News Flash: Three Iced Mochas, Bad Customer Service And A Stranded Space Ship.

Couldn't leave with out posting this. Must vent. Okay, from the beginning. So look, yesterday it was warm and sunny, I was wearing cotton pants, there was a nice breeze and somehow I got it in to my head I'd deviate from my daily, trusted and loved elixir of an iced mocha and try an iced white chocolate mocha. Okay, let's just let this topic die and I promise not to bring it up again. I mention it only now as it plays a role in the events which follow. I know, I know--white chocolate mocha. Sweet baby Jesus, what was I thinking.

Okay, so it was actually my second drink of the day. Then of course, to get the taste out of my mouth, I had to get another iced mocha. So yeah--read on knowing I was pretty fueled and accept partial responsibility for what ensued.

Get home after work and decide Ella needs to see Big Lizard. So we head to Toys R' Us, my precious little 30 pounder in my arms, carrying our flying saucer. Flying saucer rocks. Its foam, 'bout ten inches in diameter, radio controlled. Flies thirty feet in the air. Or in our case, eleven feet in the air in to the ceiling of our apartment. But its not charging properly so I throw it in a bag and we head to Times Square. Slow train, so by the time we hit the Square, El's already yawning. Its like quarter to seven which means its her dinner time, bath time in bed by 8:30pm.

I go directly to customer service, hand over the saucer. Indifferent sales girl looks it and me over, asks what the problem is. I tell her it won't hold a charge. She must work extremely long hours and be incredibly fatigued because it takes her tremendous physical effort and copious amounts of mental exertion to lift the nine ounce foam toy, carry it approximately three feet away and plug it in to the wall.

I can tell she's fatigued because she's constantly rolling her eyes and exhaling. Three minutes go by as she stands there, not saying a word and fixing her hair. Then she looks at me like I just farted. "You need to go get a replacement...". Oh, thanks for telling me when I first arrived instead of waiting three minutes. By the way, love the hair. So now I have to lug baby-girl back up to the second floor, fight through the crowd and grab a replacement. I should've known things were already going downhill and not going to get better.

Ten minutes later I get back, wrestling with Ella who's now officially not having fun, put the new box on the counter and the girl turns to me like I'm Rain Man and couldn't possibly tie my own shoes much less guess how many matches are in a box and snarls "This one ain't even broken. It works fine". Did I tell you about the part where I'd had three iced mochas? Yeah, this is where that whole caffeine thing comes in to play.

Ella's squirming, bitch-salesgirl and her posse of one other evil-retail wench are eyeing me and I feel my lip begin to quiver. Quiver like I'm morphing in to the Hulk. In fact, I can feel my pants and shirt begin to shred as my body mass increases and I start turning green. Really angry, pissed-off how-dare-you-fcuk-with-me green. Now Hulk must hurt puny humans.

Instead, I ask for a manager. Andrew shows up, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Blah, blah blah. Immediately, these girls start going in to how the product isn't defective, but "Works fine...". More hair fixing and exhaling as Andrew fidgets, caught between an irate customer and uncaring staff. Long story medium, I leave there with a new flying saucer, ensuring Andrew I won't be back.

Of course, when I get home tonight Ella will jump in to my arms and shout "Big Lizard" and of course I'm not about to tell her Toy's R Us is a giant corporate entity with huge profit margins who could less about whether a small family on limited income gets a refund on their $19.99 flying saucer. So I'll probably see Andrew tonight, but the good news? I've only had one iced mocha so I should be fine.

And the moral of my story is this. I'm no better than anyone else. I walk by people every day, see them clawing and scratching their way through existence and as I pass throught the toxic vapor trail of their anger think to myself "Relax dude, its just a flying saucer. Take a deep breath and just chill, you're overreacting". But truth be told, when push comes to shove I'm getting a new, working godd*mn, flying saucer. Even if it takes me three iced mochas.

The Blog Goes On Vacation...

...I know, I know--Bloggie just returned. But that was from a bad virus, now Blog gets a vacation. So, this is the last post until "Return Of The Blog 2" (I'll have to cast the sequel with a bunch of B actors like, Corey Feldman) around July 10th. But the whole vacation thing got me wondering, vacation from what?

I mean, if say, Blog is doing what it enjoys most--blogging, then why would it need a break? Guess that's as close to rhetorical as I can get without s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g it out. And yes, in this instance Blog is a metaphor for you-know-who. But let's pretend the Blog is a real, animated entity then if this little spiel goes sideways I can flame away on Blog and not feel too bad about myself.

Okay, look I'm a hardworking guy. Uh, I mean Blog is a hardworking blog. It has a wife, daughter, has aspirations, hopes and dreams. Is currently not exactly in its dream job (hmmm, the blog metaphor is crumbling, I mean if a blog's dream job isn't to blog, what is it? Waiter at a hip Tapas bar?).

Here's the point I'm not getting to--if a vacation for me is a chance to spend more time with my wife and daughter, great. If there's hidden undertones of needing to escape from certain elements of my life--than really, how long can anyone live like that?

I mean, just do the math. Two or three weeks a year to decompress can't be a healthy formula for living. What's going on the other fifty weeks of the year? And I guess to leapfrog over any BS I might try and fill space with, how long will I wait before doing the kind of work, really meaningful to me work that I want to do?

And does it, this transition require some kind of superhuman effort of will? Or just more caffeine? Dare I order a Vente anything? Have you seen a Vente, I mean up close? Really stopped and just filled your eyes with just how much caffeniated anything can fit in a cup that size?

Urban Tale digression: At Starbucks the other day, guy's standing there, undecided. The barista's this interesting black guy--like, 6'3", glasses--very articulate, very sharp. So, our unable-to-decide patron's trapped in the oncoming headlights of the drink menu when my guy (amiably, but with much gusto) jumps in to save him. "Hey, you need some help?". Well, patron's not quite up to speed yet right? I mean, that's why he's at Starbucks.

And believe me, he does not know what's about to hit him. He half nods like, "Uh, you're my barista, you know what I need--right?". Wrong. Don't misunderstand. This particular barista is one of the better I've seen, but that a.m., he was clearly on a mission. He just picked the wrong soldier to send to war.

Barista says, "You want something cold?! And chocolate?! Something that'll wake you up!!". Now, I've seen this barista whip up custom stuff on the spot, seen him sell a new concoction like it was the latest Manolo Blanik--but in this case, he was grossly underestimating his customer's tolerance for the Evil Bean--nothing good was going to come from this little dance with the Devil and all I could do was stand there and wait for the caffeine to hit the fan. Actually, I could've stepped up and said "He knows not what you offer, Mighty One. Give him a latte, grande extra hot--and let him be on his way". But what fun would that be?

By now, patron has no idea what he's in for. Far as he's concerned nicest Starbucks guy on the planet's 'bout to whip up something special, just for him. Just like Dr. Jekyll whipped up a little "something special" for Mr. Hyde. And guess what our barista makes him? I know, because he couldn't contain his excitement and shouted out the order, to himself--ready? "Quad Vente, Iced White Mocha". You get that? Quad. Four shots. That's enough to drop a charging rhino mid-stride, leave it on its back legs kicking air ready to be turned in to a nice handbag.

That was last week. I have no doubt poor ba*tard is sitting on a curb somewhere in the city, empty Starbucks cup at his feet, mumbling to himself "Mocha...vente...quad...". .

So here's my point--yes the "Man" is keeping me down but guess what? Turns out, I am the Man. I'm keeping me down. That sucks. No one to blame. If I never, ever actualize what I want? It's cuz I didn't man up and get 'er done. Dammit. Its on me. That's why I hate/love/watch/avoid those stupid Movies Of The Week, the ones with titles like "The Man-Boy Who Wanted To Be A Writer--But Held Himself Back Until He Just Couldn't Stand The Voices In His Head Anymore--And Then Realized It Was Up To Him. And Him Alone". You know, those MOW's?

So there you have it, my new years resolution. For my summer vacation. Like that segue? And what's the resolution again? To not blame the Man, including myself but to work at what I want. To aid me in this endeavor I can utilize as much a. Caffeine b. Family/friends support c. Caffeine, as necessary. But I cannot make any more excuses. And I cannot have any Starbucks drink that contains more than two shots of Espresso in it or that comes in a size larger than an industrial toxic waste drum.

See you after vacation.

Blog and friend of Blog.

Now That's A Big Lizard...

...took my two year old daughter to Toys R Us in Times Square. First event was the Square itself--Ella loved it. We went at night, lit up like a Christmas tree. We step out from under the subway entrance, Ella looks around wide-eyed. I go "This is Times Square, E". She takes it in, replies "Times Square make Ella awake". So far, so good.

Next stop, the five story, multi-level Mecca of toys known as T's R Us. First encounter? Guy dressed up as a Giraffe. El goes nuts. Giraffe goes nuts, big hug fest. So, on we march checking out Lego sets and train sets and dolls (no real interest in Barbie yet) and stuff in general and a few hundred yards away I can just make out what appears to be a giant, life-sized Tyrannosaurus Rex, fully articulated with audio. Loud audio. Like, cover your ears-from-the-concussive-force-of-his-RRROOAR loud.

El sees me look over, hears the sound and says "I see that...!". I pick her up, we head over and I'm thinking "Hope this isn't that seminal moment in her childhood which sparks a lifetime of therapy...". So, we're walking over and El sees this giant, jaw-snapping monster ahead and gets quiet. I stop about, oh forty yards away and we just stand there. T lets our a mighty, really loud RRROOOARRR. El's watching, just watching then turns her hands, palms up (which is her gesture for like, "get it?") and says "Big lizard not real".

No we go regularly. She's never flinched. Just runs like a little pony right by Big Lizard to the toys while unsuspecting Japanese tourists spit up their bottled water every time T-Rex lets a roar fly directly overhead.

Which got me to thinking--no, not why aren't Japanese tourists immune to the whole T-Rex thing having grown up with Godzilla stomping their villages in to matchsticks, rather--how do we lose that innocent yet acute sense of perception? That simple, wholesome and fresh perspective which sees things for what they are? Or aren't?

Example, I get on the subway in the a.m., and there's a bunch of T-Rex's roaming, roaring and jaw-snapping inside my head. They roar "You're gonna die poor, alone and unhappy!". They bellow, "You'll never have a job you like". Sometimes they snap their jaws, clicking "You know squat about the dharma, quit trying to act like you can change who you are!".

And you know, a lot of times I just stand there, not even hearing the music from my ipod (Lots of Kanye West these days and some old school--The O'Jays, Chaka Khan) just deafened by the roars, nodding my head "Yes, you're right--I cannot change, I'm stuck with who I am and all my sh*tty, self-doubting, dysfunctional ways...".

But sometimes I remember, "Big lizard not real". And I just stay in my body--feel rooted and don't get freaked by the loud roaring in my head. I can feel the subway jostling back and forth. Hear the O'Jays in my ears old school Philadelphia style, telling me to "...get on board the love train, love train c'mon...", and I choose to not get rocked by any old monster in my head.

So, the weekends here. Will probably make a trip to Times Square, E and I are due to check out her boy, T. His days are numbered. Too expensive to keep the hydraulics maintained. Staff says back in the day, in fact the very first day they turned him on two years ago, hydraulics all new, limbs all fresh and mobile--well, he was so life-like people ran out screaming and they had to turn him off.

I guess everything wears out after awhile, even Big Lizards.

When Only The Hora Can Save You...

...or how I officiated a wedding for 170 stunned Jewish friends and family members. Dear friends of mine asked if I would, as an officially sanctioned "Buddhist Minister" (in the state of NY, registration number 71747!) officiate their wedding. I'm touched to tears.

Wedding was end of May, 'bout three hrs out of the city. Bought a new suit (three button, linen, flax-colored. Went with a French blue spread collar shirt and an Aboud tie--copper red/orange with angled blue stripes). Rented a car so I could drive home same night and wake up next to my daughter. So far, so good.

Kind of wasn't exactly clear on the whole backstory of how the family and their 170 closest friends who'd flown in were ready to burn me at the stake upon arrival since I was a. Not Jewish. b. Not a Rabbi. c. A Buddhist. Found that out when I met the parents an hour before the 5:30pm ceremony. Nothing like upping the ante.

Given I couldn't exactly jump back in my car and bail, I figured my only real options were a. Pray to Yahweh or b. Hit the bar. I head over to the caterers, but they were sweatin' set up and weren't about to slip me a Corona from the cooler. So I did what any self respecting Buddhist would do--walked over to a far off corner of the huge field where the ceremony would be and prayed for help. Still could've used that Corona.

Showtime. We're outside, bride and groom look great. Behind them, 170 pin-drop quiet friends/family waiting for me to pull a goat from a burlap sack and start the proceedings with a traditional sacrifice. See? If they'd done their homework they would've known Buddhist are vehemently opposed to taking life. And that Buddhists love an icy cold cerveza con limon before important rites of passage god dammit! Oops.

Did I mention the ring bearer was an active Marine just back from his second tour of Iraq? He was there in dress blues, sizing me up I'm sure and figuring out whether to go for the straight choke-hold or go WWF and take me out with a folding chair to the back.

So away we go. Readings, vows, rings exchanged, kissing, pronouncing them 'Husband and Wife', off they go happily married and next thing I know there's mom and dad crying and hugging me heartily with thanks for such a beautiful ceremony. Could've been the suit. The suit was hot. Now may I have a Corona? Apparently not. Nice woman walks up, says "I have to say, I came here ready to be very disappointed with you/Buddhism/the ceremony but I was surprised/inspired/grateful/touched. I hyphenate because I care. And because, for the next hour every single person who came up to me said just about the same thing.

People really met what they said but after like the thirtieth person, I had to catch some air. I grab a beer and walk down the dirt road, jump in my rental hit the a.c. and decompress. Should've grabbed two beers. Will next time. By now its dark dinners served and I figure I'll just be another shadow under the big tent reception. Kill my beer (St. Paulie Girl--not my fave but its what stuck to my hand when I blindly grabbed whatever the cater-guy pulled from ice) and walk over to eat.

Okay, despite the storied and difficult legacy of suffering I will say this about the Jewish tradition--it is unbeatable when it comes to stocking a reception dinner. I'm about to fill my plate when my Spidey-sense starts tingling. I turn and looking right at me is this elegant, snowy haired eighty+ yr old gentlemen. He reaches over, takes my hands in his. "I vanna sank you for your words of love. Your vords of beauty. Nevah stop what you are doing. You bring the most important message of all, the message of love. And I should know, our world? It needs love more than evah".

He leans in, puts his mouth right up to my ear, I can feel his breath--and it moves right through me "I should know, I'm a survivor--Auschwitz. Don't forget us, we die one thousand every week". He gives me a the most gentle lovely, kind kiss then walks away. I'm standing there with an empty plate, just basically blinking like a stuck brake light. I head right to the bar, double up on a Grey Goose. My mind racing nowhere all at once. I sit on the grass watching people dance. Think about Auschwitz, think about "Schindler's List" which amounts to just about everything I know about the holocaust. I drink two more doubles, but can't get drunk.

I feel, grateful? Inadequate? Phony? D. All of the above. I think about another drink and remember I still have a four hour drive home to Manhattan. I put my empty glass on a table and mom walks up to me. Gives me a hug and says "Come...". On the dance floor everyone's in a circle, just starting the hora. We walk over the circle opens and we dance. And every few turns of the circle, I'm looking for that little man. And I can't find him. He's nowhere. And everywhere. But I can't see him. And can't forget him.

The Blog Is Back...

...phew, long six weeks. Or whatever. Okay, that's my excuse but never fear I'm back with a whole new series of real life encounters with reality, including but not limited to:

1. The wedding I performed for a couple whose 170 person guest list was extremely unamused I was a. Not Jewish. b. See "a". c. Muliply axbx one hundred.
2. My two year old's encounter with a Tyranosauras Rex and how I learned to not fear "The Big Lizard".
3. How our friend Randy a girl half my size with twice the heart kicked me in the pants and got me "back on blog...".
4. More, lots more. Read on.