Nov 21, 2007

Lost&Found Moments


I spend many of my waking hours avoiding moments of truth.

Which is pretty understandable. I mean, I’m a father, husband and my business supports my family. Which means like my wife I’m overworked, underpaid and perpetually tired.

So I live in a constant state of flux. Work deadlines blend in to family deadlines that merge with stress and ricochet off of all the caffeine in my system.

So who can blame me for missing a few seconds here and there of moment-to-moment life?

Funny thing is, my daughter and I were at a local java-hut the other day and I witnessed someone not avoid the truth.

Next to our table there was a father who in one arm carried his screaming two year old to the cashier while his five-year-old girl sat next to us with her hot chocolate.

That she immediately lost control of and splashed all over the floor. It was pretty spectacular, actually. Paper cup kind of flew out of her hands, arched over the corner of our table and formed this instantly endless milk-chocolate reservoir that just kept spreading.

Her dad came back and picked up the cup, as his son continued screaming. A moment later the manager, a middle-aged Indian man came over and started mopping up the choco-lake.

Dad looked over and offered his apologies but this manager was totally cool~he just said “No, no please these things happen”.

Which was just such a refreshing and often unseen reaction to this kind of thing. Then the manager goes “Sir, what did she have?”.

Dad was kind of surprised and goes “Oh uh, hot chocolate…”.

And a minute later, this manager returns with a new drink for the little girl.

Then he cleans off their table. Then, he actually grabs a new paper napkin and dries off the table so they don’t have to rest their elbows in that thin film of water.

Okay, so now I’m impressed.

Or maybe I’m restored to what people are capable of when they don’t avoid the obvious.

So dad gathers up his newly chocolated daughter, his screaming boy, smiles to us and jets.

And I tell my girl, “Ella did you see what that man did?”.

Then I explain how the man brought the little girl a new hot chocolate and Ella asks “Why did he bring it?”.

And honestly, part of my is asking the same thing. Which happens if you live in New York and you forget to exhale every once in a while.

Instead of seeing moments as possibilities you see them as annoyances.

But that part of me that is still capable of exhaling explains to Ella that sometimes people are capable of caring for others. And sometimes you can just give someone a new hot chocolate if they spill theirs.

At the mention of free hot chocolate, Ella seemed to really get interested. So as we’re leaving I pick her up and detour by the cashier. The manager has his back to us and I ask “Excuse me...are you the manager?”.

He turns, sees us and walks over, a little flash of concern painting his face.

“Yes, sir may help you”.

“Well, I just thought that was a really gracious gesture on your part. I’m a father and I know what its like to always feel like you’re overwhelmed and making a mess everywhere you go…”.

And suddenly and pretty effortlessly, this kindly Indian man just starts beaming light.

I mean like, Della Reese “Touched By An Angel” light.

And I’m holding Ella and he’s beaming us and we’re all lit up like big shiny human-stars and he gestures with his hand and says

“This store is my baby. I am the owner and my customers are family to me. I am blessed to have this place. God-blessed so thank you for such nice words”.

And it felt like Ella and I were looking down the barrel of this long, golden tunnel of light and she felt feather-light and my voice sounded like barely an echo of itself and I managed to say something like “Well god-bless you for your kindness…”.

And then like instantly, the tunnel-beam closed and we were just in this tiny coffee shop on the upper west side and I was walking away with Ella and she goes “What happened?”.

And I didn’t really have an answer. I wasn't sure what happend. As I was putting her in the stroller random thoughts just crisscrossed my mind, like what if that guy beamed us so brightly we had half-face tans like Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters Of The Third Kind?

And would Ella sometimes not answer her cell when her dad was calling just hoping to hear his little girl's voice?

And why does six ounces of hot chocolate in a cup somehow triple in volume to 18 ounces when it spills on to a horizontal surface?

I snugged Ella's coat around her, realizing you can’t keep little girls from growing up. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that's how we can rescue the truth from obscurity. By just exhaling and realizing that we can't package moments so they aren't messy, or painful.

We can just try and be present for as many truthful-moments as we can stand, even when its right in front of us, on the floor covered in hot-chocolate.

Nov 16, 2007

Control Your Fluids


Sometimes my friends (and by friends I mean people who still have lean bodies, date like field-bunnies and spend their Saturday’s buying clothes not decorated with licensed cartoon characters) ask me, “So what’s it take to be a good dad? Love, money, patience?”. Actually, there’s a much simpler answer~control your fluids.

Yep, it’s that simple. You control the fluids, you control the chaos.

Do the math.

You’re at dinner. Your fluid is wine. It must go in to your mouth. Repeatedly. Easy.

Trickier is your three year old who has within arm’s length a glass of milk, a glass of water and of course, your wine.

Lose control of any one of those three glasses and its game over. Liquid finds its own level. Which means it flows under and around your paper napkin, the plates, the stem or base of any glass and eventually, off the sides or end of the table.

What’s left is a table coated in a base of fluid and any number of saturated napkins. In other words, you’re now trying to eat dinner in a swamp.

Time to get the check, dinner’s over.

But if you can manage to deftly wield fork-bites of 1500° flesh-searing pizza in to your mouth, while chugging glass after glass of house wine and using one arm to keep your child from leaping off their chair and on to the table next to you in a full-out body-slam while you use your other free limbs to keep every fluid-filled glass vertical and your table dry…

…then winner winner chicken dinner, enjoy your night out with the family.

And if you do manage that minor miracle of fluid control, then you get to move on to the master class.

Controlling your tears.

Because even more difficult than keeping water glasses from tipping over is managing your own emotions as a parent.

And I use the term “manage” here loosely.

Controlling your emotions is more like trying to catch hummingbirds with your bare hands.

Because after you get home with a water/wine/milk soaked shirt, peel off your clothes and jump in the tub with your screaming toddler who refuses to brush her teeth after ‘tubbie, then towel her off, spray her hair with organic detangler then wrangle her in to bed before your wife fills out divorce papers, something funny happens.

You miss your child.

You snuggle the blanket around their little body, sneak off the bed as stealthily as a cat burglar, close the door quietly behind you then burst in to tears.

You’re exhausted, fried like a donut, smell like pizza and can’t wait to hold your baby again.

So you open the bedroom door, and tip toe back to the bed. Just to make sure they’re safe.

And they are. Sleeping as quietly and safely as a lamb. Their faces are perfect. Angels don’t look this flawless.

Their tiny chests move gently with each breath like little ocean waves, in and out. They lay quiet and secure. Theirs is the most righteous peace of body and soul.

They don’t know war, or catastrophe, or loss. Or any myriad number of the world’s sharp-edged realities upon which they’ll cut themselves in years to come.

They only know they are loved. And they are safe. And for now that’s all they need to know.

And yet, somehow for some unknown reason you think to yourself wordlessly, “what if?”.

What if I lost her?

And you feel a heavy weight slowly crush you from the inside out. The weight pushes out the last of the air in you, pushes tears to the corner of your eyes that paint your face.

And you feel light, like you could float away. And you watch her little body, so still.

You reach across the space of your own fears and with your weightless body touch her face.

You can feel her breath move through the diagram of your fingerprint and in to your heart.

And you stand there. Unable to move.

And somewhere beyond your control the world’s most frightening question continues to echo right through you.

What if?

And you know the honsest answer is, you don't know.

So you do what you can. You go to pizza dinners. And you drink bad house wine.

And when she reaches for your pizza and knocks over your glass you smile while you mop up the mess.

And you order another glass of wine. And you hear the world in her joyful laugh and the world says “You can’t control the fluids”. And you know its true.

And liquid will find its own level anyway.

Whether its bad house wine, or good house tears.

Oct 29, 2007

They Don’t Make Skeletons…


…like they used to. Was in Central Park Friday night around 8pm, looking for bats with my three year old. Long story.

But anyway, we’re cruising along when we hear the unmistakable thump of a bass line. We head towards the music, when suddenly we see the pathways in the park are on fire.

Lining every pathway as far as you can see are glowing jack o’ lanterns.

Volunteers had carved over 10,000 ‘jacks for the Central Park Halloween fair. So we’re walking along this fire-orange pathway of smiling, grinning, cackling pumpkins.

We make our way to the outdoor stage where a DJ is pumping out tunes that would make a skeleton’s bones rattle.

Its so loud, Ella and I can’t even hear each other. So we grab hands and start dancing. The music is absolutely jamming, we’re dancing and laughing our goblin-butts off hysterically.

Then Ella stops, lets go of me and runs over to these two like, nine year olds dressed head-to-toe as~skeltons. They have mask-hoods and black body suits, the whole deal.

And Ella walks up to one, stops and puts her finger on its chest. Then just starts tracing along its bones. Rib bone to the hip bone, hip bone connects to the leg bone.

Then she takes ‘skel’s hand, turns to me and just beams like the sun, like “look dad, a real live skeleton”. Skel was cool, kind of stood there not exactly knowing what to do with this fascinated little three year old, but digging the attention anyway.

Then Ella laughed and ran off, running around in circles while the music played and I chased her and we giggled and I thought how cool is NYC?

Out of breath, we sat on a bench. Blanket of black night overhead. ‘Skel’s and goblins and zombies dressed up as exhausted parents danced and watched and did the spooky family-thing.

Then I noticed we were sitting just opposite a fifty foot high scaffolding rig that held hundreds of glowing ‘jacks. It was this five-story wall of fireballs.

And a big sign thanking the Sunshine Camp.

It’s an annual camp that hosts terminally ill kids and their families. So the Sunshine Volunteers has turned their altruism on Central Park donating their time and carving skills to trip-out the park for H’ween.

My stepmother (no, not an evil stepmother that’s fairy tales, this is a Halloween story) volunteers every year. Spends a few weeks in Maine with kids just like the two nine year old skeletons Ella was just tickling femur bones with.

But the Sunshine Camp kids are all in various states of terminal illness. So they’re living their own version of Halloween on kind of a daily basis.

But my step mom says the kids are amazing. They’re not despondent. They still have that kind of innocent wisdom that most of us have lost. Or never even knew we had.

And they spend these few precious weeks just hanging with their families instead of medical specialists. And they play silly games like Pin The Tail On The Donkey, instead of Pin The Five Year Old With Another I.V. Tube.

And they stare directly in to the face of their own reflection that’s slowly but surely starting to fade from life’s mirror, but their images are more present than ever.

And looking at this wall of jack-o-lanterns I could see every Sunshine kids face my stepmother’s ever talked about, looking back at me.

The Sunshine kids were smiling funny, wicked, playful fire-glow faces at me as I held Ella, who’d fallen asleep in my arms her own little skeleton curled up in to my coat blanketed against October’s bite.

And the more the pumpkin-sunshine kids smiled and glowed at us, the tighter I held on to my little skeleton.

And the jack-o-lantern kids whispered “Hold on Dana, hold on. And never let her go”.

Ella’s little heart thumped with life. And the music played so loud I couldn’t hear a thing.

Except the Sunshine Camp kids.

Yeah, they don’t make skeletons like they used to.

They make ‘em better.

Aug 23, 2007

How Many Grains Do We Need?

Remember the good old days, when bread was bread?

Came in two flavors, white and whole wheat.

Then, we were greeted with a few new options on the old sliced bread menu. Seemed innocent enough at the time. "Oat Bran" was big for awhile.

Then they got daring and offered some kind of ubiquitous "multi-grain".

Now, no one really cared what the multi-grains were. It was like, "Cool. Grain is healthy. I guess many grains are really healthy".

But then, the grains kept on multiplying.

Two grain. Three grain. Then it just like exploded to five grain.

I didn't know there were five grains. I know there's wheat. That's a grain, right? Are oats a grain?

Okay, so I'm good up to two grain. If oats are a grain.

Now there's nine grain bread. Seriously.

I mean, are they just sitting in a lab somewhere creating new strands of grain, just to bulk up bread?

Is wheat no longer nutritious enough? I don't get it.

I bought a loaf of the nine grain. Its chewy.

Very chewy.

My three year old had toast made from nine grain and fell asleep before she could finish gnawing through her first bite.

I bit down on one of the nine grains (I'm not sure which one) and the grain-thingamajig didn't like, break.

My teeth just went sort of like "clunk" on the grain. It didn't budge.

I was scared. So I just swallowed it. Whole.

Are these new grains edible, or have they been manufactured just so we can get the grain count up in to hundreds.

Stopped by the store yesterday.

There's now fifteen grain bread. 15.

I couldn't help myself and had to buy it.

But I couldn't lift it off of the shelf. It was too dense. Too full of life-sustaining grains, I guess.

I could see the grains through the plastic wrapper. They looked big. Like the grains were on grains. I thought I heard them whispering and I saw the bag shake a little.

So I left.

On the way out I got a Snickers bar. Snickers is made from chocolate. Which starts from a bean, right?

So for now, I'm sticking to things only made from beans. Which basically means I live on Snickers bars and coffee.

That's fine, I'm pretty wired from all the caffeine and sugar.

Which may come in handy in case I have to wrestle a loaf of fifteen grain bread sometime.

They're coming, trust me.

Aug 17, 2007

Princess Saves Tooth, Keeps T-Fairy At Bay

Fairyland Press~August 07

In the biggest upset this tiny kingdom's seen since Cinderella won over Prince C, another upstart young heiress to the throne has snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

Three year old Princess Ella apparently fell from her carriage in what witnesses called a "spectacular free fall".

"Yeah, I seen it. Total face plant", reported one of the three blind mice. Rushed back to her home kingdom of Tasty Apple, the diminutive maiden-to-be was taken to Dr. Mo Lar, for treatment.

"Nice kid. Great smile. Teeth're fine. Little out of position, but she's a trooper. Now, the Evil Queen? In here last week? Talk about a pain in the bicuspid...".

Reached at her palatial apartment, Ella offered her thoughts on the events through a mouthful of ice cream "Mmurrh!".

Unavailable for comment was the Tooth Fairy. With rising union costs a concern, the Fairy Union's revenue of late has been curtailed by online-payment entities like "$4Teeth".

Asked if the discoloration around her lips might prove a deterrent to the upcoming Autumn dance, "Fall In Love", Ella replied "Its like a base color...I'll probably go with a complimentary lip liner...".

Reported by The Write Knight
787 Forever Drive
Tasty Apple, 34544
Kingdom

May 22, 2007

How I Got Picked Up…And Put Right Back Down

Well, it takes a certain combination of charm, aggression, fatigue and love of family.

Every once in a while I release my death-grip on the remote control, the iMac and all other forms of male-dominated technology in our home so my wife can have the night off from me.

I’d had a long day of last minute writing deadlines. My wife had had a long three years of child-wrangling. We were both crispy enough to get served up in a basket with ketchup and chicken fingers.

So I left my beloved so she could enjoy a little peace ‘n quiet and headed to a bar to veg.

Margarita in hand, swallowed whole in a sea of pretty happily buzzed twenty and thirtysomething or others I was staring vacantly at the TV like I actually understood the colorful pictures when I felt a nudge.

I look over and there’s a table of cuties~buzzed, naughty and as I was about to discover out for a bachelorette party.

None of which has applied to me in even the remotest of possibilities for about fifteen years.

So this blonde arm-nudger says to me “What’s going on?”.

I’m like, clueless. I’m also like, married. So I quickly do the math, look back up at the television and reply “Oh, um I think Damon just homered for the Yankees~its 5-2”.

Cutie doesn’t blink. Which makes me think “Uh oh, Red Sox fan”. In fact, not only doesn’t she blink, but she doesn’t even look at the TV. Instead, she goes “So, what else is going on”.

Now I’m thinking, “Shit~I just summed up my entire grasp of sportstalk in one sentence”.

Then I notice she’s not wearing a Yankees cap. Or a sports jersey. Or a boyfriend. And despite all the noise in this place for some reason I can hear my heart starting to accelerate, like someone just asked me the answer to a math-quiz question.

So basically there’s this nubile athletic Cheetah staring down a past-its-prime wildebeast. I mean, let’s keep this well in perspective.

I was at best, the helpless defenseless mouse this feline was batting around just to keep its game sharp until something worth it time ambled in to view.

So I did the only thing a red-blooded, not-entirely-past-its-prime, can enjoy the painting without smudging the canvas, hot-blooded male would do.

I had an outburst of “Marriage-Tourettes”.

In the entire space of one sentence I managed to blurt out something like MARRIED I HAVE A THREE YEAR OLD DAUGHTER I NEVER EVEN GO OUT THAT OFTEN HOW ‘BOUT THOSE YANKEES HAVE I SHOWED YOU PICTURES OF MY GIRL?!!!!

And, true to spastic form the next thing I know I’m flashing them cell-phone pics of my family.

Which Cheetah could care less about and proved the point by responding “You know what? Everyone always thinks their kid is like, the cutest. You can’t be objective”.

Which is when I realized, Cheetah’s may be fast, but Wildebeasts are made for the long haul. And I said something like “Oh, you mean like when girls say they’re a size six but they’re really like, a size eight?”.

Yeah, I guess you could say that kind of put a damper on our little Tom And Jerry flirt-fest. The last I saw of Cheetah, she bolted off to the bar with a well executed eye-roll/hair toss to her friends, “Well, enjoy talking to the guy who’s married with a three year old…”.

By the time I got home both mama and daughter were curled around each other, fast asleep. I took Advil, wondered to myself since when on a school night do I have three drinks, then crawled in to bed just in time for Ella to do a full-out toddler stretch by planting a kick to my chest.

Which made me gasp for air and wonder how many pounds-per-square inch force can a rib absorb before it hairline fractures?

But it also made me smile, like I said~us Wildebeasts are built for the long haul.

May 11, 2007

Starbucks: Where Wildlife Mingles

Its true. Starbucks really is one of the last remaining wildlife refuges on the planet.

Just stop by any morning, mid-morning, late-morning, afternoon, mid-afternoon...(you get the idea) and watch the timeless display of species interaction.

Typically, as most wild animals tend to do~they congregate around a central, important and life-sustaining feature of their landscape.

At Starbucks it’s the condiments counter. The modern day "watering hole" for every species that visits.

At the watering hole, you'll see the intricate and complex give and take as nature displays its awesome tendency towards natural selection.

Or as I like to call it, "Only The Caffeinated Survive".

Lesser-caffeinated males can be seen staying near the back of the pack, waiting for the moment they can meekly reach over for the thermos of Low-Fat milk.

Quickly, ever on the alert for larger game, they top off their tall, skim extra shot vanilla latte.

Sadly, this smaller-than-average specimen will not last the next round of budget cuts or will sustain a career-ending paper cut while filing. Nature is cruel, but fair in its meting out of wildlife-justice.

Next, the real lords of the plain.

The Alpha Males.

They triumph proudly and without fear right in front of the milk counter, almost daring another male to confrontation.

They drink triple-shot vente espressos.

They don’t need milk.

Or sugar.

They metabolize the espresso directly in to primal aggression.

They ravage icing-rich cinnamon rolls, but show no discernable weight-gain.

Often, in a sign of species dominance they can be seen eyeing the lesser-males behind them in to forced submission. The non-caffeinated males will slink back, gaze averted and not approach the counter until the Alpha male departs back to the office.

The females stay in protective groups, clustered around the yellow and blue artificial sweetener packets for camouflage.

In courtship display they will casually wave a stir stick in mid-air to draw attention often while reaching across the alpha male for the non-fat milk thermos which of course, is sadly out of reach for the lesser male, as are any of the females.

Occasionally, a lesser male will try to force its way to the front of the counter. It’s the natural-selection equivalent of salmon stream-jumping.

Though many fish will be pushed back by the force of the water, over time their generations will develop the fast twitch musculature to make the jump upstream to the calm breeding pools.

At Starbucks, you’ll see a lesser male push his way past an Alpha male, to the surprise of himself and the females. Sadly, once at the front of the counter the lesser males suddenly realize they lack the requisite lean body mass to sustain a fully caffeinated drink.

Lacking the energy they need, they typically stand mute and helpless for an awkward moment before grabbing something unneeded and inappropriate, like one of those two foot, extra long straws before they retreat.

And as night falls and cooling, mid-morning Frappucino orders evolve in to later afternoon double lattes, the cycle of nature continues and fulfills its evolutionary mandate~in tall, grande and vente.

May 8, 2007

Housepets: The New Celebrities

Okay, so Barbaro finally died. Yeah, that race horse. Exactly. I have no idea why this horse and his story so fascinated the media. Last I checked, he was a racehorse, right? That won? Isn’t that what racehorses are supposed to do?

I mean, its not like this horse turned his back on racing to pursue a career in medicine and find a cure to childhood diabetes or something. Yet for what seems like years, every time I turn on the television like, every station was talking about this horse.

Barbaro hurt his leg again!. Now he has an infection, he’s better! Oh no, he’s sick again! He’s recovering! No, Barbaro succumbed to his injuries!.

Seriously, Darfour hasn’t received this much coverage since it even barely became a topic in our country. So what’s up with this horse? It’s not like he was Mr. Ed. Now there’s a horse. You show me a talking horse, hey~you can have all the coverage you want. I’ll write the press release myself.

I mean, for weeks you couldn’t even get a good heated conversation going. You mention Iraq, someone's like "Oh, did you hear Barbaro's up and walking". Or try and stir the pot about the whole Gonzoles DA mess and people brush you off with “Hey, Barbaro’s injuries healed. They’re saying he’ll have a light work out next week and he munched a handful of oats! WILD CHEERS FROM OFFICE STAFF.

I mean, you mention Barbaro in a sentence and you get employees dry humping each other at the fax machine in pure, unadulterated joy. Again, what did Barbaro do? Oh right, he was a horse.

Are we so starved for celebrity that the faux royalty-status we already shower on pop icons is no longer enough? Have we transcended human adoration and shrunk to celebrating the achievements of animals?

Maybe I'm just bitter because a farm animal I've never heard of will probably get his own book deal posthumously. I'm sure that psychic guy John Edwards will be chatting up Barbaro from beyond the grave next show.

Seriously, if I as so much see one "Barbaro: Amercia's Horse" bumper sticker I'm throwing myself under the car.

Whatever. But I tell you it’s a slippery slope we’re on. Black ice slippery. Check out youtube. Enter “cats”. How many videos are there of cats doing stupid things? Answer~way too many. What’s next, “NBC is proud to present, The Iifetime Achievement Awards For Housepets”.

Where does it end?

More importanty, where did it begin? Rin Tin Tin? Lassie? Flipper? C'mon, you never saw Flipper trying to get a development deal. Flipper was more than happy to pull little Sandy from some awful riptide then celebrate with a backflip and some sushi.

Benji. That's where it all went bad. One *&^%*&(@! feature film and the next thing you know Benji's in an air-conditioned trailer asking for gourmet kibble.

I never liked Benji. His eyes were too close together. And now, because of Benji we're grieving the passing of a horse that couldn't even talk.

Great.

Thanks for setting our culture back oh, about a century's worth of common sense Benji.

Doggystyle.

May 4, 2007

Livn' La Vida Three Year Old

I am caffeine powered. My three year old daughter is nuclear powered. She derives fuel directly from the sun as it creates stellar energy.

She no longer needs to nap. Or really, eat. She lives on Polly Pockets and day-long playdates at the park.

Oh, and this kind of weird, artificial laugh she's developed. You ask her if she wants more fruit and she throws her mouth wide open and laughs like a forty-year old, "HAHAHAHA".

Then of course, she seems to gain great strength from her philosophical outlook on life.

Her early phase of inquiry was purely empirical~fingers jammed in to a bowl of frozen blueberries yielded-cold.

But that's when she was two. She's three now and her powers for reasoning have increased in direct proportion to her love for mini Peppermint Patty's.

Yesterday she was in rare form. Made the Energizer Bunny look like a narcoleptic.

Ella played all day, then skipped her nap, proudly walking out of the bedroom at 3:00pm declaring, "I'm just not tired Dana...".

My wife, though clearly a saint among mere mortals hasn't slept well the last few nights. In that condition, you miss one afternoon toddler nap and you're ready to eat a bullet for dinner. As Ann walked out of the bedroom after Ella it was clear from the look on her face she needed either:

a. Drugs
b. A hot affair
c. Some help

Needless to say, we can't very well be telling our little Angel "Just say no" while popping Vicodan like M&M's, and thankfully Ann is way too tired to have an affair. Even a lukewarm one.

So we picked "C". I scooped up Mighty Might and off to the park we went. We ran. We swung. We see-sawed. We chased each other. We played Cinderella. We went to our friend Rosie's, where Ella and Rosie tore her place apart, laughed out loud, tried to remove tufts of hair from one another and gobbled down mini-cheeseburgers.

By 8:00pm Ella was yawing. My plan was working. By 8:15pm we were in the tub, en route to an early bed-time. So there we are, tub full of dollies, us wet and soapy.

Ella was giving her tiny doll a good scrub down when she asked: "What are we doing tonight?".

Just like that. Like, "Nice little break. What's on the books for the evening~build our own particle accelerator?".

I just burst out laughing it was so funny. I said "You crack me up!".

Prompting her to ask "Why am I cracking you up?".

Dana: Oh, because you have such fun.
Ella: Why I have fun?
Dana: Well, I don't know~you just enjoy living so much.
Ella: When are we dying?
Dana: *pause*
Dana: *pause*
D: Well...not right now. And when we do, we'll relate to it then.
E: Okay.

So yeah. Basically what passes for casual tub-time conversation for my daughter is a brief inquiry of one's mortality.

I wonder sometimes what its like for her, raising a fortysomething dad.

Probably though, I won't ask her...

Apr 6, 2007

NYC Man Crushed By Job...Survives.

Phew, that was close.

Ever have a job that's oh, not really working out?

And by "not working out", I mean "Swallowing-your-very-soul-in-its-entirety-like-happy-hour-shots-in-hell?".

Yeah, that kind of "Not working out".

Hey, it happens.

Like, say you started a small business. Like if, you were a writer.

For instance.

And maybe you didn't make the best business decisions.

Like not having a dedicated client list.

Or maybe you partner with some guy in PA who writes children's books and says you're exactly what his company needs but doesn't pay you for six months and you're thinking "Uh oh, this is bad" but can't believe he'd never pay you and then not only doesn't he pay you but he says he's changed his mind and won't use you.

Except, funny thing~he just spent six months using you like a rolled up fifty in the VIP section in a Miami club at 3am.

Then say you kinda went, oh what's the word for it again...oh, yeah~bankrupt. And your credit cards are so maxed out they actually ignite in to flames when you try and buy a hot dog and coke for $2.50.

So you get a job.

And within months you realize "Uh oh. Something's fishy here...".

Like maybe it turns out to be the job from Hell.

And every time you have to deal with "Management" it leaves you feeling like you just licked radioactive waste from your fingertips.

But hey, you've managed to put the flames out on your credit cards.

At least to the point where they're not showing your picture next to your Discovery card on America's Most Wanted, asking "if you see this man, call...".

But remember, this is still only act 1 in "Its my life", which means you're in for a big, unexpected plot twist.

Like having a baby.

So you lose a year to not sleeping.

Add another oh, 6-8 months of just being plain, fcuking miserable and bitter about the soul-sucking job.

And the next thing you know, the closest you're coming to solid food at lunch is the lime wedge on your margarita glass.

Tip: lunch-hour drink specials totally rock.

And one day you look across the bar and see this old guy.

He's about 75. And he's drinking highball glasses full of gin.

And he stumbles out, half carried by one of the busboys who winks at you 'cause you're now a regular and you go back to your drink, and wonder "WTF am I doing with my life"?

And you order another one.

Then one day you get it. I am the old guy stumbling out. Not yet, but I'm getting there.

And at some point, he had dreams. Or a dream. Or a passion for something.

So you skip "lunch" for a few days. And instead, you sit at a diner with a pad of paper and you write.

And after a few days of drinks that only have lime in them because diet coke without lime sucks, you have an idea.

And its new and old and familiar and terrifying and exciting and it knows who you are and you can't ignore the fact the idea lives in your marrow.

What if...I was a writer?.

And the next day even while people at work try to beat you down because they're so angry about their own life the only way they can feel good about themselves is to make others around them as angry and bitter as they are, well, even while they're trying to make you feel miserable you can't stop smiling because in half an hour you're going to lunch to sit by yourself, in a booth, in a quiet diner.

And write.

And one day you see a different image of yourself.

You're not 75 and gin-pickled in your own skin and stumbling out of a cheap Mexican restaurant at 2pm. On a Tuesday.

You're sober. And for a living...you write.

And every day you go to the diner and write.

And every night after your daughter goes to bed you write.

And you get a client for a writing job. And then one more.

And one day a director calls you at work on your cell phone and he needs a music video written in one hour for his label and when will you send it to him?

And you think "I can't do it". And you hear people in your office slowing tearing at each other's dignity.

And you download the MP3, play it as low as you can, record it to your cell phone, throw in your ear piece and sit in the bathroom for 20 minutes listening to the track over the sound of people flushing toilets next to you then you run back to your computer and write a music video.

And it goes to #11 on TRL.

Then you come up with an even better idea.

You decide if you can write in a toilet-stall, writing at home should be 100x easier.

But "I Wrote A Top 11 Video In A Toilet Stall" is too long for a business card.

But this fits pretty well: www.conceptdna.net

And one day...you give notice. You realize its never the right time.

Like Thelma And Louise, you just go for it. Okay, bad example they drove off a cliff.

But hey, for the two hours prior to punching the gas pedal they totally redeemed themselves.

And that final shot was freeze frame, so maybe they were just driving off an overpass.

Turns out the 75 year old guy used to hang out with some baseball player named Joe.

DiMaggio.

My last day at Hell-Job? I stopped by the bar, one for the road.

Sat down next to "Old guy's" chair, which was empty.

I nodded to the chair, asked the bartender "Where's our friend?".

He just shook his head, "No". I guess Old Guy finished his drink.

So, a little free advice. If the place where you usually have "Lunch" can get your drink on the counter before you get your coat off and before you actually order a drink, change bars.

Better yet, change careers.

Mar 30, 2007

Et Tu, Hamburgler?

So once again I bring you "True Adventures From (Suburban) McDonalds".

Yes I've seen "Supersize Me". And yes, it’s frightening how quickly an over-processed foodstuff like McD's can compromise the human immune system.

But have you had the fries lately?

Thank you.

And there I was, watching my three year old daughter munch down aforementioned grease-sticks of joy when something caught her eye: The McDonald's contribution to plastic-mold architecture.

No, the other contribution besides the faux-buttocks curved plasti-slab banquette seat that leaves you feeling like you've been violated by 40 pounds of heaving, sweaty polymers after sitting crammed in to one like too many fries in a basket.

That's right~The Human Habitrail.

Call it what you will.

Playland, Adventure Land, Ronald's Funhouse~but let's call it what it truly is: a giant rat trap for the unsuspecting.

You've seen it. Giant plastic tubes suspended above ground, linked by tiny plastic stairs, interconnected by tiny plastic connector passageways.

It sits before you, multicolored and promising of unbridled fun for you and your little one.

There's even a sign, caring and cautionary in its message "Small Children Not Allowed Without Parent".

Clever ploy. Any dad worth his middle age sees a sign like that and can feel his chest puff out like some past his prime superhero determined to jam his pork chop legs in to those too small tights and fight injustic one last time.

Which is exactly what they want.

I vaguely remember turning to my wife, catching her eye as Ella and I climbed in to the first tube-of-hell.

I recall seeing her shake her head, small smile crease her face.

At the time I thought she was thinking, "You go Superdad".

I now realize she was thinking "How many times are you going to crawl in to one of those things and panic before you remember you're claustrophobic you idiot?".

Like any surrealist life-moment frozen in time, I had forewarning.

A five-year-old boy had already crawled in to the trap ahead of us. Hearing us enter he turned to see Ella and since he was all of two years older than her, called it exactly at he saw it. “Come here baby, crawl to me!”.

Then, seeing me half-crawling up behind her he paused a moment, then called me exactly as he saw it “Um..come on big boy!”.

Jamming my body up and past the fake plastic stairs while holding on to E for her dear life wasn’t too hard. In fact, it was kind of fun.

Until we got to the tube. The “Tube” is (if you’re a 40 yr old man who eats at McDonald’s) a not very large plastic tube that’s suspended about nine feet in the air. If you’re a 35 pound three year old, then you’re basically a mini-cooper in the Lincoln Tunnel.

I was the Titanic turned sideways in the Suez Canal.

The Tube moves when you crawl in it. Especially if though you used to be a pretty trim 165 lbs in your fighting days, the last fight you had was a quick and brutal one round KO to a pint of Ben And Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk.

Ella was a good five feet ahead of me, wheeling along when the first panic wave hit me.

Panic’s great. It’s the ultimate attention getter because it travels at light speed via every firing synapse in your brain and it screams I’M FCUKING JAMMED IN A TUBE AND I CANNOT BREATHE.

Which wasn’t exactly true. I wasn’t jammed, I just couldn’t bring myself to move. And I could breathe, but my breath was funny sounding. Like I was taking too big gulps of air through a straw. Little, forced wheezy breaths.

Through the small cascading sheet of sweat blocking my vision, I could visualize headlines in local papers “Big Boy Meets Tragic End In Tube”.

The Tube felt suddenly smaller. And it seemed darker inside then I remember. Ella was just ahead of me, doing fun little pony-kicks, her back legs flying up then whacking down on the tube behind her which made the whole suspiciously-engineered contraption shake like the death rattle.

Think about it. You’re a young, talented architect just out of school. The I.M. Pei. Head full of stress and counter-stress equations, ready to design the next great monument of technological wonder.

Think the firm’s senior partner comes to you and says “Hey, Umberto~we want you to cut your teeth on one of those new McDonald’s playland tubes. Get out there and make us proud”.

Exactly.

Which, especially at that moment when the whole tube began actually swaying in mid-air thanks to Pony-girl’s bucking, begged the question~who’s in charge of engineering and constructing these things?

And then it hit me.

Hamburgler.

Sure, he had his moment in the 80’s. But basically, he’s what~some kind of fast food convict, right?

Guy’s in prison stripes. On lifelong parole. They always say guys in the joint punch license plates in shop as part of their workday.

I’m pretty sure Hamburgler is sitting somewhere, cigarette hanging from his mouth putting together plastic tubes.

And as his little “middle finger” to the man, occasionally leaving out one or two of the hanging rings. So you know, it wobbles a bit more.

And every night Hamburgler goes to bed, he makes sure the lojack alarm-light on his ankle is green pulls the covers up to his chin and rests soundly knowing somewhere, in some McDonald’s Big Boy is suspended in mid-air, sweating like large fries in the salting rack.

Mar 25, 2007

Who Gets’s Coffee. And Who Fcuking Doesn’t.

Let’s get one thing straight. Just because coffee is available to everyone, doesn’t mean everyone should be drinking it.

Couple of ground rules.

Parents
They get a free pass. In fact, parents should get a lifetime-unlimited Starbucks card when they pick up their newborn.

Teachers
Since they make less than a Starbucks employee, they should never have to buy coffee again.

Okay, here we go.

The Haves
Lawyers. I want them doing my 40 minutes of work in 20 and billing me for 10. Not thrice versa.

Citibank Employees
If I have to stand in line once more for an hour while two cashiers spend twenty minutes talking about their cell phone bills then next time I go in I’m taking a hostage.

Cab Drivers
Tough call. I had to give it to ‘em though. You taken a taxi in NYC lately? The fare is like, $25 bucks a second or something. So yeah, the light turns green? You want these guys Nascar’ing over semi-trucks if possible to keep your five-block trip under a grand.

Ambulance Drivers
If I end up in the meat wagon I don’t want my driver “Braking For Small Animals”. I want him mowing down entire blocks of pedestrians to get me TO THE FCUKING EMERGENCY ROOM NOW.

The Have Not’s
My kids’ school bus driver. Think about it. Do you want the vehicular guardian of your little ones slugging back a triple shot vente, yelling “Buckle up kids~WE’RE GOING OFFROAD!”.

Cops
This is such a no-brainer. I for one, do not want a juiced, itchy trigger-finger, former Special Forces no-neck, screaming “INCOMING” and drawing down on me with a .38 when I reach past him at Dunkin Donuts for a packet of Splenda.

Subway Operators
C’mon~do you really want these guys hitting the corner at 60mph+ and whispering under their breath “I believe I can fly. I believe I can fly….”.

Korean Manicurists
These women already work by volume. If you’re not careful they can file a grown man down to his knuckles in under ten minutes. I say, chill out and if there’s sparks flying off their emery board it’s a sign they’re “juiced” in which case pick a god and pray cuz you’re gonna need a hook where your fire-engine red nails used to be.

Just a start. This list will be updated as soon as I finish my triple-shot vente extra hot cappuccino.

Mar 21, 2007

Codeine+Nymphomaniac(s)

Oh and the flu. Which explains the codeine-laced cough syrup.

And all of it, not in that exact order.

So in a flu-induced stupor I may have accidentially watched "Dancing With The Stars".

And I have a favorite.

Paul McCartney's one-legged ex-wife.

Yeah, I know. Bear with me.

So here's the thing. Metro-sexual, Iron John's, balanced w/our feminine~call it what you will but when beer comes to pizza, guys are just well, guys.

I have it from the most trusted sources in Gossipdom that Healther Mills is a certified cougar in the sack. Now, why am I unable to remember my wedding anniversary date, but have this useless factotum coded in to every firing synapse? See above.

So when she hits the floor, there is of course that guy-part of my brain that's secretly hoping the leg goes airborne during a spin and takes out rows 1-4 of the studio audience. Or second choice, that faux Italian/French gay judge.

And of course, evolved man that I am praying nightly for world peace, there is again, guy-brain that, I'm sorry who you are or what you've done but put a chick in front of me with snaggle-teeth, a bad 30's do and a peg-leg? Instinct kicks in and we must ridicule until said chick snaps and goes Carrie on National TV.

Unless of course, its rumored that Peg's a nympho. Which for some reason in Guy-lexicon rhymes with Mother Theresa. Say it slowly--"Nympho". "Mother Theresa". Trill your "R". No? Whatever.

Which explains that despite the fact HM won't last another round, or two tops--she's my new underdog.

Or as my wife said "Oh, cute. She's your underdog pick because she said "I just want some child at home to see me do this with my leg and say to themselves~I can do it too".

"You are such a dad".

To which I responded, "Yes".

But remember, somewhere deep in the heart of every dad past the pampers and the empty beer bottles~is a guy.

Another recent discovery of note:

No matter how high I turn up the blender Codeine will not froth enough to top my Cappucino.

So I'm just drizzling a nice little syrup-lattice of it over the foam.

Codeine's cool that way.

Mar 17, 2007

Surviving McDonald’s. Or Not…

…one of the last true guilty pleasures is the McDonald’s road-trip meal. It just doesn’t have that “Oh my god I’m eating dinner at McDonald’s” aftertaste to it.

So the family and I are cruising along in our rental car, taking a long weekend when just ahead on Interstate “Where The Hell Are We?”, the golden arches beckon.

In fact they glow. And they send out wave-lengths of French Fry goodness that bypass your normal synapse function with one overriding command, eerily Jedi-Knight in its directness: Go. There. Now.

So we pull in to the parking lot, jump out and my three-year-old daughter Ella leads the charge inside.

And hits paydirt.

Right there, in all its shiny, multicolored glory is a My Little Pony display. Comes in a happy meal. I’ve never ordered a happy meal. I am about to. Daughter and wife head off to find our own personal slab-of-molded-plastic family seating unit.

I stand in line innocently unaware of just how much suburban street-savvy it takes to successfully place an order at McD’s.

It goes something like this. A young-man in official uniform greets me with a worn, forced smile. He is slightly taller then an oversized fry. ‘Bout the weight of a nugget. He speaks in rapid-fire McDonaldese, and as this is suburbia, I am slightly unfamiliar with the dialect.

"WelcometoMcDonald’sSirmayItakeyourorder?"

"Um…let me have an ice coffee, and uh small French fries and oh, a happy meal".

I reach for my money, not knowing my close encounter has just begun.

"Burger or Nuggets sir?"

I look around, thinking he’s talking to someone else. Then, with all the seasoned calm of a hostage negotiator he again:

"With your happy meal sir, would you like a hamburger or Chicken McNuggets?"

He’s almost mouthing the words, like he’s dealing with Rain Man.

"Oh, um…Nuggets?"

I suddenly feel very self-aware and lapse in to giving answers inflected as questions like this three foot kid is my shrink and my task is to repeat back what I hear so I can give the impression of somehow being in control of my own life.

"Four or six piece sir?"

More questions. I feel my forehead moisten with a single, dead-giveaway bead of uncertainty.

I have no idea what he’s asking. I feel like I’m in a quiz-show on a different planet and the alien host is asking me “ARHII:” AAERR((!!”””GGZZZ!!??”.

I come up with the only thing I can muster resembling an answer.

"For the ponies?"

Nugget-boy shakes his head sadly, like the hostage just made a grab for his captor and detonated the bomb.

I am so fcuked.

"No, not the ponies sir. Ponies come in a single package. The Nuggets sir. Would you like a four-piece or a six-piece?"

This I can answer, and I feel a rush of confidence surge through me. But I play it cool, make sure and not rush the answer. I feel like I’ve been in line for five years.

"The four piece".

Behind me, a single line of very large, pale anxious people for whom McDonald’s means neither guilty nor pleasure, has formed. For them, there is only intense, ravenous hunger with a side of contempt for City slicker who doesn’t know his Nuggets from a Quarter Pounder.

One of them snorts. A few fidget. They are a herd about to panic and stampede. I must get my now “Less Than Happy” Meal and get out. How long can it take to jam some basically, uncooked fully processed food and a plastic toy in to a bag?

"Ranch, Zesty or Sweet&Sour?"

I know the answer isn’t “Ponies”, but fear has created some kind of survival by free association response in me. I heard once that ponies live on ranches. It’s not much to go on, but it’s all I have.

"I’ll have the Ranch".

I phrase it in first person to take some ownership of the situation. And I throw in the definate article because honestly, I have no idea what the three choices represent so just in case I am getting an actual working ranch I won’t look like a total idiot when they hand me an actual working ranch.

I have now lost complete track of time and like Rip Van Winkle may return to find my three year old is now at Vassar and no longer requires a My Little Pony.

Speaking of which…

"…and which color pony sir?:

Oh god.

"Oh, uh, they have colors?"

"Yes sir."

And sure enough, he tosses three small heat-sealed clear baggies on the counter.

Small heat-sealed baggies. I have a quick flashback. That’s another blog entry.

The baggies are small, and there’s so much print on them I can’t actually see inside to determine what the colors are. I’m staring at the baggies, mouthing air like a fish out of water.

…and before the herd can trample me, he comes to the rescue.

"…purple, blue or pink?".

"Pink!"

I accidentally shout this out. Its like I now have some kind of corporate-pressure induced Tourettes.

"That’s an iced coffee, small French fries, happy meal with four-piece nuggets, ranch dipping sauce and a pink pony.

"Anything else sir"?

Ranch~its a dipping sauce. I am relieved to find that out. It means I will not have to explain to my wife how I went to order a happy meal and ended up with 400 acres in Texas. My tongue feels very large in my mouth and I wonder if it might spill out if I try and answer.

"You’re going to call me “sir” even though I just ordered a pink pony?"

"Yes sir".

And as I walked back to my table, happy to see my daughter had not yet gone away to an all-girl’s college to have a tumultuous affair with her Women’s Study professor, but was in fact still a darling, pig-tailed three year old jumping up and down at the sight of her daddy returning with a happy meal, it hit me.

That’s why McDonald’s can systematically eradicate the bovine population, super-size us to the point of extinction, coat us in enough ranch sauce to drown a grown man and we still go back.

Because no matter who you are~crack mom, Jeffery Dahmer, Citicorp VP, or dad on a happy-meal-mission, once you have your pink pony in hand~they still call you sir.

Niiiice.

Jan 24, 2007

Juan Valdez+Donkey: Update On The American Dream

Remember Juan Valdez? We were first introduced to him in that Folgers commercial. As the v/o talked about flavor crystals (are those "coffee" flavored crystals, btw? I thought the coffee taste came from, the coffee?), cut to hard-working Juan Valdez.

Simple burlap clothes matched the sacks of coffee carried atop his loyal burro, as Juan's smile to the camera warmed our hearts like a fresh cup of shade grown Columbian.

Ever wonder what happened to Juan and the donkey? Ever just stop and think to yourself "Hey, Juan Valdez. I wonder what he's up to these days?".

I'll tell you. Juan and Donkey have taken on Corporate coffee. No way? Way. I just had coffee with him at 42nd st. Well, not exactly with our humble day-laborer but with 12 of his closest friends and employees who were pumping out hot java faster than the Olsen twins can split a raisin for lunch.

Where you say? Oh, how about at Juan Valdez's Cafe Times Square. A humble little 4500 square foot shop with leather banquettes, track lighting and nine varieties of shade grown coffee. Place makes Starbucks look like a slum.

Yup. Juan Valdez is living the dream my friends and has his own chain to prove it. Guess Juan got tired of lugging those bean sacks up the hill. Or, those bean sacks contained something Columbian other than coffee. I mean, you gotta wonder how a guy Juan's age can lug beans+sacks+donkey up and down Columbian mountains all day. Hey, I've had Folgers--it ain't that strong.

Juan was what, 40 yrs old 20 years ago? Unless he was like, one of those kids who have a full facial hair before they hit 12. Went to school with a kid like that. 10 years old, four feet tall, mustache. Name was Fuad Furag. Arabic, I think. Every kid he met, asked "Where eees your sister!". Didn't matter if you had a sister or not, kid would hump a fruit basket.

So old/young Juan, backed by the National Federation of Coffee Growers of Colombia loaded up the truck and he moved to Bev-er-ly. Hills, that is--swimming pools, movie stars. Okay, there was no jingle that worked with "Midtown Manhattan".

So there I am. Watching a couple ladies sip their mango nevados, one of six frozen specialty drinks on the menu, thinking "Juan Valdez?! The American Dream? Where's my dream? I'm a good guy. Sure I don't have a donkey but I've carried bags of stuff up sharp inclines, too!".

Now I'm thinking where's my chain? And more importantly, is there even really a Juan Valdez? His silhouette decorates the interior, but I didn't see any old guy in a serape feeding his donkey $2.95 a pop brownie scraps reminiscing about the old days when he "...hand carry the bean up hill, but I do it for love, not money senior".

I mean, would the real Juan Valdez please stand up? Or is the American Dream, mainly...dream? Is it only so much froth, easily stuck to the side of one's lip while the over-heated content's of life's reality cup scalds us back to the truth that there is no "American Dream?".

Actually, what I was really thinking was "Goddamn, that's a good brownie. Not too moist, good balance of chocolate flavor underscored by the walnuts pieces...". But I meant to think, "Yeah what about the real backbone of this country?

Is there truly opportunity for those who are willing to work hard, do the right thing and live with just enough wealth to donate to charity and buy a Lexus while staying in a friendly tax bracket?".

I don't know, I just don't know. I hung around a while longer. Good coffee, btw. Didn't see any traces of Juan V or his trusted pack animal. On the way out I thought I heard a woman say "Did you hear? Donkey's getting his own reality show--he's in development with NBC".

That was all I needed to hear. Six months from now Donkey'll be on the Today show, sucking up to Matt Lauer. "Eee or, eeeor, eeeeoooor". Haha, Donkey you are one funny beast of burden and proof that hey, the American Dream can be hand-picked by anyone". Al, how's our weather today?".

Me, I'm headed back to Starbucks. Giant, soul-sucking dream crushing corporate black hole that it is. At least I know where they stand--world domination by 2010. Give or take a few cups.

Jan 21, 2007

Attacked By Vicious Rottweilers…

…okay, they weren’t exactly Rottweilers. And they didn’t attack me personally, but other than those minor details the rest of the story is true. Mostly.

So my wife and daughter and I are chilling out Sunday morning. Buzzer rings and its our best friend, Liz (by request her name has been changed to protect her true identity and preserver her anonymity. Her real name is, Liz) from across the street. She comes up, loyal Pug Carlos in tow.

Carlos doesn’t care if I use his real name or not. Carlos is a dog. Dogs aren’t subject to self-reflection like humans. Maybe it’s the humility-inducing act of sponging off other animals butts with their tongues, but dogs rarely have thoughts like “Does this leash look my ass look big?”.

Anyway, turns out Liz’s neighbor, was taken out on a stretcher by EMT’s. Problem is, neighbor’s a little old lady with four Jack Russel Terriers. Or, for those of you who’ve ever been yapped and nipped at by a “Jack”, you know they’re more appropriately termed “Jack Russel Terrorists”.

Next to a Hezbollah hit squad, they’re pretty devoted to creating their own rein of confusion and intimidation through the “Bark and Bite” tactic.

And it turns out, Liz has been on the receiving end of their strong-jaw antics, having taken a nip to the thigh years earlier. And now there’s one or more of these crazed, bloodthirsty, menacing demon-hounds prowling her hallway.

Oh, like if I’d written “…there was a small non-descript dog the size of a toaster cowering in the hallway waiting for its owner to return…”, you’d still be reading? Thank you.

Now, the urban legends surrounding these vicious hounds are legendary. Renowned cage-fighting dog expert Johnny “Mutt” Vasquez says “Jacks” were originally bred by wealthy Upper East Siders intent on stemming an influx of knock-off designer footwear above 71st street.

But after a few generations of in-breeding, it appears the dogs lost their taste for cheap mules and sling backs from Nine West. Soon, faux designer eye-ware, handbags and even those cute little jewel cases for cell phones were targeted.

By the mid-90’s, the dogs were prevalent well up to E. 87th and as far west as 79th and Broadway. Soon we were a city of denizens living in fear, toting gnarled fake handbags. I hear to this day the Chinese won’t let a Jack Russel below Houston St.

So when Liz (her real name) told us through broken, rasps of breath she’d been cornered by the beasts my wife and I knew she needed help. Now, bear in mind my wife and I don’t get out much. Okay, maybe since the baby we don’t get out—ever.

And when Sunday morning finally kicks one lazy foot out of bed and you realize your otherwise fabulous weekend plans were reduced to a. dusting b. re-organizing 2000 Thomas The Engine books, well a mild case of “Gang Attack By Hell-Hounds” dawns like a new day, a rebirth of the adventure-filled life you once lived but is now so very far in life’s rear view mirror you can’t ever recognize it.

I also wanted my little girl to grow up in a city of true diversity and cultural acceptance where she could freely choose to wear a nice little French sole Cha Cha from Prada even if it did cost dad the electric bill. As a down payment.

Barring that I figured I’d at least score some kind of civic award for bravery. Bloomberg would hold a press conference, I’d say something like “We all have a hero inside us, just waiting for the moment to do some good…”, then there’d be a tasteful little brunch, some snap shots and I’d have my rent stabilized forever. So yeah, it was worth a shot to the sack by some angry dog.

Anyway, Liz is no slouch when it comes to adventure having successfully raised the Upper West Side’s most glamorous, energetic and personality-filled 2 year old since Shirley Temple. Aka, Rosie, aka Roesita aka whirlwind Rosie. Liz and my wife decided it would take a well-planned sneak in to Liz’s building aided by a treat to detour the rampaging canines.

Armed with a baggie full of 8-grain bread, Liz and I carefully opened the door to her building. I could hear the dogs snarling somewhere near, but so far they didn’t appear to hear us re-enter the building. Liz and Carlos stayed at the front door, keeping it propped open for me if I had to retreat for my life.

I crept up the stairs, nutritious bread in hand when it dawned on me instead of whole wheat goodness, I should’ve been carrying a little dress flat casual from Payless. I could hear the dogs in their apartment, gnawing their latest victim probably, but probably otherwise uninterested that the last time Liz or I saw any real designer foot up close it was on QVC.

By the time we’d scampered to safety inside Liz’s, little Rosie was there to greet me with a freshly excavated “Boogie”, her way of saying “Thanks for making retail shopping safe again, man”.

And as I walked home, flush from my near-death encounter (hello, remember there were four dogs in that apartment. Any they could’ve sprung at any moment…) I realized, maybe its not the animal’s fault. I mean, they were just doing what they were trained for. Just like us Manhattanites were trained to look for the big red SALE sign at Banana Republic and Kenneth Coles.

And who knows. With the proper care and re-training, those pesky but loyal little dogs could serve their fellow man, or woman again with distinction and honor. They could rise above their past and serve side by side with humans to contribute in a positive way to society.

LIke, we could train them to bark really, really loud when the Starbucks guys doesn’t put enough foam in your Cappuccino.

Oh, and/or save orphans. Somehow.

Jan 15, 2007

Tito The Fish: Aug 25th, 2006~Jan 13th, 2007

Well, at least this Chinese fighting fish went out battling. He was my two and a half year old daughter's first official pet. Named by her after her favorite member of the Jackson 5, Tito. Well, her favorite band member changes as frequently as her pampers, but when we asked "What do you want to name your fish?", she didn't miss a beat and said "Tito...".

So Tito made it about 25% through his normal life expectancy before being struck down by that unchecked killer of Betta's, "Dropsy". Ironic name. Poor guy. By the end he was looking like fat Elvis. Bloated and gasping for breath. When he took ill, we immediately went on line, hoping to find a cure.

You know, "Go to Petco, buy meds, drop in water, etc". But it turns out "Dropsy" is bad. Chances of a Betta surviving are about the same odds as Tara Reid making a comeback.

By day five or six of his advanced trauma, he was kind of listing to one side like a proud battle ship taking on water. My wife and I discussed how to speak to Ella about it. She seems a bit young for the whole "Grim reaper" thing, not to mention neither one of us wanted to freak her out and in to early toddler-therapy.

My wife took it in stages and one day as Tito was performing his last spinning/kick to the sounds of "I Want You Back", my wife picked Ella up and said "Tito's sick, maybe we should say 'hello". So, they peered in to the tank, and my wife said "Tell Tito, 'feel better Tito". Dutifully, Ella replied "Feel better Tito...". Then, "Bye Tito, hope you get better...". "Bye Tito, hope you get better".

Ella scampered off to play, and my wife got a fresh cup of tea. Five minutes later, Tito had gone to that great Siamese Fighting Fish Temple in the sky.

Nothing looks quite as convincing as a dead fish as well, a dead fish. A few hours later, convinced Tito wasn't going to pull a John Edwards and start channeling messages through the toaster or something, my wife pulled me aside, "I think we better tell her...".

I looked over at Ella, playing so innocently and figured my wife was right. Now, I've been pretty up close and personal with death. I've counseled those in the final stages of life, and shared more than a few last moments with family members and friends.

As I gently picked up my daughter I knew that given her age and sensitivity, there was really only one thing I could say in this special situation. "Ella, your mother has something to tell you...".

Ann held Ella so she could see in the tank. Tito was at the bottom. "Honey, remember how we said Tito was sick?". Ella nodded, "Yes". "And remember how we talked about how flowers live and then they die?". Again, "Yes".

"Well, Tito's dead. So daddy's going to take him to the river and put him in so he can go back to the sea". About this time I was biting the inside of my own lip to keep from crying and all I could see was like the title on one of those Movies Of The Week "Tito~He Swam Away".

"Why's he sick?". Oh uh, I hadn't figured on Ella asking questions, but my wife was there to volley. "Well, everyone gets sick. And sometimes fish die. Just like the flowers. You have them for a little while, then they're gone. That's just life".

Through the mist of my tearing, my wife was beginning to look like that old wise man from Kung Fu. But hotter. And her little grasshopper was slowing absorbing the truth of life, of living and dying. Ella nodded. She looked wise herself, wise beyond her years and I knew she'd realized, in her own way--something special was happening.

Ella looked at Tito. At my wife, then me. Then barely suppressing what looked like a smile but I'm sure was really an instinct to fight back tears she asked "Can I have a Peppermint Patty...tonight?".

And in the time honored traditon of our family, Ella proved that really, the only true way to deal with adversity is to eat candy.

Smart kid.

Jan 10, 2007

Is It Hot In Here...

…or is it just the planet? I live in New York City. It was 68 degrees here four days ago. I walked around in a t-shirt passing guys carrying their golf clubs to the car, giggling like five year olds at a birthday party.

68 degrees. In NYC. In January. But I’m sure it has nothing to do with Global Warming (BROUGHT TO YOU BY EXXON MOBIL). I mean, we’re just dealing with normal, climatological change. Happens all the time. Oh, it hasn’t happened on this particular planet to this degree for roughly 650,000 years (an ice age period), but other than that it happens all the time.

So let’s just relax here people. Turn on your lights and appliances, hell—leave ‘em on all night! Pump some unleaded in to the SUV and take a nice long, meandering drive up to say, oh Maine. Which at this rate of warming will have enough eroded natural forest to qualify as beachfront property.

And while we’re at it, I think its high time we just took a minute and looked at the whack jobs trying to frighten us out of our God-Given Right (PAID FOR BY THE BUSH ADMINISTRATION) to live our American dream.

Our resources our renewable people!. That’s right, the 50% of naturally occurring, virgin forests that are left in the U.S. after decades of unregulated logging, mining and industrialization? That’s right, these will grow back. Someday. Maybe. Okay, the rate of deforestization is too rapid to ensure the replenishment of naturally occurring forests. But you get my point.

C’mon, what about all the paper products manufactured from trees that make our lives so comfy? I say, Squeeze The Charmin! (BROUGHT TO YOU BY KIMBERLY CLARK THE CORPORATE GIANT THAT REFUSES TO IMPLEMENT A POST-CONTENT PAPER RECYCLING PROGRAM).

I know, I know—some of you are saying “but don’t the world’s ancient forests maintain environmental systems essential for life on Earth by controlling rainfall and evaporation of water from soil? And help stabilize the world's climate by storing large amounts of carbon that would otherwise contribute to climate change?. And don’t these forests house around two-thirds of the world's land-based species of plants and animals?.

Well, I think we have to keep our eye on the big picture. I mean, have you ever used post-consumer content toilet paper? Its not even white like “normal” toilet paper. Its…brown. And its scratchy. That’s right people, its paper that’s uncomfortable on my ass.

And besides, why should good people like the CEO of Exxon Mobile have to suffer for his livelihood? I mean the poor guy’s barely scraping along on his 2006 bonus of 2.8 million dollars to supplement his annual salary of $18.5 million (including a 17% salary hike). Poor guy. And this, just as Exxon Mobil reported the second-highest ever corporate profit of $10.5 billion — behind its own 2005 fourth-quarter record. Think of the pressure they were under to match quarterly profits!

C’mon. You wanna mess with Exxon Mobile? Wanna shout “Hey, what about researching other means of dependable and renewable energy sources?”. Well, any consideration of a fuel source other than fossil would mean a profit loss. And remember all the pressure they're under? So lighten up.

Besides, if the government told Exxon it was turning to the already researched and validated means of renewable, non-fossil fuel burning energy sources, why that’d be like telling Hollywood Madame Heidi Fleiss that Charley Sheen was going in to rehab for sex-addition. Bad for business.

I mean, you don’t think that Exxon CEO guy wakes up every morning to see gas prices over $3.00 a gallon and thinks to himself—“Wow, our country’s reliance on fossil fuels has continued to generate emissions that have eroded million year old glacial melts like the Hindu Kush and Himalayan, reliable water sources for China, India and much of Asia and increased melting over several decades would mean some areas of the most populated region on Earth are likely to 'run out of water'".

You’ve gotta feel for the guy! Can’t you just see him now, sitting in his fuel-sucking Jet humming Michael Jackson's “Man In The Mirror”, “…I’m looking at the, man in the mirror. I’m asking him to change his ways”. I can. If I squint. In the dark.

Now before you get all self-righteous and yell “Hey, it’s a world problem—not a U.S. problem!”. We should chat. Apparently, one day in class there was a whole big lecture on how our over-industrialization was destroying the planet, but somehow, the U.S. missed that class.

Where were we? Oh, who knows where the U.S. ever is when it comes to silly buzzwords like “Accountability” and “Ethics”. Probably just bad timing, Maybe the class on Global Warming was the same day Dominos Pizza introduced those damn brownie squares with chocolate dipping sauce.

Or those Cheesy Breadsticks. OMG. I’d like to construct like a suit made from those cheesy breadsticks then have my friends snap off sections of my carbohydrate-body and feed it to me. So yeah, we missed that class.

As it turns out, most of the world is on board with this whole “Act now, save the planet from unnatural catastrophe thing”. Wacky humans! There’s currently a few dozen countries on board and supportive of the Kyoto accord.

There’s countries already setting new standards to limit harmful emissions. The U.S. is not one of them. For example, call me high on cheesy breadsticks, but last I checked the U.S. couldn’t sell their cars in China. And not because U.S. design is forever linked to that creative-abomination known as the “Gremlin”. No, U.S. cars do not meets China’s Safety Emission Standards Act.

China. Same country that used tanks to pave Tianamen Square with the bodies of student protestors. Same country that has more international human rights violations than Dolly Parton has silicone injections. Same country that has systematically destroyed Tibet’s spiritual infrastructure. That China.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s a lot about Chinese culture I respect. Love the food. And their uncanny ability to actually have a delivery man at your door with steaming boxes of Lo Mein before you’ve actually finished placing the order on the phone. “…yeah, and an order of Moo Shoo pork, and one hot and sour, oh excuse me someone’s at the door…”.

And c’mon General Tzao’s chicken!? Apparently, the man was not only a feared war-faring General, but somehow found the time to whip up a mean spicy chicken dish. Can you imagine that guy leading you in to battle? "Our horses will trample them like grass. Our angry swords will separate them from their loved ones. But first, can I just get a show of hands who's having the crispy prawn appetizer with the ginger-wasabi dipping sauce? I want to get started on those before we ride off...".

Anyway, the point is the U.S. is way behind the rest of the world in taking immediate, effective steps to curtail the destructive effects of greenhouse and other industrialized emissions.

And by the “rest of the world” I mean those real, cultural outposts like oh, California. Which has already passed new safety emissions acts and which is now being attacked by Congress to avoid the thoughtless, irrevocable harm its caused by trying to save the planet in favor of U.S. auto-makers cranking out another few dozen million atmosphere-destroying vehicles.

And while we’re at it, may be we should stop blaming the institutions we hold so dear that manage the concerns of our great country to ensure that all people live in a land of opportunity, with “liberty and justice for all”. The corporations. Uh I mean, the government. Yeah, the government which thankfully has the full support of really great, like-minded businesses behind them to make sure we the people, for the people have a form of checks and balances to support us.

I mean, in 2003 along with General Electric, Comcast, Citigroup and many other Fortune 500 companies hired Bush administration officials and former GOP congressional advisers for top lobbying posts. So relax people, we’re in good hands.

So all I’m saying is its hot. Come to your own conclusions. Its your life (well, actually its “our lives” but unfortunately we’re all using the same resources) so live it how you want. And if you don’t want to, you don’t have to do a damn thing. That's what we call "Freedom".

I mean, if you don’t care about the adverse weather conditions, increase in infectious diseases, thaw of the million year old ice deposits and average annual temperature increase you can always move to New York City and just play golf this winter.

The weather’s great.

This message sponsored by www.CorpGov.com, Bringing You The Future Today, Since It Won’t Be Here Tomorrow.

Jan 6, 2007

When Ninjas Attack

Obviously, if I’d known he was Ninja I would’ve stayed home. Or at least dressed in something all-black and while rapidly moving my lips and speaking in broken English, insulted the power of his Cobra Strike Fist.

But he’d somehow intimidated a friend in to misrepresenting him. “Or, go see Dr. Hsu, he’s great!”. So off I trek to Chinatown after work because every few years I manage to get some mystery physical ailment. Few years ago it was “Fire-ribs”. Every time I breathed deeply it felt like I’d swallowed a bag of plastic cocktail swords. Before that, “Tingly-knee”. Weird, tingling sensations in my knee.

Both times I’d get MRI’s, x-rays, acupuncture, massage, nuclear bone scan, physical therapy. Even did psychic healing for the rib thing. Nothing. Everyone confounded. Then a year or two later, presto—mystery ailment gone.

This time its “Lava-wrist”. Wrist feels like there’s an intermittent flow of hot magma scorching through the veins. Have already been to two docs, x-rays, some kind of prescription only anti-inflammatories that were so strong they singed my eyebrows. The works. No tendonitis, no carpel tunnel, no clue.

And the added bonus side effect is the only thing that really causes it to throb and glow red is working out. And the double bonus side effect is since I’m not lifting at the gym, the pain is somehow lessened when I pick up Oreo Cookie Bars. You know, cookie-batter spread in to a pan then cut in to plank-size squares so instead of saying “Jesus, I just ate like four dozen cookies…”, you can say “Hmm, think I’ll just grab an Oreo Bar…” which is topped with like, entire Oreo cookies. Not even sprinkles, no they just like jam the whole cookie in to the batter like “What—you gonna send it back?”.

So yeah, my wrist feels better when I don’t get up at 6:30am to lift groan-producing weights over my head but instead hoist a delicate 9oz, 3400 calorie cookie bar in to my pie-hole. And the wrist somehow also accommodates doing curls with a refreshing little 14oz frozen mochachino. For breakfast. Must be the ice in the drink.

So yeah, now not only am I off the gym, but of course I’m getting oh, how do you say in your language, chunky? And when did the word chunky become even close to being some kind of cute way of saying “Two more Oreo bars away from dating Kirsty Alley?”. Be honest. At best, chunky is the out of shape, ugly cousin of hunky. Ever hear someone say “Oooh, he’s a chunk…I mean, hunk”. I didn’t think so.

Which is why I found myself walking a labyrinth of Chinatown backstreets until after an endless elevator ride I was in doctor Hzu’s (pronounced “Zhu” but they cleverly hide the z behind the capital H to throw you off the trail) office. He spoke basically no English and now that I think back, the only words I barely recognized sounded something like “Confucius say soon you cry like little boy on Ritalin”.

So I’m naked. On this guy’s table. In Chinatown. And he starts in on me. Immediately, I can tell he’s doing deep tissue work, like myfascial release. Which is kinda like a jackhammer inside each nerve fiber trying to eject itself through your skin. Its not uncommon to leave a myfascial session and have bruises and welts appear the next morning.

Twenty minutes in and I’m wiling to pay him to stop. At one point I give an honest to goodness little “squeak” of actual pain. Its like this total admission of surrender—I’m tapping out. And he laughs. Which I take as a sign that he likes me. Applauds my ability to acknoledge the battle I wage over my pain. But probably means, “Oh, you think that hurt…?”.

Two hours later and I’m bathed in sweat and soaked in fear. I feel like I missed a payment to loan sharks and they just baseball batted me senseless. My hands even hurt. He did this thing with his knuckles over the back of my hand that made my fingers twitch involuntarily.

At his desk, I bend down and get a pen in my mouth since my hands no longer function and scribble out a check. The elevator door opens downstairs, I hobble to the front doors of the office building/slaughterhouse and clank. The doors are locked. Really, honest to god this-is-an-office-building-and-its-closed-after-hours locked.

Mild panic. But seated just outside, next to the glass door on a folding metal chair is some old Chinese guy. He’s wearing one of those blue cotton Communist hats that look good on no one, even if they’re made “By every man, for every man”. But seeing it does get me to thinking, if us Americans get all our cheap mass-produced goods manufactured in China, who makes their stuff?

I whack the door and Communist guy turns and looks at me, unsmiling. Thank god. I motion to the door with my ear, the only non-bruised piece of cartilage I have left and shout “The door—its locked!”. He looks at me, shakes his head and returns to his culturally time honored practice of looking across the street. Inside my head I hear something like an elevator announcement ‘Panic level now rising”.

Forget back to Dr. Hsu’s office. I realize now his resting pulse never topped 68 despite the fact he was prepping me like a Sunday buffet dish and its clear he’s some kind of Asian Hannibal Lecter and I refuse to end up in his lo-mein.

I hear something downstairs, and find some guy in his office, the desks of which I kid you not have stacks of paper like, four feet high. Ernest Hemingway didn't generate as much paper as this guy. And he’s wiping down his desk. With an old pair of underwear (TRUE FACT NOT INCLUDED FOR GRATUITOUS FICTIONALIZED EFFECTS). I swear. I can even see that like, bands of red and blue thread in the waistband.

The guy refuses to unlock the door. Starts yelling at me, “Where your from, where you from!?”. Remember, doctor lockjaw upstairs has already squeezed all the blood out of my body so I had to pump my mouth a few times before actual words came out and when they did it sounded like “Doctorwhoimeanzoodoctorwhozoo”.

Underwear-wiper angrily picks up his phone, dials a number that rolls over to a recorded message and starts yelling in Chinese. My passing knowledge of provincial Mandarin serves me well and I make out the sentence, “He is bruised but alive. Come quickly for make eating on him doctor…”.

And I manage to scamper up the stairs, just as some old man (Do Chinese males come in any other version btw? Are they like already 68 years old when they’re born or what?) and I whimper and he pulls out some kind of oversize key ring that has just about every metal key ever produced and the next thing I know I’m limping down the street sucking cool air, looking like one of those trailer park felons from COPS.

By the way what is it with those wacky Floridians you put ‘em in a trailer park and its like BAM they have to run out, knock over the nearest 7-11 then try to outrun the police in a wife-beater and torn shorts. “Bad boys, bad boys, what ‘cha gone do…”.

Its day four after my escape from Ninja-ville. I’m sure doctor Lecter Hzu is happily plying his trade on other unsuspecting clients. The bruises are almost gone. My wife took photos, laughing the whole time, to add to my weird ailments topped by weirder treatments file.

Oh, my wrist hurts like hell still. But in a way, not the same kind of pain. This pain is somehow tolerable. Not different, just hmmm, familiar. Like when you’re in a bad relationship but you know it could be worse and sure, every once in a while you think about leaving them but who knows how much worse it could be and why risk it? And besides, I have almost full range of movement again with my fingers, so why mess with a good thing.

But oddly, every once in awhile the phone rings, and the caller i.d., just reads “unknown caller”. And I have this weird urge to grab the phone shout in to the receiver fru twristed wrips “Wru have insulted Eagle Claw Scrhool and nrow you pay….eiahh!!”.

New Years Resolution

To post at least once a week on the blog.

Why?

Because I respect the craft of writing, the art and beauty of written expression for the imagination and because I believe in a world of diversity and respect...

...oh alright. My wife's friend Randi said if I didn't get serious and feed the blog on a weekly basis then she'd cancel my subscription to Tractor Pull magazine and replace it with like, Teen Us.

If I see one more article about Lindsay Lohan in/not in/in/not in rehab I will slam my head in the freezer door.

Look, Randi is not to be taken lightly. She’s a career woman. She has fabulous fashion sense.

And she just got her hair done and its sassy and there’s no stopping her.

Thus, I post out of fear.

But I will post Randi, I will post.

I leave it to my friends to add comments. Fling the URL around to your friends like beads at Mardi Gras and keep me on the straight and narrow.

Look, if I'm here writing it means I'm not at Starbucks over caffeinated and arguing.

With you.

See how we all win here people?

Jan 5, 2007

Merry Muther$%^$#@ Christmas

Or, "Why Baby Jesus Would Be Proud Of Me For Not Shearing One Of His Flock The Day After His Birthday".

Okay, so for the sake of consistency all my Real Urban Encounters tend to go down in one of two places. A. Starbucks. B. Leaving Starbucks. Does my rash of ongoing conflict-encounters always occur outside a caffeine filling-station because on top of being a self-obsessed, angry, paranoid country we're totally wired to the gills on Evil Bean or is it just a coincidence? Probably a coincidence.

So I'm with my 2.5 yr old daughter at 'Bucks in Greenwich Ct., where the streets are paved with gold and the fine citizens are taken by Rolls Royce to get their daily Frappucinos. Day after baby-Jesus' birthday, so you'd think amidst all the post-birthday of the Savior merriment there'd be a little extra love and light to go around. Think again.

I wait for fifteen minutes in a line that snakes almost out the door. Place is jammed. Fortunately, Ella and I find a table. But we're short one chair. Next to us a group of three people gets up to leave, so I snag one of theirs. Ella and I are chilling nicely, talking about the socio-economic benefits of fair-trade coffee versus commercially exploitive practices of corporate-backed businesses like oh, Starbucks when suddenly this woman walks over, gets in my face and goes "Uh, excuse me sir that's my chair!".

Now first of all, when did I become a sir? So I'm dashingly salt 'n pepper haired. Okay, maybe mostly salt. Okay, maybe at a young age Mother Nature just unscrewed the top to the fcuking shaker and coated my head in salt, are you happy now? But still, I'm cool, I think. Its not like I walk around in a cardigan with leather elbow patches smoking a pipe. I listen to Black Eyed Peas for god's sake! None of my clothes have any elbow patches, I swear.

So already I'm insulted. But I figure, be the bigger person. Feel her pain. Now she's like, right in my face. I can feel the hot foam from her $12.95 triple tax-bracket, husband's seven figure income, annual bonus that equals the Gross Domestic Product of a developing nation beginning to scald the side of my face. Plus she called me sir, so in addition to feeling socially claustrophobic by her financially liberated lifestyle, I just plain hate her.

"That's my chair. You took it from that table, my things are there". She articulates this through clenched teeth and a thin bitter smile that makes me think somewhere in her basement illegal Dominicans are chained to an ironing board, forced to perform menial domestic tasks. I make a mental note to free them after I kill her and start a revolution to bring only fair trade coffee to America.

Sure enough, somewhere between the time the original occupants left the table and I sucked down enough coffee to realize I already couldn't afford my daughter’s college tuition someday, this woman had apparently walked out of line, and put her purse on one of the chairs. Which would explain her purse sitting on one of the chairs. The purse had more top grain leather and silver on it than a rodeo saddle. The cost of it would've covered a semester of room and board at Brown.

"I saved it. That's how it works". Now I get it. In my pre-first-sip-of-caffeine lull, maybe I remember seeing this woman, who by the way was like, eight people back in line walk over and put her purse down on the chair. I may have seen that. If you don't have it on video however, talk to my lawyer.

Very quickly, I throw together a tall, double-tolerance, half self-righteous, half-apologetic, no back-down latte. With a shot of faux understanding. Extra hot. "We were in front of you. In line. Sorry...". She cranks the knobs on her hate-machine, and spews up a triple-grande pissed-off, I-will-crush-your-revolution-and-you-will-join-your-friends-in-my-basement-and-iron-my-shirts cappuccino.

It’s on. I notice her eight-year old. He's flatlining on a mobile PS2 and could care less. Still, I know we can take them if it goes down. Not only does Ella possess the strength of an angry Chimpanzee, but she's already managed to scratch her face with her grissini, so I know once she nibbles away the rest of the yogurt coating it'll basically be a non-registered lethal breadstick.

The Mexican standoff ensues, with me playing the part of an actual Hispanic. Standing. Maybe she had to get back to her McMansion and hose down the workers before lunch, but for whatever reason she storms off and takes a table by the window. I don't know. But I give myself credit for not saying another word to her. Even though she shot me a couple of angry stares between sips of her battery-acid.

And for dessert? She actually goes over to the cashier, has a fit then stomps back over to announce to me victoriously, "Uh yeah--I checked with them. That is how it works. You can save your place. Its not who's ahead of who". She walks off and I so want to yell after her, "Its whom...", but I think of the workers, my incarcerated Latin brothers and sisters and bite my lip for fear she'll make them use heated rocks instead of Rowenta irons if I push her any further.

Ella by now had indeed eaten off the outer yogurt coating to reveal the world's hardest bread-stick like substance underneath. Maybe grissini is Italian for "Titanium". And I knew she was ready, pigtails and all to get her daddy's back. Fortunately, the full effects of the sugar-laden yogurt had set in and her eyes lids were beginning to flutter an SOS for naptime.

So I leave you with this. How exactly does that work, the whole "save a chair from in line, even though technically I was an actual paying customer having already purchased my products while she was only a potential customer having not made a purchase and for all I know she could've gotten bored or been paged the workers were out of spray starch and left without having ever made a purchase, in which case she was basically only intending to be a customer which is really, no different from anyone in the entire town of Greenwich (hmmm, Greenwich--Grinch?) walking around at any given point thinking hmmm, Starbucks in which case the next time someone goes to sit down and enjoy their brew you could say to them, excuse me, that seat's taken. At some point. Maybe. By someone who may or may not actually be having a coffee here. Sometime.", Yeah how does that work?

And you may want to consider carrying around an extra grissini, you know tucked away in your purse or something. Hey, you never know.