read the whole damn book only to find out that the author wasn't kidding - the problem is still unsolved. Oh, what a buzz kill. Berhard Reimann dedicated his life to this problem and he died from an ear infection or something tragic, and he never did come up with an answer (proof...) to whether or not there are infinite prime numbers. Oh, sucks being him. I spent bits and pieces of three years reading about his struggles but I am not dead, at least. But I wanted the Disney ending to the story, I must admit. For Riemann and me. For him, peer recognition and fame (...he was loved by an adoring wife...). For me, enlightenment (...I am loved by an adoring wife...). We both were ROBBED!
Then I reread the second to last chapter. The autor wrote, "As Andrew Odlyzko told me, "Either it is true, or else it isn't. One day we shall know. I have no idea what the consequences will be, and I don't believe anyone else has, either. I am certain, though, that they will be tremendous. At the end of the hunt, our understanding will be transformed. Until then, the joy and fascination is in the hunt itself, and -- for those of us not equipped to ride -- in observing the energy, resolution, and ingenuity of the hunters. Wir mussen wissen, wir werden wissen."
We must know. We will know. In the meantime, admire the passion of others, even if they use really big words.
So I get this book and I'm gonna' read it, damn it. How hard can it be, honestly? I cruised through the first eighteen pages or so; the first chapter is essentially about a theoretical card trick and convergent series. But by chapter two, I start to dribble and drool a bit. The author gets into the history of mathematics in 18th century Germany and little anecdotes such as "Ah, shucks, wasn't Gauss a cut up in class! Oh, don't talk to me about Euler." Throw in a sentence like, "N / pi (N) - log N. (Pronounced "N over pi of N tends asymptotically to log N" by page 45 and I might as well be reading sanskrit. But... I. Am. Gonna'. Finish. The. Book. Damn. It.
Three years later, I am finally done with the freakin' book. Guess what? I read the whole damn book only to find out that the author wasn't kidding - the problem is still unsolved. Oh, what a buzz kill. Berhard Reimann dedicated his life to this problem and he died from an ear infection or something tragic, and he never did come up with an answer (proof...) to whether or not there are infinite prime numbers. Oh, sucks being him. I spent bits and pieces of three years reading about his struggles but I am not dead, at least. But I wanted the Disney ending to the story, I must admit. For Riemann and me. For him, peer recognition and fame (...he was loved by an adoring wife...). For me, enlightenment (...I am loved by an adoring wife...). We both were ROBBED!
Then I reread the second to last chapter. The autor wrote, "As Andrew Odlyzko told me, "Either it is true, or else it isn't. One day we shall know. I have no idea what the consequences will be, and I don't believe anyone else has, either. I am certain, though, that they will be tremendous. At the end of the hunt, our understanding will be transformed. Until then, the joy and fascination is in the hunt itself, and -- for those of us not equipped to ride -- in observing the energy, resolution, and ingenuity of the hunters. Wir mussen wissen, wir werden wissen."
We must know. We will know. In the meantime, admire the passion of others, even if they use really big words.
Monday, June 1, 2009
When the Phone Rings Again
Life is a peculiar thing, I've found. There are little forks along life's path all the time, and sometimes great divergences, splits in the course of life. I had never really noticed the little ones, as they are sort of like back county roads. All the views are interesting, and they all get you where you are going eventually. The big ones, well, they spin you and turn you and change you abruptly. And everything comes at you so fast, so damn fast. Some times you see the sharper turns coming, some times you don't.
My youngest child, like his older sister, was (and remains...) a pretty good sleeper. Once he went to bed, he was down for the count. Most nights, my wife and I got to sleep through the night, six hours or so. Sure, once in awhile one of our kids got the stomach bug or had a spell of night terrors, but most nights were wonderfully mundane.
One late Saturday night --so late it was Sunday already-- our 3 year old Will woke early. Five o'clock or within minutes of it. He padded his way up to our room and stood next to me quietly until I sensed his presence. I wasn't startled, 'cause kids do that kinda stuff. Sort of Ninja in a onezie... Most nights, I would gather him back up and tuck him in his bed, keeping the habit of separate beds intact. But he'd been pretty good of late, and he was damn cute and snuggly, so I let him crawl into bed with me. He nuzzled up and was asleep in seconds. I took a deep breath and exhaled contentedly. We might sleep like this 'til 8:00. A nice, lazy start to a Sunday.
I had barely left consciousness when I was jarred awake again by the phone ringing. My first thought? Naw, this couldn't happen again. This time it had to be a wrong number. My adrenaline kicked in and I knew my day was going to start, for better or worse. I reached for the phone, gulped, and answered with a cautious 'hello'. I prayed I wouldn't know the voice on the other end. It was my sister. Hello, surreality.
"Hey, um, oh my god. Dan's dead." I'm pretty sure that's what she said, but I know she said more too, because I remember she said she had gone to a Green Day show and the local police were waiting for her when she got home. That the Florida State police had called her local police office in suburban San Francisco, because they couldn't find my brother's parents. I can remember her telling me that my brother had been shot by a neighbor. I remember yelling "Fuck!" as I tried to make my body go down the stairs, away from my angelic sleeping boy and my sweet wife and my gentle daughter.
And in that thirty second span, I knew my life --and that of our family-- had turned and twisted and veered off course. Life had turned suddenly -- a second time in less than 8 months -- onto a superhighway of loss, sadness, discovery, and grief. But unlike the sudden loss of my mom, this new highway also took me past hate, anger, denial, and hurt. I have been on some back roads lately, and I'm remembering how much I used to love casual drives through life's lesser travelled roads. But I can still hear the roar of the highway. It scares me. But I'm still driving. Just don't call, okay?
My youngest child, like his older sister, was (and remains...) a pretty good sleeper. Once he went to bed, he was down for the count. Most nights, my wife and I got to sleep through the night, six hours or so. Sure, once in awhile one of our kids got the stomach bug or had a spell of night terrors, but most nights were wonderfully mundane.
One late Saturday night --so late it was Sunday already-- our 3 year old Will woke early. Five o'clock or within minutes of it. He padded his way up to our room and stood next to me quietly until I sensed his presence. I wasn't startled, 'cause kids do that kinda stuff. Sort of Ninja in a onezie... Most nights, I would gather him back up and tuck him in his bed, keeping the habit of separate beds intact. But he'd been pretty good of late, and he was damn cute and snuggly, so I let him crawl into bed with me. He nuzzled up and was asleep in seconds. I took a deep breath and exhaled contentedly. We might sleep like this 'til 8:00. A nice, lazy start to a Sunday.
I had barely left consciousness when I was jarred awake again by the phone ringing. My first thought? Naw, this couldn't happen again. This time it had to be a wrong number. My adrenaline kicked in and I knew my day was going to start, for better or worse. I reached for the phone, gulped, and answered with a cautious 'hello'. I prayed I wouldn't know the voice on the other end. It was my sister. Hello, surreality.
"Hey, um, oh my god. Dan's dead." I'm pretty sure that's what she said, but I know she said more too, because I remember she said she had gone to a Green Day show and the local police were waiting for her when she got home. That the Florida State police had called her local police office in suburban San Francisco, because they couldn't find my brother's parents. I can remember her telling me that my brother had been shot by a neighbor. I remember yelling "Fuck!" as I tried to make my body go down the stairs, away from my angelic sleeping boy and my sweet wife and my gentle daughter.
And in that thirty second span, I knew my life --and that of our family-- had turned and twisted and veered off course. Life had turned suddenly -- a second time in less than 8 months -- onto a superhighway of loss, sadness, discovery, and grief. But unlike the sudden loss of my mom, this new highway also took me past hate, anger, denial, and hurt. I have been on some back roads lately, and I'm remembering how much I used to love casual drives through life's lesser travelled roads. But I can still hear the roar of the highway. It scares me. But I'm still driving. Just don't call, okay?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Don't say it...
When I was starting out, I landed a job in an after school program helping kids out, keeping an eye on them, teaching a bit, and generally having a lot of laughs. Which is good, 'cause the pay stunk. We used to make extra snacks for the kids, in the hopes there would be leftovers and we'd have something for dinner.
At one of our requisite trainings on dealing with kids and conflict, the director of the program mentioned she didn't want us to ask the kids to say 'sorry' if they hurt another child's feelings. At the time, I thought she was wildly out of touch, a do-gooder, a liberal. But her point was simple and straightforward. If a kid just says sorry, what really have they done to fix their error? They had to address the problem they caused directly. Actions, not words.
Years later, I have come to believe she was -- is -- absolutely right. The word 'sorry' is a cheap out, junk food, a distraction. Too many people -- famous or not -- seem to think saying you are sorry means anything. On the famous side, take Manny Ramirez as an example. Suspended for 50 games for using juice, he was expected to say sorry to his teammates. Not even to the fans, mind you, not that it would matter. He makes millions of millions, screws his team, and his teammates are supposed to listen to an apology? Oh, sure, he's gonna cough up 7 million while he sits by the pool, but when he comes back, he'll start collecting the 20+ million owed to him. If he were sorry, he'd go to every game and take tickets at the turnstile, maybe lug some popcorn or beers to the fans (...and pay for it, too), and take turns washing the team's jockstraps. Maybe he is sorry, but what I'd like is to see him do something to fix the mess he caused.
It's not the rich and shameless that worry me, though. It's us regular folks. My kids, as an example. Our daughter, bless her kind soul, leaves her junk all over the house. When I'm tripping all over it, the first thing out of her mouth is "I'm sorry, Dad." I'm not interested in how she feels about me tripping or disrespecting the rest of the family, but I'm very interested in her picking her stuff up. It's simple, really. Don't say 'sorry' because it doesn't do a whole lot. Instead, I'm trying to teach her to pick up before it is a problem, and when she forgets, I'm really hoping she'll start saying "I'll get it picked up now."
To be honest, I'm fighting a losing battle. But I love long odds, so I'll keep chipping away. The next time my daughter leaves her cleats in the kitchen and I call her out on it, I'd be perfectly happy if she just spoke the truth. "Dad, I'm not sorry. My feet were hot and I took off my shoes immediately upon entering the house. Then I saw the puppy and forgot all about the shoes. My feet feel better and, boy, the puppy really is cute." Oh, if she then puts her cleats away, that would be cool, too.
At one of our requisite trainings on dealing with kids and conflict, the director of the program mentioned she didn't want us to ask the kids to say 'sorry' if they hurt another child's feelings. At the time, I thought she was wildly out of touch, a do-gooder, a liberal. But her point was simple and straightforward. If a kid just says sorry, what really have they done to fix their error? They had to address the problem they caused directly. Actions, not words.
Years later, I have come to believe she was -- is -- absolutely right. The word 'sorry' is a cheap out, junk food, a distraction. Too many people -- famous or not -- seem to think saying you are sorry means anything. On the famous side, take Manny Ramirez as an example. Suspended for 50 games for using juice, he was expected to say sorry to his teammates. Not even to the fans, mind you, not that it would matter. He makes millions of millions, screws his team, and his teammates are supposed to listen to an apology? Oh, sure, he's gonna cough up 7 million while he sits by the pool, but when he comes back, he'll start collecting the 20+ million owed to him. If he were sorry, he'd go to every game and take tickets at the turnstile, maybe lug some popcorn or beers to the fans (...and pay for it, too), and take turns washing the team's jockstraps. Maybe he is sorry, but what I'd like is to see him do something to fix the mess he caused.
It's not the rich and shameless that worry me, though. It's us regular folks. My kids, as an example. Our daughter, bless her kind soul, leaves her junk all over the house. When I'm tripping all over it, the first thing out of her mouth is "I'm sorry, Dad." I'm not interested in how she feels about me tripping or disrespecting the rest of the family, but I'm very interested in her picking her stuff up. It's simple, really. Don't say 'sorry' because it doesn't do a whole lot. Instead, I'm trying to teach her to pick up before it is a problem, and when she forgets, I'm really hoping she'll start saying "I'll get it picked up now."
To be honest, I'm fighting a losing battle. But I love long odds, so I'll keep chipping away. The next time my daughter leaves her cleats in the kitchen and I call her out on it, I'd be perfectly happy if she just spoke the truth. "Dad, I'm not sorry. My feet were hot and I took off my shoes immediately upon entering the house. Then I saw the puppy and forgot all about the shoes. My feet feel better and, boy, the puppy really is cute." Oh, if she then puts her cleats away, that would be cool, too.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Stuff Goes BOOM!
I want to work for Myth Busters. What a crazy good job, no? Adam and Jamie are building a cannon with match heads and a shaved-down bowling ball. I mean really, what COULD be better? Okay, so they missed their target the first time but it would have left a mark. The damn ball went 1500 feet! They get paid to blow up, maul, spindle, and otherwise totally trash random stuff. Oh, the glory.
My favorite personal stories of wrecking stuff? Drum roll, please.
Number 5 - tennis ball cannon. I was like ten and my brother (14'ish at the time)duct taped a couple of tennis cans together and had himself a homemade mortar. Into his highly crafted, well designed device went about a pint of gas. Next, a tennis ball. And finally, a match. We ran, expecting a huge WHOMP! and a flaming tennis ball to arch through the summer sky into the baseball diamond behind our neighbor's house. What actually happened was the gasoline leaked out of the bottom of the mortar and caught merrily on fire. The puddle of burning gas spread out on our lawn and we charred about 50 square feet of grass and dandelions. Kinda' funny...now.
Number 4 - fluorescent light bulbs. I had this sweet gig at my summer camp working maintenance before all the kids showed up. Good money, clean living. Every spring we would hit the grounds and clean up after long, hard New Hampshire winters. Little bit of this, little bit o' that. Learned how to sweat joints, a bit of carpentry, and even took a turn with dowsing rods. But the light bulbs, oh man. For some reason there were like 60 of these long-ass fluorescent bulbs that were no good and me and a buddy were tasked to get rid if them.
So we load up this flatbed with the bulbs and a bunch of other crap and drove over to this massive, empty dumpster the size of a tractor-trailer. I climbed up into the bed of our truck and grabbed one of these 6 foot long bulbs and tossed it overhand like a spear, not really thinking about it as I let go. The sucker flew straight as an arrow and disintegrated in this amazing slow-motion implosion. It was beautiful. For the next fifteen minutes, me and John threw these oddly graceful tubes of glass into the side of the dumpster, howling like mad men as they transformed from tubes to dust in a split second. We dreamed we were Zeus, hurling thunderbolts from Olympus. We were gods, wearing Dickeys and leather gloves.
Number 3 - oh, brother, what hath thy done? I was not a fan of church as a kid. Pretty much fought my parents like a feral cat when they woke me up Sunday mornings and said, "It's time for church, buddy." About every six weeks or so I'd outlast mom and dad, freaking out so royally they probably figured bringing the Antichrist with Tourette Syndrome to church was not gonna' look too good. Of course, I'd get grounded, but hell, once you go ape shit, go all the way, right? Two weeks with no television versus not having to sit in church listening to some wacky sermon I didn't understand, the whole time making paper airplanes out of the bulletin. Easy time, brothers and sisters, easy time.
So this one Sunday I go nutty, push my parents over the edge, get grounded, and get to climb back in bed. I'm in under the covers, wondering why my parents still love me and I hear this hiss, followed by an angry gurgle, followed by a muted thump, and culminated by a mad cackle from my brother. (I think I was still ten; it was a very good year) A few minutes pass, same drill. A few more minutes, repeat.
Okay, so now I'm curious because the next sound I hear is the bathtub draining in the kids' bathroom. And then my brother is whipping off my covers and dragging me out of bed, saying "You gotta see this, you gotta see this!" And I'm in the bathroom and he's holding up a bottle rocket. And I'm looking at him and I've got no idea what the hell I'm supposed to see. I've seen bottle rockets before, no big whup. And he goes into this frenzied, breathless description about shooting the things into the tub and how they whip around in the water like angry bees, and I'm looking at him like a dolt, and he looks at the empty tub and figures he can shoot one into the toilet and I'll get the big thrill.
So, before I can even start to get worried, he lights this rocket and it shoots out of his hand into the 1/2 pint of water at the bottom of the toilet. It hisses and bubbles and, wham! There is this big old hole in the bottom of the crapper. I look at him and he looks at me. I say, "Hey, I think you blew up the toilet." And he says, "Naw." And I, with even thinking about it, reach into the toilet and bring out this honkin' piece a porcelain and hold it up. "No, you blew up the toilet."
Number 2 - Duck, you sucker. Okay, so when I was kid we had records. Yeah, I'm that old. And back in the day, our parents mostly left us to our own devices. So me and this good buddy were bored with our Legos or whatever, so we decided to play some of my mom's records. We were that bored. Neil Sedaka, Paul Anka, stuff like that.
One of the album covers had this brunette totally covered in whipped cream, showing a tad of cleavage. Racy. After holding the cover at every possible angle to see if we could look down this woman's breasts (no luck...), I flipped the jacket at my buddy and the damn thing flew like a Frisbee, nearly clipping my pal in the head. He picked up a record, without thinking it all the way through, and gunned it at me. So like a pound of vinyl came winging at my head at mach 2, missed me by a hair, and shattered on the wall of my living room.
Smart kids would have crapped their pants and hidden the evidence. We obviously ate a few too many paint chips, 'cause we grabbed two armfuls of my mom's records and hauled butt over to the park near my house. We spent the next hour winging records at each other like little rabid ninjas. When they broke, we flung the jagged pieces at each other. It was really, really fun. God, how I didn't end up hurt or sent to reform school, I will never know. My poor mother...
Number 1 - Down with the ship. My dad's sister won this sunfish by saving labels from Kool cigarettes, but she lived in Rochester and we lived on the ocean, so she gave us the boat. So one day in 1975 this truck pulls up and off-loads this sailboat. I'm a kid and I'm happy that we got a boat. My dad, he is practically bursting with pride. We haul this 12 foot rig up to the local family beach every Saturday for the next few summers, and dad teaches us the basics of sailing. When you are seven, that is called bonding with dad.
When you turn fifteen and dad -- who is six foot, two inches -- still crams his ass into the Styrofoam sunfish (yeah, no wonder my aunt gave it to us...), it's called future therapy sessions. Hell, he loved this boat so much he actually fiberglassed it to get it to last longer. I think sometime after I turned twenty, he finally gave up on the idea he and I were gonna' go sailing in it again and used it to store the recycling in the garage. He couldn't throw away anything, and certainly not his prized possession, his yacht.
Well, dad passed away when I was thirty. By that time, I had learned to love everything about the guy. Except the damn boat, which was still in the garage full of old Boston Globes and Opera Digests. And my poor mom, she needed to do a bit a cleaning and saying goodbye, so she called the local dump and they told her the freakin' boat would cost $600 to dispose of because -- in 1998 -- it was considered a hazardous-material! She was on the verge of tears. Her heart was tearing up, as she was mourning my dad, but she hated the damn boat as much as me. I gave her a hug and asked her to go to the store to get me a diet coke or something random.
As soon as she left the house, I got out some big ole' contractor bags and an axe, and knocked that fucker into fifty pieces. Stuffed 'em into the bags. Drove up to the dump, and merrily pitched the bags into the maw of the town's massive compactor. Not the greenest move ever, but when mom got home, no boat. She looked at me, I looked at her, and that was that. Loved my dad, but bustin' that boat up probably saved my mom.
I have a respectable job nowadays. I don't get to break much, and I keep a close eye on my son. Someday, though, I'm gonna have to find some crap around the house we don't need or want, and he and I are gonna bust it all to hell. And then watch Myth Busters together.
My favorite personal stories of wrecking stuff? Drum roll, please.
Number 5 - tennis ball cannon. I was like ten and my brother (14'ish at the time)duct taped a couple of tennis cans together and had himself a homemade mortar. Into his highly crafted, well designed device went about a pint of gas. Next, a tennis ball. And finally, a match. We ran, expecting a huge WHOMP! and a flaming tennis ball to arch through the summer sky into the baseball diamond behind our neighbor's house. What actually happened was the gasoline leaked out of the bottom of the mortar and caught merrily on fire. The puddle of burning gas spread out on our lawn and we charred about 50 square feet of grass and dandelions. Kinda' funny...now.
Number 4 - fluorescent light bulbs. I had this sweet gig at my summer camp working maintenance before all the kids showed up. Good money, clean living. Every spring we would hit the grounds and clean up after long, hard New Hampshire winters. Little bit of this, little bit o' that. Learned how to sweat joints, a bit of carpentry, and even took a turn with dowsing rods. But the light bulbs, oh man. For some reason there were like 60 of these long-ass fluorescent bulbs that were no good and me and a buddy were tasked to get rid if them.
So we load up this flatbed with the bulbs and a bunch of other crap and drove over to this massive, empty dumpster the size of a tractor-trailer. I climbed up into the bed of our truck and grabbed one of these 6 foot long bulbs and tossed it overhand like a spear, not really thinking about it as I let go. The sucker flew straight as an arrow and disintegrated in this amazing slow-motion implosion. It was beautiful. For the next fifteen minutes, me and John threw these oddly graceful tubes of glass into the side of the dumpster, howling like mad men as they transformed from tubes to dust in a split second. We dreamed we were Zeus, hurling thunderbolts from Olympus. We were gods, wearing Dickeys and leather gloves.
Number 3 - oh, brother, what hath thy done? I was not a fan of church as a kid. Pretty much fought my parents like a feral cat when they woke me up Sunday mornings and said, "It's time for church, buddy." About every six weeks or so I'd outlast mom and dad, freaking out so royally they probably figured bringing the Antichrist with Tourette Syndrome to church was not gonna' look too good. Of course, I'd get grounded, but hell, once you go ape shit, go all the way, right? Two weeks with no television versus not having to sit in church listening to some wacky sermon I didn't understand, the whole time making paper airplanes out of the bulletin. Easy time, brothers and sisters, easy time.
So this one Sunday I go nutty, push my parents over the edge, get grounded, and get to climb back in bed. I'm in under the covers, wondering why my parents still love me and I hear this hiss, followed by an angry gurgle, followed by a muted thump, and culminated by a mad cackle from my brother. (I think I was still ten; it was a very good year) A few minutes pass, same drill. A few more minutes, repeat.
Okay, so now I'm curious because the next sound I hear is the bathtub draining in the kids' bathroom. And then my brother is whipping off my covers and dragging me out of bed, saying "You gotta see this, you gotta see this!" And I'm in the bathroom and he's holding up a bottle rocket. And I'm looking at him and I've got no idea what the hell I'm supposed to see. I've seen bottle rockets before, no big whup. And he goes into this frenzied, breathless description about shooting the things into the tub and how they whip around in the water like angry bees, and I'm looking at him like a dolt, and he looks at the empty tub and figures he can shoot one into the toilet and I'll get the big thrill.
So, before I can even start to get worried, he lights this rocket and it shoots out of his hand into the 1/2 pint of water at the bottom of the toilet. It hisses and bubbles and, wham! There is this big old hole in the bottom of the crapper. I look at him and he looks at me. I say, "Hey, I think you blew up the toilet." And he says, "Naw." And I, with even thinking about it, reach into the toilet and bring out this honkin' piece a porcelain and hold it up. "No, you blew up the toilet."
Number 2 - Duck, you sucker. Okay, so when I was kid we had records. Yeah, I'm that old. And back in the day, our parents mostly left us to our own devices. So me and this good buddy were bored with our Legos or whatever, so we decided to play some of my mom's records. We were that bored. Neil Sedaka, Paul Anka, stuff like that.
One of the album covers had this brunette totally covered in whipped cream, showing a tad of cleavage. Racy. After holding the cover at every possible angle to see if we could look down this woman's breasts (no luck...), I flipped the jacket at my buddy and the damn thing flew like a Frisbee, nearly clipping my pal in the head. He picked up a record, without thinking it all the way through, and gunned it at me. So like a pound of vinyl came winging at my head at mach 2, missed me by a hair, and shattered on the wall of my living room.
Smart kids would have crapped their pants and hidden the evidence. We obviously ate a few too many paint chips, 'cause we grabbed two armfuls of my mom's records and hauled butt over to the park near my house. We spent the next hour winging records at each other like little rabid ninjas. When they broke, we flung the jagged pieces at each other. It was really, really fun. God, how I didn't end up hurt or sent to reform school, I will never know. My poor mother...
Number 1 - Down with the ship. My dad's sister won this sunfish by saving labels from Kool cigarettes, but she lived in Rochester and we lived on the ocean, so she gave us the boat. So one day in 1975 this truck pulls up and off-loads this sailboat. I'm a kid and I'm happy that we got a boat. My dad, he is practically bursting with pride. We haul this 12 foot rig up to the local family beach every Saturday for the next few summers, and dad teaches us the basics of sailing. When you are seven, that is called bonding with dad.
When you turn fifteen and dad -- who is six foot, two inches -- still crams his ass into the Styrofoam sunfish (yeah, no wonder my aunt gave it to us...), it's called future therapy sessions. Hell, he loved this boat so much he actually fiberglassed it to get it to last longer. I think sometime after I turned twenty, he finally gave up on the idea he and I were gonna' go sailing in it again and used it to store the recycling in the garage. He couldn't throw away anything, and certainly not his prized possession, his yacht.
Well, dad passed away when I was thirty. By that time, I had learned to love everything about the guy. Except the damn boat, which was still in the garage full of old Boston Globes and Opera Digests. And my poor mom, she needed to do a bit a cleaning and saying goodbye, so she called the local dump and they told her the freakin' boat would cost $600 to dispose of because -- in 1998 -- it was considered a hazardous-material! She was on the verge of tears. Her heart was tearing up, as she was mourning my dad, but she hated the damn boat as much as me. I gave her a hug and asked her to go to the store to get me a diet coke or something random.
As soon as she left the house, I got out some big ole' contractor bags and an axe, and knocked that fucker into fifty pieces. Stuffed 'em into the bags. Drove up to the dump, and merrily pitched the bags into the maw of the town's massive compactor. Not the greenest move ever, but when mom got home, no boat. She looked at me, I looked at her, and that was that. Loved my dad, but bustin' that boat up probably saved my mom.
I have a respectable job nowadays. I don't get to break much, and I keep a close eye on my son. Someday, though, I'm gonna have to find some crap around the house we don't need or want, and he and I are gonna bust it all to hell. And then watch Myth Busters together.
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