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.

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

(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.

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.

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.