Dec 12, 2008

Name That Tune


ADELAIDE, Australia - Hymns are being replaced at funerals by rock classics like Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" and AC/DC's "Highway to Hell," a cemetery manager said Wednesday.

"Some of the more unusual songs we hear actually work very well within the service because they represent the person's character," Centennial Park chief executive Bryan Elliott said. Among other choices are: "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead," "Hit the Road Jack," "Another One Bites the Dust".

Which got me to thinking, what're they gonna play at your funeral?

Oh and remember, it won't be what you write down in your last will and testament, no.

It'll be whatever your kids or ex decide best sums up your contribution to humanity in four bars (plus chorus) or less.

That's right, while you're at the Pearly Gates finding out you can't swipe your ATM card to get in, back in the land of mortals, your funeral party's gonna be devouring the buffet, rocking out to
Linda Ronstadt...

"You're No Good...".

So sleep tight.

And think about doing some good deeds between now and whenever.

Might get you an upgrade to a better song.

Or at least, a credit card that really is "everywhere you want to be".

Sep 12, 2008

Reinventing The (Cheese) Wheel


Newfound facts about suburbia: all kids ride scooters down the street.

All the time.

So I went online and found a great scooter for Ella at Toys R Us.

Molded safety plastic, child-tested, no-slip cushioned grips.

My wife and Ella come back with a pink one. Not the one I’d called ahead and saved.

I look at Anne and she whispers, “It came with plastic sunglasses and a fake cell phone…”.

It’s true. I unpack everything on the back porch for assembly and amid tiny wheels and seat stickers there’s a small pair of pink sunglasses, matching plastic cell phone and a cute backpack.

Essentially, they bought pink sunglasses for $40 and they came with a scooter.

Newfound facts about unpacking: whatever you need most at any given time has not yet been unpacked. Like a screwdriver. For assembling oh, kids scooters?

I rummage around in the drawer and all I can find is this 3” walnut handled cheese knife. Fine, whatever.

So I’m on the back porch up to my eyeballs in an instruction pamphlet that someone in China wrote while on a noodle break, when Ella comes running over.

She sees all the gear spread out and squeals happily,

“Oh my goodness, it came with the sunglasses. And a backpack…and a cheese knife!”.

Sep 7, 2008

Can You See Me Now?


My cover’s been blown.

I’ve been an undercover NYC vice agent for a decade, but a month ago it all caught up with me.

A crack addict in central park saw right through me. Came up to me while I was out with my four-year-old daughter and asked point blank “Are you a Federal Agent?”.

I’d been made, game over.

I did my best to rebound, even stammered out, “I’m sorry, what?” but we both knew he had me dead to rights.

I could see the dejection on Ella’s face. No more all night stake outs in her MacClaren stroller. Her days masquerading as a happy little Upper West Side pre-schooler were over.

But this was the life we chose, we knew the risks when I decided to carry a 9mm Glock with a pistol grip and gain 15 lbs binging on Starbucks iced lemon pound cake.

I’ll miss that cake.

Ella will be fine. She’s adaptable. And she knew one day it could all end. And we both knew it could’ve gone real bad, real fast. But it didn’t. We were lucky.

But at some point, lady luck loses your address.

And you wake up one night sweating in the dead of winter. You know you’re living on borrowed time—and you can hear the tick-tock in your head getting louder.

If you’re smart, you get out. Now. Middle of the night. No long goodbyes. So we’ve taken reassignment. But first, they have us on ice for a while. We’re too hot.

They moved us out of the city. To a charming little seaside town where people don’t look too close to see if we’re packing heat when we’re packing groceries.

Ella starts her second year of pre-school next week. Her teacher’s say she’s very verbal, amused by how she refers to a large quantity of anything as a “boat”.

It’s agent slang for a 1000 count quantity of illiegal Ecstasy pills. I just smile and reply, “Yeah, she’s real verbal”.

At dusk I sit on the porch swing, drink light beer from a can and nod pleasantly to the neighbors.

I don’t know if I’ll miss the action. Too soon to tell.

We fell asleep the first night to the sound of crickets. Second night too. Woke up and had our coffee on the beach.

I haven’t startled awake yet to the sound of sirens and reached for my piece.

Ella has a scooter. It’s pink. She pedals up and down our quiet street and hasn’t yet pulled over another kid on his scooter to ask “You in a hurry for some reason I should know about?”.

I gotta go.

Have to rake leaves. That’s what you do here, you rake leaves. I like it. You don’t run them down, slap Flexi-cuffs on them and read them Miranda rights.

They just sit in the grass. You stuff them in a big plastic garbage bag. Put them in the garage, hang up your rake.

Then you go to bed, feel your daughter snuggle up close to you. And you listen to crickets.

Aug 14, 2008

My Olympic Dream's Over...


Who hasn’t had an Olympic dream dashed?

Mine’s been the US Women’s Gymnastics team. I know I can’t compete in all the disciplines, but felt pretty confident I could run around twirling that ribbon-on-a-stick.

I’ve been working out again, so my cardio’s pretty good. I’m 5’9”, 185. Oh, and I’m a guy.

So I thought all the bench pressing would give me an edge lifting the ribbon-stick up and down repeatedly.

Then I saw China’s Women’s team. Their premier athlete is 4’6” and 70 lbs. Wedding cake ornaments think she’s petite.

And yes, even though the Chinese Federation claims she’s 16 years old, she probably finished her floor routine, then cuddled up with her blankie and bottle and took a nap ‘cuz she’s 12 yrs old, tops.

Put it this way--she’s like a foot taller than my daughter, who’s 4.

The rest of the Chinese team isn’t much bigger—4’ 8”, 90 lbs, 4’ 10”, 115 lbs. The entire group looks like they could finish practice than sit down and share a Cheerio.

I watched them twirling around on the bars like weightless pixies. One armed spins, somersaulting dismounts, laser-accurate landings….carrying their teddy bears the whole time.

And I realized damn, it’s a young persons sport now. Not like when I tried out for the East German Women’s swim team in the 80’s. And made first alternate.

I’m 40. Yeah, maybe I’m ten pounds overweight but can you put your heart on a scale? Wait, actually you can. I mean, can you measure Patriotism? Can you bottle courage?

I see the Olympic torch held high and man I feel that fire in my gut. And I know somewhere there’s a team for me.

Maybe Lithuania. I hear they need bobsledders.

Fetch, Roll Over...Die.


Saw a woman walking her dog. One of those teacup Pomeranians. They’re small. Look like balls of lint on a leash. That sh*t.

She had a treat for it. But first, she made it jump through more hoops than a circus clown.

Sit up
Speak
Turn in circles
Roll over

The tiny performing lint ball responded to each hand gesture carefully, performing its designated little acrobatic feats with silent efficiency.

And then, it took out a small handgun and shot itself in the face.

No, but it should have. I mean, where’s the dignity?

Forget the fact the things about the size of a hood ornament, but now it’s being trained to give the neighbors a laugh while they sip Pimms cups.

Heaven forbid this poor bastard was ever released back into the wild. Well, or maybe just Bed, Bath And Beyond—still, what’s he got to fall back on?

His most basic animal instincts have been replaced with the ability to stand on its hind legs and wiggle its paws.

Nice.

Try that in the Serengeti when you’re surrounded by snarling hyenas. Seriously, let the dog have what’s left of its life.

Free it to roam grassy, African plains. Well in this case, maybe department store aisles, in search of adventure.

For cocktail hour, just buy a frickken stuffed animal. Throw it in the air. Turn to your guests and say “I taught him everything he knows”. Then pour more drinks.

Because believe it or not, even small dogs have big dreams.

And so does lint.

Aug 9, 2008

The Ballad Of Luella Parkins



The day that child was born the Devil put his feet up to rest, breathed fire and said to himself “finally, help”. There’s mean, there’s cruel and there's just plain ugly, and as the child grew up it became apparent he excelled at all three. He became a ward of the town itself, no one least of all the mother wanting anything to do with what was so clearly an evil plan etched harshly in a babe’s clothes.

He came to be called Cooner, after what was at first wrongly thought to be a fear of raccoons that began to turn up twisted and broken all over town. The child would scream when he saw another mutilated ‘coon’s body, and only later did people realize the youngster yelled in excitement, not fear. In fact, Cooner had fear for nothing and hate for everything.

But most of all Cooner hated life itself and its cousin the living. So any chance he had, Cooner set out to show the Lord just how little he cared for the man's handiwork and soon enough death began to follow the boy like a bleak shadow.

At first, Cooner’s destruction was the usual fare of childish intolerance; birds delicate bodies smashed like paper playthings and countless bugs smudged into the dirt to mix back into the earth. But Cooner’s uncaring deviance soon gave way to a real and mature taste for death.

Like a baby able to reach blindly with the knowledge a mother's teat will be there, Cooner reached blindly and found death at the end of his grasp, growing stronger with each life he stung out. It came to him like a fire in his brain that he could only extinguish with old-fashioned hate.

Sometimes he felt like salt burned in his veins and blistered up to fight on the battlefield of his skin. Whatever breathed the lord’s air and came to life made the fire burn hotter and all wondered when the first real catastrophe would strike. It wasn’t long.

Luella Parkins went to her porch that cool wet morning and, banging her tin coffee mug on the railing waited for her dog Blue to come and breakfast. Theirs was an easy knowing of each other worn smooth like a stone over 20 years of friendship. Luella and her Jacob had saved the puny runt from being drowned by its owners.

Premature and too tiny to live, its mother simply stopped nursing the whimpering pup so the rest of her healthy litter could eat. Jacob had come across Miller Hatchings, who owned the bitch, on his way to the creek with the pup wrapped in newspaper, eyes still shut and barely breathing. When he got it home, it was blue with malnutrition weighing less then the paper coffin it came in.

Luella kept the pup in her dress top, fed it warm buttermilk and damned if that wisp of life didn’t continue to wake each morning to the surprise of them both. Named as much for its blue tick pedigree as for its signature color, Blue grew up robust and grateful, only too happy to follow after Jacob each morning into the fields for pheasant.

Around mid morning, which in an early-rising farming community like Lancaster County meant around eight-thirty a.m., Luella would bang her coffee tin on the porch railing and still a half mile out, only then would Blue leave Jacob’s side to race back home.

When Jacob’s rattling cough ended one chilling winter night with his last breath, Blue stayed next to him until the morning, until no warmth from the dog would bring his friend back. Every morning since then, going on five years now Blue dutifully went out on the same trails he and Jacob knew by heart, retracing alone the journey’s he and his friend had made their life.

At Dover’s point he’d stop short of the poplar strand and flush a handful of spring ptarmigan. He’d move slowly through the pines until he scared up some doves then onto the sugar mill where the grouse fed on fallen seed. This was Blue’s memorial, played out every morning, each season with not a one missed. Until today.

Luella knew he was gone when the last echo of her banging cup faded into far away and no Blue arrived. They found him froze solid by the far bend in McAlister River. Old and cold, his stiff legs broken in a bad jigsaw puzzle of twisted limbs. She buried him next to Jacob, a clutch of field daisies on the soft earth that covered him for the last time.

Folks brought canned peaches and cider to the house, sorry for Luella’s loss and she offered floury butter biscuits to each and every person. It was a shame they all agreed that ole’ blue fell and froze in the same map of a river which he and Jacob walked so often, but they all knew what really happened.

What really happened was the reason Cooner stared blankly when they asked how the hand was, how he’d lost the thumb. Bandaged crudely, the burlap straps bloomed red across his large hand, then finished into a crusty brown shell, dried and hard. And Luella knew.

Knew that Cooner had frozen that hand keeping Blue’s anxious head under the freezing water. Knew that Cooner had cried like a banshee, just as he did as a child, excited as her dog’s desperate legs kicked for life. Knew that his reward for killing the animal was a skinning knife, drawn along his froze hand, popping off the hard thumb like a walnut from its shell. People had now settled into an uneasy and wary silence around the hulking figure. He was a cold morning of mischief and bad timing whose sun rose when others set for the night.

Two-headed birds, children crib-dead and the wrong of the world were the minstrels that cried Cooner’s arrival. His was the darkest of foreshadows looming long and grim across the small town each day. The rumors from birth till now grew like moss on a wet stone, including those who said the baby had not cried but once in its entire life.

The day he was born, the nursemaid said the baby refused to breathe, most likely holding its breath in anger for its delivery into the living. The Doctor had to pin-stick the feet to tear breath from the baby and when it could no longer prevail, the child screamed with such fury they say the mother died right then and there. But Luella knew the old country fable was a patchwork of half-truths which only she could read the truth in.

Late autumn passed silently and with great quiet. The flowers were mostly gone now and the sun threw half-hearted slants of dull light over the fields at low, soft angles. Luella spent much of her time walking alone missing Jacob’s soft laughter like dandelions on wind as Blue padded along loyally behind them. She followed the steady curve of Macalister river down past the old school house with it’s spider veined windows all cracked and dry curved floorboards bending towards the ceiling.

A large raven, oil spot black circled lazily in the afternoon haze, the feathered tips of its wings waving in the thermals which kept it effortlessly airborne. Luella gathered up the last handful of some fiddlehead fern giving a good tug to bring it out of the earth, a clump of dirt firmly stuck to the root end. Holding the ferns in her apron she wiped the cool damp dirt from her hands and stood to leave when she saw him.

His silent vigil held her to the spot for longer then she would have wished and she could just see him where the field turned to Blue spruce. Just beyond the first spray of trees, his silhouette cut a black outline so dark all she could make out were his teeth.

Black as they were, she could see Cooner’s cut of smile sliced open to reveal those hard, dead teeth. Luella lost her footing without moving, and when she righted herself he was gone. But she knew it was him, felt it in her bones and wondered where he’d show up next.

Fall quickly retreated, took the last summer light with it and November hit hard and cold. The first storm blanketed every tree, flower and shrub in a frozen sheet starched solid and heavy. Luella spent the early winter nights in fitful sleep, waking at the wrong time and reaching to the empty place beside her. She’d sit suddenly upright sometimes, wake to the black room and look hard for shapes that were not there. She’d strain to hear, until the quiet itself was too loud then she’d put her head down, lay awake till sun up, then start what was left of her day.

By late January, the last light faded well into the forest, swallowed whole amongst the pines and even the moon fought to cast a pale glow. And when it did one quiet evening, it cast down on Cooner who stood at the far end of Luella’s property and walked on heavy feet towards her cabin. Soon he stood looking at the small house, its outline cut out against the black sky behind it and he felt his skin rise hot and dry.

Frozen stems crushed underfoot as Cooner’s boot settled on the porch. Luella’s kindling hatchet, its weathered oak handle shimmed into the heavy head, was stuck into the stump, took all the old woman’s might to sink it that far for a night’s keeping. Cooner easily plucked the hatchet out, felt the hard oak handle slide through his hand and the head come to rest by his side. The moon’s sorry light greased the nicked blade, blackened from time and cold from the night.

He opened the door, walked in and knew every step of the old place again, managing silently to miss each loose board meant to betray him. He knew these smells, the same after so many years. Flour and bacon grease worn well into the wood counter where every night for forty-five years Luella mixed her dinner biscuits. Heather and cockscomb hung in clusters above the cabinet, sweet and dry. And Cooner could feel the old scents cry into every pore, begin to strangle him and burn his memory.

At the bedroom doorway, Cooner played his finger over the jagged hatchet blade, pressing hard until he could feel his blood, warm and moist against the metal. He watched the old woman’s feet move under the covers, saw her face crease like old paper and took a step forward. Luella tossed mercilessly, her old hands fighting at her sides.

In her dreams, old Blue nipped at her skirt baying warnings long and low. Inside her head his cry echoed and that dog would just not let her sleep. Cooner knew the axe would cleave her head like winter kale, firm at first then giving over as the steel drew through her skull like a ship’s keel parted waves. Somewhere in dreamland’s narrow eternity, Blue yelped hard, dug his teeth into Luella’s skirt almost pulling her over, and finally she opened her eyes.

Dingy moonlight clung to her old linen curtain and did what it could to make its way across the black room. A torn ribbon of it fell at Cooner’s feet and this time the darkness had a shape Luella didn’t have to imagine. He saw her sit up slowly, silver hair against the old headboard, pale eyes wrestling with the night. He also saw the other eyes, cold black circles hollow by her side. They were eternity and then some, with no looking back to forever and already forgotten now. Only then did he understand the hard clack of a shotgun’s hammer drawn back, there is no forgetting that sound.

The cold eyes rose up to see him better, the rifle’s barrels dull and gray in the blackness. He needed only a nick of time, so he took it now wrapping his hand tightly around the axe handle. “Mama, I’m home”. Cruel teeth spitting the words, each one hanging on a sharp barb of hate. He brought the axe up fast from his side and almost out of his hand in one motion. And the cold eyes blazed fierce, spitting back at him as whole suns of light burned towards him in a rush of heat and the top of his head peeled back, and off.

Luella scrubbed the wall for three days with vinegar and salt. On the last day, her old brush worn to the nub she got up the last of it, the wood now scarred clean. On the fourth day, Miller Hatchings dragged the body out of the house and gone forever. When he came back, he lifted his satchel and from it eased out a small puppy, eyes pressed tight against the light, nose wet and cool to the touch.

A tiny perfect hound dog. Blue, come back like Lazarus but small. “I understand if...” Miller began but Luella reached over and took the pup, raised him up to the light to get a better look. Then put him in her dress, next to her bosom. Safflower honey eased the edge off the sassafras tea, and neither said much. Miller told her the old weed patch next to the Church had bloomed wild roses. No one even knew they were there. Just appeared a few mornings back, in mid-winter no less.

Some said it was a miracle. No one asked why Cooner hadn’t been seen around the last few days. Some said that was another miracle. Father Kestings just said it was a sign of good things to come. Luella nodded, the tea warm to her lips and looked out the window through brackish clouds, where columns of light poured down to soak new life into the frozen ground.

Jul 29, 2008

You Call That Art?


My wife took our four year old daughter Ella to the world famous, Museum Of Modern Art (MoMa).

Mid-way through, the tour guide turned to the kids and said "And what do you think this sculpture looks like?".

Ella raised her hand and said, "Garbage".

Jul 27, 2008

Erik With A “K’. As In “Kill”.


I hang with my daughter at the playground a lot. Meet a lot of mom’s, trade a lot of horror stories about how much cake we all ate at the last birthday party. Don’t meet a lot of dad’s, but am happy when I do.

Always cool to trade “guy’s” perspective on child-raising, lack of sleep and the last time we actually set foot in a gym to do more than see if our card-key still worked.

But every once in a while you look across the bench and see a 6’5” rack-of-muscle with a buzz-cut, the dead-eyed stare of a paid assassin and the cool demeanor of a guy who’d twist your head off it’s spinal column as easily as spinning the top off a Bud.

I tried not to stare, but first of all the dude was massive. Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV massive. His muscles had muscles. He was like Dolph Lundgren on ‘roids.

And he was watching my daughter. Fcuk. It can never be the IT guy from like, Staples. Him I could just slap the pen-protector off of his shirt, push him off the bench and be the hero-dad that saved the playground from the creepy kidless guy on the bench.

“Kid’s are having fun…”, I ventured, wondering how I’d explain to my wife why I was carrying home my own head.

Dolph didn’t even turn his head, just said “They’re innocent. Don’t have to worry about all the shit out there…”.

Great, way to go Dana. I was actually helping the Playground Serial Killer get into character. Good one.

“Yeah, like uh having to pay rent…”., I meekly tossed out there.

“Or worrying about war…war is shit”.

He turned to me. I braced for impact. He reached over and shook hands. Well, he reached over and my hand disappeared into his. He was shaking my wrist-stump. I may have peed a little bit, but involuntarily. And it was really hot out and I’d been drinking tons of water.

“Erik, with a “k”. Like the Vikings. You know the worst thing?”.

Instinctively and motivated by fear, I somehow knew the correct answer was not “When they give you a light cappuccino at Starbucks and you have to ask for more steamed milk?”.

Fortunately Erik The Viking answered for me.

“It’s so loud”.

I thought back to this morning in Starbucks, he was right. The “whurrshing” sound of milk steaming could be startling if you weren’t expecting it.

“The sound of gunfire”.

Oh, that sound.

“You never get used to it. I was in Somalia. We’re the guys who went in to rescue them. Clusterfuck. Shit was wrong everywhere you turned. You read Blackhawk Down”.

I felt actual pee go down my leg and wondered if Depends came in camouflage.

“Yes”, I lied.

“Yeah, shit right?”.

“Definitely…”, I tried to listen for a siren somewhere, wondered if I could jump the playground fence and flag down a cop before Erik pulled me back.

“You know that one guy, Spec Ops dude, wrote the other one…”.

Fantastically, miraculously, I actually knew whom he meant. I’d seen the paperback out years earlier, remembered the author’s cold eyes.

“The guy with the long hair, mustache—kinda wild looking?”.

Erk with a K nodded. “That’s the guy we read. He knows. I did nine tours in Iraq. No one does nine tours”.

I was not about to argue with him, call him a slacker for not going back for number ten.

“Know the difference between us and them?”

“The Iraqis?”

Erik smiled like a parent watching his child try to spell banana with a z.

“Between SEAL’s and Rangers. When it comes down on you? Fucking Rangers are a joke”.

Erik pantomimed a wild-eyed soldier, firing his rifle everywhere—hi, low, to the left, to the right.

“Not us man, we keep our shit together”. Erik aimed his rifle to the near tree line, about fifty yards from us. “Tzing”, he mimicked the sound of rounds traveling half a mile a second. I could feel myself sweating.

He slid his rifle over ‘bout five inches, “tzing…”, moved it over anther half foot, “Tzing…”. He picked his targets out carefully, never rushed the shot and put a round center mass every time.

“Know why most guys flunk the training?”

They were questions to a quiz which I was not expected to get the answers correct, but to just not answer “cappuccino foam?”.

“The physics. Lot’s of guys can survive ocean training. Most of ‘em flunk the UDT though. You know what UDT is?”.

Now I was getting a little pissed. I wanted to say, “Hey, you know how many calories are in an iced mocha with skim, not whole milk? Now drop and give me twenty, asswipe…”.

But he beat me to it. “Underwater Demolitions Training”. Guys never pass the written physics. Nitrogen mix at 60 meters, exothermic reaction in saline, yeah. That’s what fucks ‘em up”.

Just then a three-year-old blond-haired boy ran over, jumped into Erik’s arms. A perfect little Mini-Erik. Small “k”.

He kissed his dad, ran off.

“I watched every one of my friends die. Was just waiting for mine. But my kid softened me up. Figured I’d get out while I could. My background, lots of jobs I can get out here”.

Strangely, I didn’t feel compelled to ask exactly what those “jobs” might entail.

About two months later I was walking down the street, saw Erik going into an apartment building on my street. “Erik..with a “K”, I called out.

He turned around really slow, like a gunfighter secretly gathering himself before turning to face the enemy.

I hadn’t noticed how pale his blue eyes were. Or how clear. They gave away nothing. But took everything in. I could feel him running a threat assessment on me, like the alien in Predator “Male. Multi-ethnic. Loves donuts. Threat assessment n/a”.

I realized guys like Erik may not always have their finger on the trigger, but they sleep with the safety off. We talked for a minute, then went our separate ways. He never really registered any emotion, it was like we’d never met but he was giving me the benefit of the doubt.

I don’t think Erik puts a lot of stock in relationships, doesn’t have real long-term expectations. I do think Erik remembers people, but the faces he conjures don’t belong to the living. They belong to memories, wisps of reality that fade in and out of his mind, and exist in a world that is filled with sounds most of us can’t hear, and that he can’t forget.

Jul 14, 2008

Thank God, For Me…


No really, hold the applause. I do it for the children. And margaritas. But mainly, the children. Who by the way, if they’d quit jumping around like a *&^%($#! sack full of tree monkies could carry my margarita. How sweet would that be? I’d be doing it for the children, who just happened to be carrying some frosty drinks.

But I digress. Here’s my point:

“Dana is very polite, honest and great buyer. Even I delayed the work but he cooperated with me in such a way that was impressive. I am really very thankful to dana for his cooperation, and also thankful to God that I got connected to such a Great man. Thanks a lot, dana”.

I said I wouldn’t cry. Tissue please….

Do you not love the guy who wrote this? I fcuking do, I may marry him. Dare me. I mean, can’t you just hear the truth in this guy’s voice?

I mean, I think he’s a guy. Hmmm, actually he may be a she. We’ve actually never met. But that’s beside the point says The Great Man.

Our connection spans time and distance. Which could explain why he/she/it was 10 days late completing a coding project for my website. But hey, when you’re a Great Man you can overlook the foibles of lesser humans.

What you can’t overlook is the fact this tech had my website files and could’ve burned my site to the ground. Which he/she/it clearly would never do, because why? See Great Man reference above.

No, my connection to my little Malaysian brother/sister/goat runs deeper than any simple cash transaction. It runs all the way to my credit card. Again, not the point.

We’re all family, connected by the unseen bonds of humanity. I could care less that my newest brother/sister lives in Malaysia. Or Hong Kong. Or for that matter, King Kong. Like the sisters said, “We Are Family…”.

Oh and did I mention the part about GREAT MAN. Just wanted to make sure you got that.

So next time you’re in Singapore or Calcutta. Hmmm, or um, Viet Nam just sit back, order a cold beer and tell ‘em to put it on the GM’s tab. They know who I am. And man, they love me there. Wherever it is. And uh, whoever they are.

Oh, and can you also ask them if they charged like $200 worth of internet porn, 7 quad-ban cell phones, a Pamela Anderson calendar and a George Foreman grill to my credit card?

*clink*

Cheers.

Jun 30, 2008

When Ball Pits Go Bad


As Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now, would say “The horror”. Turns out that despite their lofty records of human ethics, deep values and eco-stances, McD’s, Chucky Cheese and every Kids Gym from here to Laos doesn’t clean their ball-pit on a regular basis.

You’re kidding?

Note the deadpan sarcasm in my voice.

As if at the end of every shift, that 20 yr old McDonald’s manager is going down his trusty check list, pausing to show great concern when he sees “Ball Pit: Desanitize” at the end of that list, unchecked.

But true vanguard of humanity he is, he releases the rest of his hardworking (non-English speaking) staff as it’s well past midnight and, rolling up his sleeves gets out his squeeze bottle of Physoderm, his hypo-allergenic cloth and meticulously hand-rubs to shiny perfection and ultimate cleanliness each and every ball in that pit.

God bless. I’m sure Hamburgler’s in Golden Arches Heaven right now, looking down on that manager and making him a little French fry cross to wear.

Right.

Of course they don’t clean the *&^*^%$# pit people, wipe the shake outta your eyes. First off, even the places that have these things refer to them as “pits”.

Or as I like to call them, “ball-spits”. Do the math. Babies, toddlers, kids. Snot. Plastic balls. Get it? Now, quit whining and grow a pair.

If they call them pits, how high up on their to do list can they be? It’s all in the language. Tar Pit. Money Pit. Ball Pit.

The pit-trifecta of human misery. Repeat after me: No One Cleans The Pit. Got that? Otherwise, they wouldn’t call it a pit. They’d call it “A Suite”.

Glad we cleared that up. Now, about what’s been located in these pits like, allegedly, knives, guns, snakes, human remains. Well, just in case you're lighting up your torches, ready to burn McD's to the ground, rest assured the stories about the heroin needle (or the poisonous snakes) in the ball pit are every bit as urban myth as they sound:

http://urbanlegends.about.com/library/blneedle.htm

And feel free to google Kevin Archer+Midland Chronicle which is supposedly the name (and town paper) of the boy who died from a ball-pit heroin needle accident.

Hmmm, no kid named Kevin Archer? No Midland Chronicle? Wanna know why you can’t find the story? Riiiight.

But, should you feel so compelled to hand-search the pit for deadly vipers before your lil one jumps in next time, would you please see if you can find my life while you're in there? I distinctly remember having one, shortly before Ella was born.

I've searched every chocolate chip scone, glazed donut, frozen margarita and iced mochachino I can get my hands on, but I just cannot seem to find it.

From what I vaguely remember, it looks something like this--golf all day Saturday, drinks with Ann that evening, sleep in late Sunday, brunch with Ann, read a book, see an 8pm movie, drinks at home.

Oh, and money everywhere. In every account--checking, savings, I think I may of even had money in an offshore account. May have been the Jersey shore but hey, that's a shore.

Don't get me wrong, I probably won't toss Ella into the plastic-ball-pit-of-communicable-diseases anymore either. But hey, she's just a kid. And if she was gonna get Ebola from plastic balls coated in kid-gunk, pretty sure she woulda had it by now.

So next time I chuck her in there, as a concerned and loving parent you can bet your diaper bag if I hear any child in the ball pit wail in pain, I'll be the first dad over there, digging through balls. Because somewhere in there's my *&^(*^%$! life and it's going to take more than heroin needles, vipers a human skull or kid-crap to keep me from finding it.

Jun 25, 2008

Drinking And Blogging....(drunk letter to my Aunt)


It's so nice to "speak" and I feel so badly for not being in touch. In general, because I love you so dearly and I realize there's little way of you knowing that if I never write or call. I love you. Lest this email get too long and the point is lost. And specifically, I know the loss of your dear friend has been so tough for you. I wish I could say or do something to lift your heart. Death is just so final and moreso for those of us left behind, so lonely.

There's an old Buddhist story (okay, all Buddhist stories are "old" I guess ;-) about a mother who refused to acknowledge death. In her case, the loss of a family member. She went to the Buddha and demanded he do something. She refused to admit that death was so complete and without reversal. The Buddha finally relented and said "Bring me back a black sesame seed, and then I can reverse death". Delighted, this woman went from village to village searching in vain for a black sesame seed.

Finally, certain she'd misunderstood him she returned to the Buddha and said, "You must be mistaken there's no such thing as a black sesame seed". And the Buddha said, "Just as there's no such thing as reversing impermanence. It just is". I remember when Dorothy died. Dad called me from the hospital room, literally moments after she passed. Funny, but I was meditating when he called. Afterwards, I went outside and just walked around. I felt fairly at peace until I suddenly realized I'd never hear her voice again. It was odd, the theory of death made sense, but the real life emotion was truly it's own experience and demanded it's own respect.

I hope that in the pain of your heartbreak, you can truly let yourself feel how much you love. How much you loved your friend, and how much you miss her. Any other story or conversation isn’t worth the paper it's written on. Her death, your friendship together and now, your grief all demand the respect of acknowledgement. I'll shed a tear, too. For our Dorothy's, our Trungpa Rinpoche's, our Louisa's. Here's a toast--actually, I'm drinking right now. I woke up and do believe I'm having my first aneurysm, lol. My left eye is twitching and I feel like the scarecrow from Oz, nothing about my body quite works right. It's 2pm on a Wednesday so in true Fabbro spirit I figured "Hey, if I'm passing on so be it, but I'll be damned if I'm going out sober".

So I raise my mid-week, icy cold margarita to us all, living and gone. Hahaha, as Dorothy would say "To those who love us may they love us. To those how don’t, may god kick them in the ankle so we know them by their limp...". And in addition, I'd say, those who love us, know us by our limp. And our limp is that of broken hearted warriors who miss their own. And who raise a glass, knowing someday, sometime soon those who love us will raise their glass to us. Then they'll limp home with the heartbreak of missing us. And so it goes. But for god's sake, let's not go out sober...shall we?

Love and miss you dearest Fay,

Dana

Jun 22, 2008

(A Pot Hole) In The Long Road Back


Parenthood is less about "which values will I pass along to my child" and more about "How much birthday cake can I eat in a 24 hr. period?". Answer: a lot, if you wash it down with enough beer.

Saturday, Ella and I had a date with sugar. Two birthday parties in one day. Our little pal Seaborne was kicking off the big 3 at a morning bash, while our friend Destine would be ringing in Cinco De Birthday at 4pm.

It was a day that would require Zen-like patience, the hand-eye coordination of a neurosurgeon and the carb-loading intake capacity of Lance Armstrong.

First up, Seaborne's bash. Or as Ella calls him, 'lil Sea. Let's get right to it. I love Sea's parents--they're grounded, sane, kind, funny, interesting, compassionate, but maybe most importantly, they serve champagne and cake before noon.

So by 12:15pm I had a cake and bubbly buzz. I felt euphoric, heady. Decided to design a new hybrid bio-fuel and end dependence on foreign oil. Maybe volunteer at a clinic for kids. Cure cancer. Life was good.

Being the connoisseur of fine things that I am, it somehow seemed like a good idea to then start drinking beer. Ice cold beer. Hey, I was the guy who ended America's addiction to oil, didn't I deserve a brew?

Besides, 'lil Sea's dad said "Hey, want a beer?".

I'm Irish and Navajo, which means I have a full-fledged alcoholics lust for booze combined with the tolerance of a four year old. So by now I was flying.

Before I could finish the first one, I was already finishing my speech to the U.N., urging it's members to see beyond the politics of greed and do all they could to pass my charter for a worldwide "Beer 'N Cake Blowout!". I could picture my esteemed colleagues nod in respectful admiration as they stood to applaud.

It occurred to me that anyone standing on the threshold of winning the Nobel Prize should enjoy himself. Which is just about the same time Sea's dad said, "Get you another one?".

Serve on my good man, serve on.

As I chatted amiably with the other parents about the virtues of cutting chicken nuggets into smaller, more easily digestible pieces someone said "What are you guys up to after this?".

And then, it hit me. Hit me hard. Hit me 'bout as hard as the second helping of Mac 'n cheese I'd just wolfed down. Today was Saturday. I was supposed to run four miles. On my feet. Carrying the entire weight of my own body.

I just stood there, staring at the empty beer bottle in my hands. And the also very empty bowl from which I'd eaten Mac and cheese.

Not to mention the slab (or three) of chocolate cake I'd inhaled. There may have been some ice cream on that cake. There may have actually been a separate bowl of ice cream, in addition to the two giant spoonfuls I'd slapped on top of my choco slabs o' love.

Sorry, was there icing on the cake? No it was dry. Didn't you hear? All the 3 year olds in America banded together in coalition to put a stop to cakes being iced.

Right.

There was more icing on that cake than mascara on Tammy Faye. You could actually eat for two or three minutes before you even hit cake there was so much icing.

So basically I'd had champagne, beer, mac and cheese, ice cream a foot of cake and six inches of sugar. In about an hour. If I'd been swimming off the Atlantic Coast a whaler would've harpooned me and sold my fat to Japan for cosmetics.

But a fate far more cruel awaited me than that.

I squirmed in place.

"Um, actually I was going to go for a run....".

The other parents kept eating cake. Then slowly, one by one, they each turned and walked away.

The herd had deserted me. I was alone. Four miles. Seriously, I could die. Macaroni could float into my bloodstream and clog a heart valve. I think I read about that happening in People.

Ella and I made our way home later, though I was very quiet as we walked.

When we got home, I gently patted her head as I laced on my sneakers.

"Goodbye little one..." I thought, "Tell your mother I loved her".

Running's a funny thing. It's always hardest when you first start.

But after a while, the endorphins hit, you find your stride and you feel really alive.

I'd run about forty feet and could feel my spleen inflating. There would be no endorphins. No runner's high. No big finish. There would be me, in a too small tee shirt bent over counting mac chunks.

"Breathe..." I thought.

"No, don't...". A little voice sounded. "Fill your lungs with air and trap it there so the macaroni won't clog your airway".

I tried it for ten feet. Not sound medical advice. I farted, then gasped for air.

Two petite blondes jogging in my direction crossed the street.

I decided the smart thing to do was slow my pace, run smart. I slowed down a few paces. An old lady with a portable oxygen tank walked past me. Okay, too slow.

I tried to hum "Rocky", but I was having problems breathing. I picked up the pace. "Okay, start passing people. Have a goal".

Good. Competition always fires me up. That's how I managed three pieces of chocolate cake when I saw the other parents gagging after their second.

I kicked it into gear. Could feel my legs pumping.

Up ahead I saw a woman with her dog in tow. One of those pesky Chihuahuas. He was in one of those little ass-wheelbarrows, getting towed. Guess he didn't have full use of his hindquarters.

Hey, he should've thought about that before he threw down the gauntlet. Because now, it was on my friend. I headed towards them. Couldn't wait to see the look on their faces when I blew by them like a jungle feline.

Whew. It was 88 degrees out. Grueling NYC humidity made my skin feel like wet leather. I could feel cake hunks bobbing up and down in an ocean of gut-beer.

The little Chihuahua pulled away. I coughed. Someday soon, he'd be dead. That made me feel a little better. Now I had a bigger problem. I could feel the humidity had worn out the cartilage in my knees. I was running bone on knee bone.

I was furious, but who to blame? Nike!!!! My shoes had let me down. I'd sue them. Phil Knight would be my pool-boy. With the lawsuit money I'd get titanium knees. Then I'd buy a stealth bomber. And destroy all the rubber trees in Central America, grinding North American running shoe production to a halt.

No one would have appropriate running shoes. People would have to run in their work shoes--loafers, sling backs, casual summer sandals.

But I'd have Titanium knees. I would be unstoppable. Ha. Maybe this run wasn't such a bad idea, I was thinking pretty clearly now. I wondered which other challenges I could overcome with my titanium knees.

Marathon polka dancing. Outswimming sharks. Kicking soccer balls over the top of the Chrysler building. I would be a god. I almost couldn’t wait for my knees to give out so I could start my lawsuit.

Then I head a tiny "beep". My watch. I looked down, my time was up. I'd made the four miles. I sat on a bench, took my shoes off. Looked at my regular knees. They were okay, I guess. I could always sue later. After tomorrow's run.

I felt the sun on my face. Felt relieved. And a little proud. I'd done it. Hung in there. Four miles.

Then I remembered, when I left the party they wrapped up the last of the cake. Put it in the fridge to keep it from the heat.

Their apartment was only four blocks from here. I put my shoes back on and laced 'em up.

This time would be different.

This time, I'd have the cake in a bowl, so when the ice cream melted I could eat it with a spoon.

Jun 19, 2008

The Long Road Back


I was in good shape this winter, for awhile. Went to the gym frequently. Ate well.

My body changed shape. People looked at me differently.

"Hey there...uh, great haircut".

I worked out more. Longer. Harder.

My body felt lighter and stronger. I did set after set after set of push-ups. My arms felt like hydraulic pistons effortlessly tasked with pushing up my body which felt air-light, like balsa.

Eating was like throwing whole, dry logs into a roaring fire. My digestive system broke down, assimilated and processed food like a machine. Chicken breast. A pound of spinach. Four apples. Egg whites. Oatmeal. For breakfast.

I put on eight pounds. Lost two inches around my waist.

I felt like Dr. Bruce Banner, secretly waiting to go green and get my Hulk on.

My workouts were undertaken with Swiss-watch efficiency.

I ran faster, pushed harder, sweated more than anyone around me. I named my workouts: "Unforgiven", "Tapout", "Crybaby".

Worked out so hard my lifting partner stopped coming. Just, didn't show up one day. Never came back.

Worked out so hard I met The Clown. As in, "Pukey The Clown".

Winter came. The sun departed at 4:15pm. People got grumpy, got depressed, got colds.

I didn't get tired. I didn't catch colds.

Instead, I put 600+ pounds on the leg press. During my fifth set, I looked around for more 45LB plates to add.

When I finished, I turned around and people were staring at me. Then, quietly they just went back to their workouts. A trainer walked by, looked at the fourteen 45 lb plates on the machine and just shook his head.

600+ lbs was actually the last thing I kinda remember. A few nights later I felt tired. And feverish.

The next day I was 103. I sweated like I'd been dipped in a big, wet bucket of misery.

My body felt like angry dwarfs were pounding me with sledgehammers.

I felt white hot metal spikes pierce my head, puncture my eyes and pour searing white light into my brain.

I cried. I prayed. I prayed harder. I lost weight like some maniac butcher had sliced off whole slabs of me from each side. A pound a day, then two. By the end of the week, 10 pounds.

A month later, I had enough strength to walk around the block without coughing.

I felt like I'd been through a kind of spiritual awakening. And during this awakening, I realized two things.

1. God probably doesn't exist.
2. Donuts had taken his place.

I could not eat enough of them. Iced, glazed, old fashioned, sprinkles, sugared. Even that most old school of all fried creations, the crueller, had become family to me.

I felt like the Manchurian Candidate. As if somehow, someone, perhaps even yes, a foreign government had sneaked a chip into my brain. The chip was encoded with a simple binary message that repeated itself in my brain over, and over and over again.

"Donut"

After about a month, again, people looked at me differently. But now they didn't find ways to compliment me.

I didn't care. Unless they worked as a night manager at Dunkin Donuts, they were irreverent to me.

Soon, my old clothes fit again. Snugly, at first. Then uncomfortably.

I no longer craved lean proteins, green vegetables. Leafy greens and robust fruits.

I was a Donu-vore. I existed solely for The Donut. Like a grizzled old drunk I was cranky most mornings. Until that first, heavenly bite of Chocolate Glazed with sprinkles.

Then, an angelic smile would cross my face. I'd see holy light fill the room and I'd go out of my way to help strangers.

And then, it ended. I went to a wedding. Packed my "fat suit" to wear. A simple, classic linen suit two sizes too big for me. Figured I'd just tighten the old belt up, suck it up for a night and get through the evening.

Except I was too fat for the fat suit. I had to leave the pants unbuttoned in order to walk around without feeling like a trussed sausage.

Mid-way through the ceremony, I felt flush. The pants were still too tight. I breathed in, and unzipped them a bit. I wanted to cry. My wife looked over, saw my emotions rise to the surface and squeezed my hand, so proud her husband was moved to tears at this joyous occasion.

I silently wondered if anyone had ever been sliced in half by too-tight pants.

So I put the donuts down and picked up my sneakers. Went for a run. After ten minutes I was exhausted. Light-headed. Then, just off the trail I saw a chocolate donut. Hallucination? No, the sweet redeemer of life. I slowed my pace. Could see it just ahead a few paces.

My own morality flashed before me like a cheap diner menu--"Do I eat food off the ground?". My mind argued, "It's nature for chrissakes. If you can't eat food from nature what's the $%^&$# world coming to, eat it man!".

I stopped. And wondered what to do. I looked at the donut, snuggled there in the leaves. Perfectly shaped...like a pinecone.

It was more serious than I thought. I was having flashbacks. Where would it end? When I actually bit someone, a live person? Having mistaken their arm for a fcuking cinnamon twist?

It's been two weeks now and I'm happy to say I no longer mistake the forest's natural bounty for iced carbs on my runs. Hey, one day at a time, right?

Been back at the gym. Have lost two pounds. I'm getting there.

Coming home from my run the other day, I cut across the park into the city. Running by a Starbucks, time suddenly slowed. Like it had been stretched out like taffy.

Through the window, I could see the pastry case.

I took a deep calming breath, "Just keep moving...".

And then, I saw it.

A raspberry, apricot cookie. It looked so benign, so homemade. So trust worthy. Like mom had just baked it. For me. I stopped, looked at the cookie. It smiled at me. No really, it did. Not some weird, computer generated fake smile. It just made this cute little face at me, turned up the sides of its mouth like the cookie-version of Meg Ryan. Awww.

I wanted to hold it. Provide for it. Give it a home and care for it.

And maybe, someday I will. But until then, I can remember like it was yesterday--the time my own pants almost sliced me in half.

Jun 13, 2008

I Am Warrior (Hear My Song)


I am a simple warrior-monk. I roam the earth in search of…the perfect frozen margarita.

My warrior-code binds me to the vow of non-violence, contemplation of illusory truths and celibacy. Unless you are really hot, in which case IM me.

My weapons are the highest expression of compassion. I wear them to transcend petty anger. And because they come in five colors to match just about every outfit I own.

I rise each day at dawn before battle to write my “death poem”, well knowing life is fleeting and each moment is already gone:

Crimson Sun
Sparrow In Flight
I Bought These Sunglasses
On Sale

And no, I am not wearing a “skirt”. It is a formal Samurai dress~and I gotta tell you it keeps you looking slender after a long night of Sake-bombs and smoked eel.

Believe me, you do not command respect on the battlefield (or the dancefloor) if you show up looking like fat Elvis.

When Monkeys Go Ape


“MICHIGAN CITY, Ind. - A spider monkey used a garden hose to scale the wall of a moat at a Michigan City zoo before being captured at a nearby boat dealership”.

Do you think the hippos and rhinos were back at the zoo, watching the pursuit on COPS? Whispering under their breath "Go Stan...go".

Man, must have been a moment when he made it to the boat dealership. Whaddya think he was going for, maybe a sweet twin engine outboard? 650 HP of man-thrust. Dual beer-holders in the captain's seat.

Probably had his little hand on the wheel before they got him.

I'm sure the zoo went quiet. Giraffe probably snubbed out his cigarette, hoofed back to his pen, "Knew he wouldn't make it".

Little furry guy will be back at the zoo by the PM feeding. There'll be a few quiet "Hey Stan's". No one will mention the "incident".

Life will return to normal.

Show's over, back to your cage.

But not for Stan. It will be different, now. The bananas won't taste as sweet. Picking fleas off his pals won't be fun. Not the simple distraction it used to be. Tourists will come by, snap pictures. Sure he'll throw in a "Woohoo aaahhh", but his heart won't be in it. Not anymore.

They'll run tests. Wonder if he has a low-grade virus.

He doesn't. He has something else. An itch he can't scratch. A dull headache where his heart used to be.

Some nights, Stan can feel the wind in his fur. He's on the water. Throws the throttle forward, the boat skims over an ocean so blue you'd think Monet painted it.

For long seconds at a time, the boat goes airborne between swells. And Stan's flying. His little Captain's hat snug over his ears. The sun's low on the horizon. He steers towards it.

Then, he wakes up. He’s in the zoo.

He sees his friends, monkeys. They jump from one branch to the next, happy. So they think. Zookeeper throws a handful of peanuts over the gate. They scramble over, grab at them like children. Not Stan.

He looks out, sees the sun setting.

Sees the last of the tourists snap a bored picture of him. He doesn't even raise his arms up over his head.

Watches the people as they leave. Sees the attendant let them out of the park.

And next to the park's exit, by the door, Stan sees something. A simple garden hose. Forgotten. It snakes up the wall, to the roof. To the ocean. To the wind.

And for the first time in weeks, Stan smiles.

Go Stan…go.

May 21, 2008

Home, (bitter) Sweet Home


Had a family reunion recently. A traveling party of Tibetan monks who were accompanying the 17th reincarnation of their teacher.

Nice bunch. All of ‘em. First thing I noticed was they didn’t push in line. Or mutter snide little remarks at you under their breath. Or give you that fake “fcuk you” smile while they cut you off for the next taxi.

One of them, Zimpon-la, was this tiny little smiling artifact of a monk. Old. Real old. Like, “Knew the Buddha…personally”, old.

Had never been on a plane. Took a 14 hour flight from India to NYC, woke up the next day and ambled around as we toured The Met, The Reuben Museum, Rockefeller Center and Ground Zero.

Never stopped smiling. He was like being around a small little nova of goodness. You’d smile back at him, and he’d reach out and hold your hand. Just hold your hand. You could feel centuries of life in the crease of his palm. Suddenly you were in Tibet, sipping hot tea while snow peaks shone golden in morning sun-rays.

Then, just like that you were back. In NYC. And there was Zimpon-la, ambling down the hallway to his hotel room. Small little shuffling steps, taking him down the hallway like it was just another journey in his life.

Last I saw him, he was walking towards me to the dining room. I was so happy to see him. Had been a long time. Maybe, lifetimes. “Ahhh, Zimpon-la” kind of escaped from my lips, half-tearful, half-laughing to see my old friend.

He just beamed. Reached out, took my hand in his. He sort of held my hand to steady himself as he walked by. I wondered how many high mountain plateaus we’d traveled together, over the years.

How many long walks we’d taken across grassy meadows so vast it took an hour for the wind to blow over them from one end to the other. Cold, very cold, biting cold winters tent bound, sipping thick Tibetan tea laced with butter which coated our wind cracked lips.

Then, just like that I was back in NYC.

Sirens wailed, people yelled at one another. Time was no longer measured by how long the sun was in the sky, but by how late we were to the next meeting. Everyone looked so unhappy, rushing around.

A man cursed a woman who mistakenly took his drink from the counter at Starbucks. A women “tsked” in hot frustration at me because I wasn’t walking fast enough.

My lips were no longer cracked.

But my heart was.

Then I saw Zimpon-la. Tiny, little, robe-wearing, smiling Zimpon-la. Now, he was even smaller. In fact, he was inside every person I saw. There he was smiling, kindly. Helping others. And I realized, we’re all Zimpon-la’s. We just forget sometimes.

I’m trying to not push anymore. Or curse people under my breath. Or be angry with people because they’re too slow, too in-the-way, too old, too young, too loud, too rich, too homeless, too whomever-they are.

I’m trying to be patient. And kind.

There’s no need to hurry anymore, old is the new young.

Apr 18, 2008

How To Have A Tea Party


My four year old daughter Ella knows how to have a tea party. I apparently, do not. She reminded me of that this morning over a small plastic cup of watered down English breakfast tea and make-believe banana cake.

"Here's your yummy cake, Abu...".

I'm currently playing Abu, btw. The mischievous but well-intentioned, pointy-shoe wearing monkey from Aladdin? Thank you, I'll be here all week, two shows on Sunday.

Well, in between sips I had wandered far-afield of reality.

I wasn't in Arabia, under the shade of a palm sipping tea with Princess Jasmine.

I was paying bills. Meeting deadlines. Hustling up work. Stressing how to make ends meet. My body was there. My mind was not. And as we all know from reading Carlos Castaneda, Walt Whitman or Cormac McCarthy--your mind is where all the good stuff is, your imagination.

And without imagination, you can't actually be two places at once.

Which Ella instantly knew when I reached out, accepted the slice of banana cake and kindly, but absent-mindedly said "Thanks for the banana cookie...".

A short pause followed.

She's a fun Princess, but she's firm around certain issues of protocol.

"Abu, I told you. It's banana cake. Why you said 'cookie'?".

So busted. Suddenly, I was feeling very present. And very naked. Even in pointy shoes and a make-believe tasselled Fez.

Because in the mind of a four year old, there is no make believe. You're either drinking tea and enjoying yummy banana cake, or you're not.

You don't pretend, don't fake it, don't play at it. And you certainly don't pay bills, stress over a future that's not here and mistake banana cake, for a cookie.

Tomorrow, I get a lesson in dress-up.

Better get my head right, I'd hate to lose this gig.