…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 21, 2007
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.
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.
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!!”.
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?
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.
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.
Nov 20, 2006
NYC: Home Of Wildlife...
And not just in the Village at 3:00am. No, for the price of donation you can visit the Museum Of Natural History on the upper west side and get your safari on. My daughter Ella, is two and a half and she's been stalking big game there (and their butter cookies from the cafeteria) since she was a crawler.
Now, as the winter months approach E and I will be spending more and more time there, since on any cold frozen weekend, the museum's a pretty cool place to graze. But the deal is, we're not the only Animal Kingdom buffs looking to avoid frigid Jan temps looking at water buffalo.
Nope, come any Sunday from now until April and any trip you take to MNH you are taking your life in your hands. In addition to the already naturally occurring masses of animals which populate the place, there's a number of holiday-season migratory clusters of beasts you won't find gaily depicted in your Audubon guide.
For starters, there's Touristo Maximus. You'll see them congregate in large groups, moving in mind-numbing slowness from exhibit...to exhibit...to exhibit. Note the large size of the males, fortified against the cold from a steady diet of high calorie sticky-carbs---buns, bars 'n cakes.
And be on the lookout for Pre-Teenus Destructus. These fast moving candi-vores drive en masse from one brightly colored exhibition to the next, sweeping away debris, people, stuffed alligators and whatever else stands in their way. Typically innocuous, they march steadily like a army ants pausing only when in proximity to the next sugar-laden snack they encounter. Do not, I repeat do not try and hide any solid or liquid containing sugar on your person if you find yourself in the oncoming path of PTD's. I have seen grown men stripped of all clothing and pride, leaving nothing but a crumpled Snickers wrapper on the floor where they once stood proudly.
Also to be wary of is Mom-us Overstressus. This species wears a clever kind of camouflage, draping their entire body in children's coats, mini-strollers and Dora The Explorer action figures. If you look closely however, you can just make out a single arm protruding from the mass attached to one of their 1.4 to 2.5 offspring. The female (they travel alone, males are rarely seen) can be marked by her call--a desperate, high-pitched call of alarm, which sounds something like "INEEDADRINK--INEEDADRINK".
So, in to that teeming sprawl of urb-animals, E and I are making the rounds. In fact, we're just coming out of the Ocean Hall Of Life, when she wriggles away from me and jets off. Now, I don't know if its the proportion of her two and half year old's body, maybe the low center of gravity combined with the piston like action she generates with her legs or perhaps its being around those feline jungle cats--but that girl is fast. Not to mention, her closing speed i.e., her speed of acceleration+the cookie/cool thing she sees=is incredible.
And that's exactly what happens. I put her down, she decides she's going to check out the Mountain Gorillas and hello closing speed aka Warp Factor Ella. So off she goes like Road Runner, my eyes doing the quick L-R scan for trouble, when my radar picks up a variable--a lone animal has strayed from its pack. Grampus Oldtimerus.
And he's moving s...l...o...w. And Ella's headed right for him. Now parenting, if nothing else is a constant crash course in engineering, physics, and a buncha other sh*t I missed in high school. But you do learn this--a well aimed toddler, moving at x amount of speed can take down an object as least five times their height (not weight) if they are applied properly to a structurally weak area. In this case, the structure was an 80 yr old. Unaided by any kind of walking support device.
And even though Ella's only five feet from me, they are on a perfect course to intersect one another. I mean, she's headed straight for the knees, classic position to drop him like a bad prom date. And to add a little more suspense--he's a bull Grampus. Even hunched over, he's easily six feet tall. Now, I'm watching the whole thing in 'ProtecoDad-Vision', which is a highly developed kind of sight that captures events at 1000th its normal speed so you can begin to experience the soul-crippling trauma a hundredth of a second before it actually occurs.
Which is right, about...now.
Ella hits his knees, just as I get there to grab him by the elbow to keep him from 9/11'ing to the floor, as he just-that-moment feels Ella beneath him and hits r-e-v-e-r-s-e. Now, things slow down even more and I watch Ella carom off his knee, but never lose her balance, giggle and keep running. Disaster number one, avoided: child is alive. Repeat, child is still alive. But I still have him by the elbow, in case he falls. And E's still running...away. So I get another hand on his opposite arm so I can keep him both a.upright and b. move past him.
So now I'm holding him and he's holding me and we're locked in some kind of dance neighter one of us expected to be in my own momentum pulling me past him as I mutter 'I'm sorry, my fault, my fault...'.
And now he's fully aware of what almost happened so he's holding on to my arms, and he repeats 'my fault, my fault'. And then, he starts laughing. Old Timer is laughing. That kind of old, deep, seen-it-all laugh that's like, older than most of the exhibits there.
There we are. Face to face. Holding each other. And he looks right at me and says 'Its no one's fault. And he looks over at Ella, beautiful little unsuspecting Ella with her pigtails and he goes "Lucky you...", and then my momentum carries me away and a moment later I'm holding Ella and I can hear his voice echo in my ears, down the hallway, in to every exhibit there "Its no one's fault".
And I get it. Its no one's fault. All of it, none of it, some of it. Its no one's fault. So yeah, its a jungle out there. But if you're lucky, every once in awhile you get face to face with one of those truly real encounters with nature.
Those painfully too real moments we try to avoid like 'chasing-down-my-dauther-I-found-myself-waltzing-with-a-six-foot-two-eighty-year-old-man'. But in those moments full of tigers and lions and bears oh my, sometimes you can find out just what kind of creatures we really are.
Now, as the winter months approach E and I will be spending more and more time there, since on any cold frozen weekend, the museum's a pretty cool place to graze. But the deal is, we're not the only Animal Kingdom buffs looking to avoid frigid Jan temps looking at water buffalo.
Nope, come any Sunday from now until April and any trip you take to MNH you are taking your life in your hands. In addition to the already naturally occurring masses of animals which populate the place, there's a number of holiday-season migratory clusters of beasts you won't find gaily depicted in your Audubon guide.
For starters, there's Touristo Maximus. You'll see them congregate in large groups, moving in mind-numbing slowness from exhibit...to exhibit...to exhibit. Note the large size of the males, fortified against the cold from a steady diet of high calorie sticky-carbs---buns, bars 'n cakes.
And be on the lookout for Pre-Teenus Destructus. These fast moving candi-vores drive en masse from one brightly colored exhibition to the next, sweeping away debris, people, stuffed alligators and whatever else stands in their way. Typically innocuous, they march steadily like a army ants pausing only when in proximity to the next sugar-laden snack they encounter. Do not, I repeat do not try and hide any solid or liquid containing sugar on your person if you find yourself in the oncoming path of PTD's. I have seen grown men stripped of all clothing and pride, leaving nothing but a crumpled Snickers wrapper on the floor where they once stood proudly.
Also to be wary of is Mom-us Overstressus. This species wears a clever kind of camouflage, draping their entire body in children's coats, mini-strollers and Dora The Explorer action figures. If you look closely however, you can just make out a single arm protruding from the mass attached to one of their 1.4 to 2.5 offspring. The female (they travel alone, males are rarely seen) can be marked by her call--a desperate, high-pitched call of alarm, which sounds something like "INEEDADRINK--INEEDADRINK".
So, in to that teeming sprawl of urb-animals, E and I are making the rounds. In fact, we're just coming out of the Ocean Hall Of Life, when she wriggles away from me and jets off. Now, I don't know if its the proportion of her two and half year old's body, maybe the low center of gravity combined with the piston like action she generates with her legs or perhaps its being around those feline jungle cats--but that girl is fast. Not to mention, her closing speed i.e., her speed of acceleration+the cookie/cool thing she sees=is incredible.
And that's exactly what happens. I put her down, she decides she's going to check out the Mountain Gorillas and hello closing speed aka Warp Factor Ella. So off she goes like Road Runner, my eyes doing the quick L-R scan for trouble, when my radar picks up a variable--a lone animal has strayed from its pack. Grampus Oldtimerus.
And he's moving s...l...o...w. And Ella's headed right for him. Now parenting, if nothing else is a constant crash course in engineering, physics, and a buncha other sh*t I missed in high school. But you do learn this--a well aimed toddler, moving at x amount of speed can take down an object as least five times their height (not weight) if they are applied properly to a structurally weak area. In this case, the structure was an 80 yr old. Unaided by any kind of walking support device.
And even though Ella's only five feet from me, they are on a perfect course to intersect one another. I mean, she's headed straight for the knees, classic position to drop him like a bad prom date. And to add a little more suspense--he's a bull Grampus. Even hunched over, he's easily six feet tall. Now, I'm watching the whole thing in 'ProtecoDad-Vision', which is a highly developed kind of sight that captures events at 1000th its normal speed so you can begin to experience the soul-crippling trauma a hundredth of a second before it actually occurs.
Which is right, about...now.
Ella hits his knees, just as I get there to grab him by the elbow to keep him from 9/11'ing to the floor, as he just-that-moment feels Ella beneath him and hits r-e-v-e-r-s-e. Now, things slow down even more and I watch Ella carom off his knee, but never lose her balance, giggle and keep running. Disaster number one, avoided: child is alive. Repeat, child is still alive. But I still have him by the elbow, in case he falls. And E's still running...away. So I get another hand on his opposite arm so I can keep him both a.upright and b. move past him.
So now I'm holding him and he's holding me and we're locked in some kind of dance neighter one of us expected to be in my own momentum pulling me past him as I mutter 'I'm sorry, my fault, my fault...'.
And now he's fully aware of what almost happened so he's holding on to my arms, and he repeats 'my fault, my fault'. And then, he starts laughing. Old Timer is laughing. That kind of old, deep, seen-it-all laugh that's like, older than most of the exhibits there.
There we are. Face to face. Holding each other. And he looks right at me and says 'Its no one's fault. And he looks over at Ella, beautiful little unsuspecting Ella with her pigtails and he goes "Lucky you...", and then my momentum carries me away and a moment later I'm holding Ella and I can hear his voice echo in my ears, down the hallway, in to every exhibit there "Its no one's fault".
And I get it. Its no one's fault. All of it, none of it, some of it. Its no one's fault. So yeah, its a jungle out there. But if you're lucky, every once in awhile you get face to face with one of those truly real encounters with nature.
Those painfully too real moments we try to avoid like 'chasing-down-my-dauther-I-found-myself-waltzing-with-a-six-foot-two-eighty-year-old-man'. But in those moments full of tigers and lions and bears oh my, sometimes you can find out just what kind of creatures we really are.
Jul 24, 2006
My Two Year Old Daughter Is Michael Jackson...
...okay think circa ten year old Michael, not the shiver-up-your-spine mental picture of the Thing which calls itself MJ and looks decidedly less life-like than its wax counter part at Madame Tussaus. And no, I will not be purchasing Ella her own personal chimpanze to do her every bidding. That's my job.
So, how exactly did my bubbly little Elmo-loving toddler become an "Automatic systematic, full of color self contained, tune that shadow to your vibes..." Dancin' Machine? Well, "Blame It On The Boogie"(Warning: MJ song reference). Okay, I had to do that, sorry.
So El's in her high chair giving a bowl of peas and carrots the once over when suddenly she stops cold--I thought she'd traffic-jammed a pea/carrot in her throat. Well, I'd left itunes playing on the IMac--pretty diverse collection of stuff--U2, Aretha Franklin, Bach and lo and behold, The Jackson Five singing their 1970 hit, I Want You Back (When I had you to myself, I didn't want you around. Those pretty faces always made you stand out in a crowd....I want you back!). You'll see in a minute why I can now recall lyrics with the same dazzling speed I could once down an entire frozen margarita, read on.
Ella just freezes and listens to the song, looks at me and goes "Ella dance with dada...". Being a lifelong RB/Motown fan and not especially a tireless advocate of mixed vegetable medleys I lift El out of her seat and she kind of dances/runs around in circles in front of the computer. Song ends, Ella points to the IMac "Morrre".
So I hook her up. More circles. I tell her its Michael Jackson, then the questions "Dada, talk more about Michael Jackson". I decide any conversations detailing MJ's tragic lapse from childhood prodigy to anorexic, wax-faced pedophile, home zookeeper are better left to her mother. I foocus on happier times telling Ella about little Michael and his brothers, Randy, Jermaine, Tito and Marlon.
Well, we listen to I Want You Back about five times in a row. She's showing no signs of let up so I figure maybe I can find a video of her new friend. Well, easy as "ABC, 123" (yeah, buckle up I'll be cleverly inserting song titles in to the rest of this entry now that I've found a thematic narrative device to drag you along...) I find the Jackson Five singing their hit I Want You Back on the Ed Sullivan Show, 1970. The clip comes on and you'd think Tickle Me Elmo had suddenly appeared in the room. El goes ab-so-lutely quiet.
There's little Michael all of ten years old in flare bottom pants, boots a vest and purple hat pulled down over his 'fro. His brothers are there, the five of them hitting each choreographed dance step like they were born to be doing this Michael even at ten, more effortless than his siblings. And El is transfixed. It ends. She just goes "Morrre".
I hit play. We watch it eight times in a row (I'm not kidding) before she comes up for air. I download another video, The Jackson Five ten years later doing Dancing Machine on Soul Train. Armed with both videos for reference, El immediately constructs her own Michael timeline divided in to "Little Michael" (e.g. I Want You Back) and "Big Michael" (Dancing Machine).
Two days later it starts. We're laying in bed and hear Ella rustling in her crib. I look up, as she pulls herself to standing position and her first words of the morning are "Ella Michael Jackson wants juice...". My wife's eyes pop open. Yeah, you heard her right. Your two year old daughter now refers to herself as Ella Michael Jackson as in: Ella Michael Jackson hungry/wants to go out/is tired.
That lasted weeks. Months? Times a blur when you live with a celebrity. Daily viewings of the videos become so frequent my wife and I began to speak in clipped lyrics, she: "When I had you to myself...", me: "Now its much to late for me...".
Ella discovers if she whacks hard enough on the IMac's keyboard the vid starts up from the beginning. So essentially, after week two she really only needs her parents to prepare meals and download more videos. One morning my wife decides to draw a line in the sand with her gloved hand.
As the last chorus of I Want You Back fades, Ann says "Okay Ella no more Michael Jackson this morning...", at which point Ella bursts in to tears and melts in to a toddler-pool of swirling hysterics not unlike the Wicked Witch when Dorothy hosed her down.
Ann turns to me, face awash with motherly concern and asks "What should we do?". At this point we're in to like a month straight of Ella Michael Jackson. The metamorphasis has become complete. I figure soon she'll be moon walking to her play dates, next step find her some back up singers.
I look at Ella on the floor inconsolable, crying. See the real worry etching itself on to my wife's lovely face. And I realize its time to step up and be both a strong father and a supportive husband. I take Ann's hand, "You need to turn down the treble on I Want You Back, Michael sounds pitchy...".
You know, parenting is all about patience and understanding. We've managed to ration E down to about one viewing a day of MJ. And its only vintage, adorable "Do You Remember The Time?" lovable MJ. When the time comes to explain to E that she and her videotic best friend both share a similar penchant for furry chimps and five year old's on play dates, well as I said before her mother will explain.
And we've expanded E's dance repertoire. To her concentric circle-running and one legged jumps for I Want You Back I added the robot. At the first bridge to Dancing Machine Ella hits it perfectly, old school style. Moves her little arms up and down and her head back and forth while keeping her eyes still.
I don't think there's any hyperbolic sleep chambers in her future and since we can't install a full-size ferris wheel in our one room apartment any aspirations for an Upper West Side version of Neverland Ranch will go unrealized.
There is however a really cute three year old friend of E's, Shayna. Natural sense of rhythm and totally adorable. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I'd ever exploit my own daughter's innocent love of dance and song in to something crass and commercial. I'm not even suggesting that there's a market out there for a song/dance group of two to three year olds who, with the right supporting father behind them could leverage a development deal with say Disney for a demo cd with either a product tie-in like "Grrl Group Barbie" or a promo give away like free Magic Pony's who sing the group's first ballad "Pamper Me..." when you pull their tail.
No, I'm not suggesting that. But if you're the parent of a two or three year old who can clap to the beat and sing back up, email me....
So, how exactly did my bubbly little Elmo-loving toddler become an "Automatic systematic, full of color self contained, tune that shadow to your vibes..." Dancin' Machine? Well, "Blame It On The Boogie"(Warning: MJ song reference). Okay, I had to do that, sorry.
So El's in her high chair giving a bowl of peas and carrots the once over when suddenly she stops cold--I thought she'd traffic-jammed a pea/carrot in her throat. Well, I'd left itunes playing on the IMac--pretty diverse collection of stuff--U2, Aretha Franklin, Bach and lo and behold, The Jackson Five singing their 1970 hit, I Want You Back (When I had you to myself, I didn't want you around. Those pretty faces always made you stand out in a crowd....I want you back!). You'll see in a minute why I can now recall lyrics with the same dazzling speed I could once down an entire frozen margarita, read on.
Ella just freezes and listens to the song, looks at me and goes "Ella dance with dada...". Being a lifelong RB/Motown fan and not especially a tireless advocate of mixed vegetable medleys I lift El out of her seat and she kind of dances/runs around in circles in front of the computer. Song ends, Ella points to the IMac "Morrre".
So I hook her up. More circles. I tell her its Michael Jackson, then the questions "Dada, talk more about Michael Jackson". I decide any conversations detailing MJ's tragic lapse from childhood prodigy to anorexic, wax-faced pedophile, home zookeeper are better left to her mother. I foocus on happier times telling Ella about little Michael and his brothers, Randy, Jermaine, Tito and Marlon.
Well, we listen to I Want You Back about five times in a row. She's showing no signs of let up so I figure maybe I can find a video of her new friend. Well, easy as "ABC, 123" (yeah, buckle up I'll be cleverly inserting song titles in to the rest of this entry now that I've found a thematic narrative device to drag you along...) I find the Jackson Five singing their hit I Want You Back on the Ed Sullivan Show, 1970. The clip comes on and you'd think Tickle Me Elmo had suddenly appeared in the room. El goes ab-so-lutely quiet.
There's little Michael all of ten years old in flare bottom pants, boots a vest and purple hat pulled down over his 'fro. His brothers are there, the five of them hitting each choreographed dance step like they were born to be doing this Michael even at ten, more effortless than his siblings. And El is transfixed. It ends. She just goes "Morrre".
I hit play. We watch it eight times in a row (I'm not kidding) before she comes up for air. I download another video, The Jackson Five ten years later doing Dancing Machine on Soul Train. Armed with both videos for reference, El immediately constructs her own Michael timeline divided in to "Little Michael" (e.g. I Want You Back) and "Big Michael" (Dancing Machine).
Two days later it starts. We're laying in bed and hear Ella rustling in her crib. I look up, as she pulls herself to standing position and her first words of the morning are "Ella Michael Jackson wants juice...". My wife's eyes pop open. Yeah, you heard her right. Your two year old daughter now refers to herself as Ella Michael Jackson as in: Ella Michael Jackson hungry/wants to go out/is tired.
That lasted weeks. Months? Times a blur when you live with a celebrity. Daily viewings of the videos become so frequent my wife and I began to speak in clipped lyrics, she: "When I had you to myself...", me: "Now its much to late for me...".
Ella discovers if she whacks hard enough on the IMac's keyboard the vid starts up from the beginning. So essentially, after week two she really only needs her parents to prepare meals and download more videos. One morning my wife decides to draw a line in the sand with her gloved hand.
As the last chorus of I Want You Back fades, Ann says "Okay Ella no more Michael Jackson this morning...", at which point Ella bursts in to tears and melts in to a toddler-pool of swirling hysterics not unlike the Wicked Witch when Dorothy hosed her down.
Ann turns to me, face awash with motherly concern and asks "What should we do?". At this point we're in to like a month straight of Ella Michael Jackson. The metamorphasis has become complete. I figure soon she'll be moon walking to her play dates, next step find her some back up singers.
I look at Ella on the floor inconsolable, crying. See the real worry etching itself on to my wife's lovely face. And I realize its time to step up and be both a strong father and a supportive husband. I take Ann's hand, "You need to turn down the treble on I Want You Back, Michael sounds pitchy...".
You know, parenting is all about patience and understanding. We've managed to ration E down to about one viewing a day of MJ. And its only vintage, adorable "Do You Remember The Time?" lovable MJ. When the time comes to explain to E that she and her videotic best friend both share a similar penchant for furry chimps and five year old's on play dates, well as I said before her mother will explain.
And we've expanded E's dance repertoire. To her concentric circle-running and one legged jumps for I Want You Back I added the robot. At the first bridge to Dancing Machine Ella hits it perfectly, old school style. Moves her little arms up and down and her head back and forth while keeping her eyes still.
I don't think there's any hyperbolic sleep chambers in her future and since we can't install a full-size ferris wheel in our one room apartment any aspirations for an Upper West Side version of Neverland Ranch will go unrealized.
There is however a really cute three year old friend of E's, Shayna. Natural sense of rhythm and totally adorable. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I'd ever exploit my own daughter's innocent love of dance and song in to something crass and commercial. I'm not even suggesting that there's a market out there for a song/dance group of two to three year olds who, with the right supporting father behind them could leverage a development deal with say Disney for a demo cd with either a product tie-in like "Grrl Group Barbie" or a promo give away like free Magic Pony's who sing the group's first ballad "Pamper Me..." when you pull their tail.
No, I'm not suggesting that. But if you're the parent of a two or three year old who can clap to the beat and sing back up, email me....
Jun 28, 2006
News Flash: Three Iced Mochas, Bad Customer Service And A Stranded Space Ship.
Couldn't leave with out posting this. Must vent. Okay, from the beginning. So look, yesterday it was warm and sunny, I was wearing cotton pants, there was a nice breeze and somehow I got it in to my head I'd deviate from my daily, trusted and loved elixir of an iced mocha and try an iced white chocolate mocha. Okay, let's just let this topic die and I promise not to bring it up again. I mention it only now as it plays a role in the events which follow. I know, I know--white chocolate mocha. Sweet baby Jesus, what was I thinking.
Okay, so it was actually my second drink of the day. Then of course, to get the taste out of my mouth, I had to get another iced mocha. So yeah--read on knowing I was pretty fueled and accept partial responsibility for what ensued.
Get home after work and decide Ella needs to see Big Lizard. So we head to Toys R' Us, my precious little 30 pounder in my arms, carrying our flying saucer. Flying saucer rocks. Its foam, 'bout ten inches in diameter, radio controlled. Flies thirty feet in the air. Or in our case, eleven feet in the air in to the ceiling of our apartment. But its not charging properly so I throw it in a bag and we head to Times Square. Slow train, so by the time we hit the Square, El's already yawning. Its like quarter to seven which means its her dinner time, bath time in bed by 8:30pm.
I go directly to customer service, hand over the saucer. Indifferent sales girl looks it and me over, asks what the problem is. I tell her it won't hold a charge. She must work extremely long hours and be incredibly fatigued because it takes her tremendous physical effort and copious amounts of mental exertion to lift the nine ounce foam toy, carry it approximately three feet away and plug it in to the wall.
I can tell she's fatigued because she's constantly rolling her eyes and exhaling. Three minutes go by as she stands there, not saying a word and fixing her hair. Then she looks at me like I just farted. "You need to go get a replacement...". Oh, thanks for telling me when I first arrived instead of waiting three minutes. By the way, love the hair. So now I have to lug baby-girl back up to the second floor, fight through the crowd and grab a replacement. I should've known things were already going downhill and not going to get better.
Ten minutes later I get back, wrestling with Ella who's now officially not having fun, put the new box on the counter and the girl turns to me like I'm Rain Man and couldn't possibly tie my own shoes much less guess how many matches are in a box and snarls "This one ain't even broken. It works fine". Did I tell you about the part where I'd had three iced mochas? Yeah, this is where that whole caffeine thing comes in to play.
Ella's squirming, bitch-salesgirl and her posse of one other evil-retail wench are eyeing me and I feel my lip begin to quiver. Quiver like I'm morphing in to the Hulk. In fact, I can feel my pants and shirt begin to shred as my body mass increases and I start turning green. Really angry, pissed-off how-dare-you-fcuk-with-me green. Now Hulk must hurt puny humans.
Instead, I ask for a manager. Andrew shows up, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Blah, blah blah. Immediately, these girls start going in to how the product isn't defective, but "Works fine...". More hair fixing and exhaling as Andrew fidgets, caught between an irate customer and uncaring staff. Long story medium, I leave there with a new flying saucer, ensuring Andrew I won't be back.
Of course, when I get home tonight Ella will jump in to my arms and shout "Big Lizard" and of course I'm not about to tell her Toy's R Us is a giant corporate entity with huge profit margins who could less about whether a small family on limited income gets a refund on their $19.99 flying saucer. So I'll probably see Andrew tonight, but the good news? I've only had one iced mocha so I should be fine.
And the moral of my story is this. I'm no better than anyone else. I walk by people every day, see them clawing and scratching their way through existence and as I pass throught the toxic vapor trail of their anger think to myself "Relax dude, its just a flying saucer. Take a deep breath and just chill, you're overreacting". But truth be told, when push comes to shove I'm getting a new, working godd*mn, flying saucer. Even if it takes me three iced mochas.
Okay, so it was actually my second drink of the day. Then of course, to get the taste out of my mouth, I had to get another iced mocha. So yeah--read on knowing I was pretty fueled and accept partial responsibility for what ensued.
Get home after work and decide Ella needs to see Big Lizard. So we head to Toys R' Us, my precious little 30 pounder in my arms, carrying our flying saucer. Flying saucer rocks. Its foam, 'bout ten inches in diameter, radio controlled. Flies thirty feet in the air. Or in our case, eleven feet in the air in to the ceiling of our apartment. But its not charging properly so I throw it in a bag and we head to Times Square. Slow train, so by the time we hit the Square, El's already yawning. Its like quarter to seven which means its her dinner time, bath time in bed by 8:30pm.
I go directly to customer service, hand over the saucer. Indifferent sales girl looks it and me over, asks what the problem is. I tell her it won't hold a charge. She must work extremely long hours and be incredibly fatigued because it takes her tremendous physical effort and copious amounts of mental exertion to lift the nine ounce foam toy, carry it approximately three feet away and plug it in to the wall.
I can tell she's fatigued because she's constantly rolling her eyes and exhaling. Three minutes go by as she stands there, not saying a word and fixing her hair. Then she looks at me like I just farted. "You need to go get a replacement...". Oh, thanks for telling me when I first arrived instead of waiting three minutes. By the way, love the hair. So now I have to lug baby-girl back up to the second floor, fight through the crowd and grab a replacement. I should've known things were already going downhill and not going to get better.
Ten minutes later I get back, wrestling with Ella who's now officially not having fun, put the new box on the counter and the girl turns to me like I'm Rain Man and couldn't possibly tie my own shoes much less guess how many matches are in a box and snarls "This one ain't even broken. It works fine". Did I tell you about the part where I'd had three iced mochas? Yeah, this is where that whole caffeine thing comes in to play.
Ella's squirming, bitch-salesgirl and her posse of one other evil-retail wench are eyeing me and I feel my lip begin to quiver. Quiver like I'm morphing in to the Hulk. In fact, I can feel my pants and shirt begin to shred as my body mass increases and I start turning green. Really angry, pissed-off how-dare-you-fcuk-with-me green. Now Hulk must hurt puny humans.
Instead, I ask for a manager. Andrew shows up, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Blah, blah blah. Immediately, these girls start going in to how the product isn't defective, but "Works fine...". More hair fixing and exhaling as Andrew fidgets, caught between an irate customer and uncaring staff. Long story medium, I leave there with a new flying saucer, ensuring Andrew I won't be back.
Of course, when I get home tonight Ella will jump in to my arms and shout "Big Lizard" and of course I'm not about to tell her Toy's R Us is a giant corporate entity with huge profit margins who could less about whether a small family on limited income gets a refund on their $19.99 flying saucer. So I'll probably see Andrew tonight, but the good news? I've only had one iced mocha so I should be fine.
And the moral of my story is this. I'm no better than anyone else. I walk by people every day, see them clawing and scratching their way through existence and as I pass throught the toxic vapor trail of their anger think to myself "Relax dude, its just a flying saucer. Take a deep breath and just chill, you're overreacting". But truth be told, when push comes to shove I'm getting a new, working godd*mn, flying saucer. Even if it takes me three iced mochas.
Jun 27, 2006
The Blog Goes On Vacation...
...I know, I know--Bloggie just returned. But that was from a bad virus, now Blog gets a vacation. So, this is the last post until "Return Of The Blog 2" (I'll have to cast the sequel with a bunch of B actors like, Corey Feldman) around July 10th. But the whole vacation thing got me wondering, vacation from what?
I mean, if say, Blog is doing what it enjoys most--blogging, then why would it need a break? Guess that's as close to rhetorical as I can get without s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g it out. And yes, in this instance Blog is a metaphor for you-know-who. But let's pretend the Blog is a real, animated entity then if this little spiel goes sideways I can flame away on Blog and not feel too bad about myself.
Okay, look I'm a hardworking guy. Uh, I mean Blog is a hardworking blog. It has a wife, daughter, has aspirations, hopes and dreams. Is currently not exactly in its dream job (hmmm, the blog metaphor is crumbling, I mean if a blog's dream job isn't to blog, what is it? Waiter at a hip Tapas bar?).
Here's the point I'm not getting to--if a vacation for me is a chance to spend more time with my wife and daughter, great. If there's hidden undertones of needing to escape from certain elements of my life--than really, how long can anyone live like that?
I mean, just do the math. Two or three weeks a year to decompress can't be a healthy formula for living. What's going on the other fifty weeks of the year? And I guess to leapfrog over any BS I might try and fill space with, how long will I wait before doing the kind of work, really meaningful to me work that I want to do?
And does it, this transition require some kind of superhuman effort of will? Or just more caffeine? Dare I order a Vente anything? Have you seen a Vente, I mean up close? Really stopped and just filled your eyes with just how much caffeniated anything can fit in a cup that size?
Urban Tale digression: At Starbucks the other day, guy's standing there, undecided. The barista's this interesting black guy--like, 6'3", glasses--very articulate, very sharp. So, our unable-to-decide patron's trapped in the oncoming headlights of the drink menu when my guy (amiably, but with much gusto) jumps in to save him. "Hey, you need some help?". Well, patron's not quite up to speed yet right? I mean, that's why he's at Starbucks.
And believe me, he does not know what's about to hit him. He half nods like, "Uh, you're my barista, you know what I need--right?". Wrong. Don't misunderstand. This particular barista is one of the better I've seen, but that a.m., he was clearly on a mission. He just picked the wrong soldier to send to war.
Barista says, "You want something cold?! And chocolate?! Something that'll wake you up!!". Now, I've seen this barista whip up custom stuff on the spot, seen him sell a new concoction like it was the latest Manolo Blanik--but in this case, he was grossly underestimating his customer's tolerance for the Evil Bean--nothing good was going to come from this little dance with the Devil and all I could do was stand there and wait for the caffeine to hit the fan. Actually, I could've stepped up and said "He knows not what you offer, Mighty One. Give him a latte, grande extra hot--and let him be on his way". But what fun would that be?
By now, patron has no idea what he's in for. Far as he's concerned nicest Starbucks guy on the planet's 'bout to whip up something special, just for him. Just like Dr. Jekyll whipped up a little "something special" for Mr. Hyde. And guess what our barista makes him? I know, because he couldn't contain his excitement and shouted out the order, to himself--ready? "Quad Vente, Iced White Mocha". You get that? Quad. Four shots. That's enough to drop a charging rhino mid-stride, leave it on its back legs kicking air ready to be turned in to a nice handbag.
That was last week. I have no doubt poor ba*tard is sitting on a curb somewhere in the city, empty Starbucks cup at his feet, mumbling to himself "Mocha...vente...quad..."..
So here's my point--yes the "Man" is keeping me down but guess what? Turns out, I am the Man. I'm keeping me down. That sucks. No one to blame. If I never, ever actualize what I want? It's cuz I didn't man up and get 'er done. Dammit. Its on me. That's why I hate/love/watch/avoid those stupid Movies Of The Week, the ones with titles like "The Man-Boy Who Wanted To Be A Writer--But Held Himself Back Until He Just Couldn't Stand The Voices In His Head Anymore--And Then Realized It Was Up To Him. And Him Alone". You know, those MOW's?
So there you have it, my new years resolution. For my summer vacation. Like that segue? And what's the resolution again? To not blame the Man, including myself but to work at what I want. To aid me in this endeavor I can utilize as much a. Caffeine b. Family/friends support c. Caffeine, as necessary. But I cannot make any more excuses. And I cannot have any Starbucks drink that contains more than two shots of Espresso in it or that comes in a size larger than an industrial toxic waste drum.
See you after vacation.
Blog and friend of Blog.
I mean, if say, Blog is doing what it enjoys most--blogging, then why would it need a break? Guess that's as close to rhetorical as I can get without s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g it out. And yes, in this instance Blog is a metaphor for you-know-who. But let's pretend the Blog is a real, animated entity then if this little spiel goes sideways I can flame away on Blog and not feel too bad about myself.
Okay, look I'm a hardworking guy. Uh, I mean Blog is a hardworking blog. It has a wife, daughter, has aspirations, hopes and dreams. Is currently not exactly in its dream job (hmmm, the blog metaphor is crumbling, I mean if a blog's dream job isn't to blog, what is it? Waiter at a hip Tapas bar?).
Here's the point I'm not getting to--if a vacation for me is a chance to spend more time with my wife and daughter, great. If there's hidden undertones of needing to escape from certain elements of my life--than really, how long can anyone live like that?
I mean, just do the math. Two or three weeks a year to decompress can't be a healthy formula for living. What's going on the other fifty weeks of the year? And I guess to leapfrog over any BS I might try and fill space with, how long will I wait before doing the kind of work, really meaningful to me work that I want to do?
And does it, this transition require some kind of superhuman effort of will? Or just more caffeine? Dare I order a Vente anything? Have you seen a Vente, I mean up close? Really stopped and just filled your eyes with just how much caffeniated anything can fit in a cup that size?
Urban Tale digression: At Starbucks the other day, guy's standing there, undecided. The barista's this interesting black guy--like, 6'3", glasses--very articulate, very sharp. So, our unable-to-decide patron's trapped in the oncoming headlights of the drink menu when my guy (amiably, but with much gusto) jumps in to save him. "Hey, you need some help?". Well, patron's not quite up to speed yet right? I mean, that's why he's at Starbucks.
And believe me, he does not know what's about to hit him. He half nods like, "Uh, you're my barista, you know what I need--right?". Wrong. Don't misunderstand. This particular barista is one of the better I've seen, but that a.m., he was clearly on a mission. He just picked the wrong soldier to send to war.
Barista says, "You want something cold?! And chocolate?! Something that'll wake you up!!". Now, I've seen this barista whip up custom stuff on the spot, seen him sell a new concoction like it was the latest Manolo Blanik--but in this case, he was grossly underestimating his customer's tolerance for the Evil Bean--nothing good was going to come from this little dance with the Devil and all I could do was stand there and wait for the caffeine to hit the fan. Actually, I could've stepped up and said "He knows not what you offer, Mighty One. Give him a latte, grande extra hot--and let him be on his way". But what fun would that be?
By now, patron has no idea what he's in for. Far as he's concerned nicest Starbucks guy on the planet's 'bout to whip up something special, just for him. Just like Dr. Jekyll whipped up a little "something special" for Mr. Hyde. And guess what our barista makes him? I know, because he couldn't contain his excitement and shouted out the order, to himself--ready? "Quad Vente, Iced White Mocha". You get that? Quad. Four shots. That's enough to drop a charging rhino mid-stride, leave it on its back legs kicking air ready to be turned in to a nice handbag.
That was last week. I have no doubt poor ba*tard is sitting on a curb somewhere in the city, empty Starbucks cup at his feet, mumbling to himself "Mocha...vente...quad...".
So here's my point--yes the "Man" is keeping me down but guess what? Turns out, I am the Man. I'm keeping me down. That sucks. No one to blame. If I never, ever actualize what I want? It's cuz I didn't man up and get 'er done. Dammit. Its on me. That's why I hate/love/watch/avoid those stupid Movies Of The Week, the ones with titles like "The Man-Boy Who Wanted To Be A Writer--But Held Himself Back Until He Just Couldn't Stand The Voices In His Head Anymore--And Then Realized It Was Up To Him. And Him Alone". You know, those MOW's?
So there you have it, my new years resolution. For my summer vacation. Like that segue? And what's the resolution again? To not blame the Man, including myself but to work at what I want. To aid me in this endeavor I can utilize as much a. Caffeine b. Family/friends support c. Caffeine, as necessary. But I cannot make any more excuses. And I cannot have any Starbucks drink that contains more than two shots of Espresso in it or that comes in a size larger than an industrial toxic waste drum.
See you after vacation.
Blog and friend of Blog.
Jun 23, 2006
Now That's A Big Lizard...
...took my two year old daughter to Toys R Us in Times Square. First event was the Square itself--Ella loved it. We went at night, lit up like a Christmas tree. We step out from under the subway entrance, Ella looks around wide-eyed. I go "This is Times Square, E". She takes it in, replies "Times Square make Ella awake". So far, so good.
Next stop, the five story, multi-level Mecca of toys known as T's R Us. First encounter? Guy dressed up as a Giraffe. El goes nuts. Giraffe goes nuts, big hug fest. So, on we march checking out Lego sets and train sets and dolls (no real interest in Barbie yet) and stuff in general and a few hundred yards away I can just make out what appears to be a giant, life-sized Tyrannosaurus Rex, fully articulated with audio. Loud audio. Like, cover your ears-from-the-concussive-force-of-his-RRROOAR loud.
El sees me look over, hears the sound and says "I see that...!". I pick her up, we head over and I'm thinking "Hope this isn't that seminal moment in her childhood which sparks a lifetime of therapy...". So, we're walking over and El sees this giant, jaw-snapping monster ahead and gets quiet. I stop about, oh forty yards away and we just stand there. T lets our a mighty, really loud RRROOOARRR. El's watching, just watching then turns her hands, palms up (which is her gesture for like, "get it?") and says "Big lizard not real".
No we go regularly. She's never flinched. Just runs like a little pony right by Big Lizard to the toys while unsuspecting Japanese tourists spit up their bottled water every time T-Rex lets a roar fly directly overhead.
Which got me to thinking--no, not why aren't Japanese tourists immune to the whole T-Rex thing having grown up with Godzilla stomping their villages in to matchsticks, rather--how do we lose that innocent yet acute sense of perception? That simple, wholesome and fresh perspective which sees things for what they are? Or aren't?
Example, I get on the subway in the a.m., and there's a bunch of T-Rex's roaming, roaring and jaw-snapping inside my head. They roar "You're gonna die poor, alone and unhappy!". They bellow, "You'll never have a job you like". Sometimes they snap their jaws, clicking "You know squat about the dharma, quit trying to act like you can change who you are!".
And you know, a lot of times I just stand there, not even hearing the music from my ipod (Lots of Kanye West these days and some old school--The O'Jays, Chaka Khan) just deafened by the roars, nodding my head "Yes, you're right--I cannot change, I'm stuck with who I am and all my sh*tty, self-doubting, dysfunctional ways...".
But sometimes I remember, "Big lizard not real". And I just stay in my body--feel rooted and don't get freaked by the loud roaring in my head. I can feel the subway jostling back and forth. Hear the O'Jays in my ears old school Philadelphia style, telling me to "...get on board the love train, love train c'mon...", and I choose to not get rocked by any old monster in my head.
So, the weekends here. Will probably make a trip to Times Square, E and I are due to check out her boy, T. His days are numbered. Too expensive to keep the hydraulics maintained. Staff says back in the day, in fact the very first day they turned him on two years ago, hydraulics all new, limbs all fresh and mobile--well, he was so life-like people ran out screaming and they had to turn him off.
I guess everything wears out after awhile, even Big Lizards.
Next stop, the five story, multi-level Mecca of toys known as T's R Us. First encounter? Guy dressed up as a Giraffe. El goes nuts. Giraffe goes nuts, big hug fest. So, on we march checking out Lego sets and train sets and dolls (no real interest in Barbie yet) and stuff in general and a few hundred yards away I can just make out what appears to be a giant, life-sized Tyrannosaurus Rex, fully articulated with audio. Loud audio. Like, cover your ears-from-the-concussive-force-of-his-RRROOAR loud.
El sees me look over, hears the sound and says "I see that...!". I pick her up, we head over and I'm thinking "Hope this isn't that seminal moment in her childhood which sparks a lifetime of therapy...". So, we're walking over and El sees this giant, jaw-snapping monster ahead and gets quiet. I stop about, oh forty yards away and we just stand there. T lets our a mighty, really loud RRROOOARRR. El's watching, just watching then turns her hands, palms up (which is her gesture for like, "get it?") and says "Big lizard not real".
No we go regularly. She's never flinched. Just runs like a little pony right by Big Lizard to the toys while unsuspecting Japanese tourists spit up their bottled water every time T-Rex lets a roar fly directly overhead.
Which got me to thinking--no, not why aren't Japanese tourists immune to the whole T-Rex thing having grown up with Godzilla stomping their villages in to matchsticks, rather--how do we lose that innocent yet acute sense of perception? That simple, wholesome and fresh perspective which sees things for what they are? Or aren't?
Example, I get on the subway in the a.m., and there's a bunch of T-Rex's roaming, roaring and jaw-snapping inside my head. They roar "You're gonna die poor, alone and unhappy!". They bellow, "You'll never have a job you like". Sometimes they snap their jaws, clicking "You know squat about the dharma, quit trying to act like you can change who you are!".
And you know, a lot of times I just stand there, not even hearing the music from my ipod (Lots of Kanye West these days and some old school--The O'Jays, Chaka Khan) just deafened by the roars, nodding my head "Yes, you're right--I cannot change, I'm stuck with who I am and all my sh*tty, self-doubting, dysfunctional ways...".
But sometimes I remember, "Big lizard not real". And I just stay in my body--feel rooted and don't get freaked by the loud roaring in my head. I can feel the subway jostling back and forth. Hear the O'Jays in my ears old school Philadelphia style, telling me to "...get on board the love train, love train c'mon...", and I choose to not get rocked by any old monster in my head.
So, the weekends here. Will probably make a trip to Times Square, E and I are due to check out her boy, T. His days are numbered. Too expensive to keep the hydraulics maintained. Staff says back in the day, in fact the very first day they turned him on two years ago, hydraulics all new, limbs all fresh and mobile--well, he was so life-like people ran out screaming and they had to turn him off.
I guess everything wears out after awhile, even Big Lizards.
Jun 15, 2006
When Only The Hora Can Save You...
...or how I officiated a wedding for 170 stunned Jewish friends and family members. Dear friends of mine asked if I would, as an officially sanctioned "Buddhist Minister" (in the state of NY, registration number 71747!) officiate their wedding. I'm touched to tears.
Wedding was end of May, 'bout three hrs out of the city. Bought a new suit (three button, linen, flax-colored. Went with a French blue spread collar shirt and an Aboud tie--copper red/orange with angled blue stripes). Rented a car so I could drive home same night and wake up next to my daughter. So far, so good.
Kind of wasn't exactly clear on the whole backstory of how the family and their 170 closest friends who'd flown in were ready to burn me at the stake upon arrival since I was a. Not Jewish. b. Not a Rabbi. c. A Buddhist. Found that out when I met the parents an hour before the 5:30pm ceremony. Nothing like upping the ante.
Given I couldn't exactly jump back in my car and bail, I figured my only real options were a. Pray to Yahweh or b. Hit the bar. I head over to the caterers, but they were sweatin' set up and weren't about to slip me a Corona from the cooler. So I did what any self respecting Buddhist would do--walked over to a far off corner of the huge field where the ceremony would be and prayed for help. Still could've used that Corona.
Showtime. We're outside, bride and groom look great. Behind them, 170 pin-drop quiet friends/family waiting for me to pull a goat from a burlap sack and start the proceedings with a traditional sacrifice. See? If they'd done their homework they would've known Buddhist are vehemently opposed to taking life. And that Buddhists love an icy cold cerveza con limon before important rites of passage god dammit! Oops.
Did I mention the ring bearer was an active Marine just back from his second tour of Iraq? He was there in dress blues, sizing me up I'm sure and figuring out whether to go for the straight choke-hold or go WWF and take me out with a folding chair to the back.
So away we go. Readings, vows, rings exchanged, kissing, pronouncing them 'Husband and Wife', off they go happily married and next thing I know there's mom and dad crying and hugging me heartily with thanks for such a beautiful ceremony. Could've been the suit. The suit was hot. Now may I have a Corona? Apparently not. Nice woman walks up, says "I have to say, I came here ready to be very disappointed with you/Buddhism/the ceremony but I was surprised/inspired/grateful/touched. I hyphenate because I care. And because, for the next hour every single person who came up to me said just about the same thing.
People really met what they said but after like the thirtieth person, I had to catch some air. I grab a beer and walk down the dirt road, jump in my rental hit the a.c. and decompress. Should've grabbed two beers. Will next time. By now its dark dinners served and I figure I'll just be another shadow under the big tent reception. Kill my beer (St. Paulie Girl--not my fave but its what stuck to my hand when I blindly grabbed whatever the cater-guy pulled from ice) and walk over to eat.
Okay, despite the storied and difficult legacy of suffering I will say this about the Jewish tradition--it is unbeatable when it comes to stocking a reception dinner. I'm about to fill my plate when my Spidey-sense starts tingling. I turn and looking right at me is this elegant, snowy haired eighty+ yr old gentlemen. He reaches over, takes my hands in his. "I vanna sank you for your words of love. Your vords of beauty. Nevah stop what you are doing. You bring the most important message of all, the message of love. And I should know, our world? It needs love more than evah".
He leans in, puts his mouth right up to my ear, I can feel his breath--and it moves right through me "I should know, I'm a survivor--Auschwitz. Don't forget us, we die one thousand every week". He gives me a the most gentle lovely, kind kiss then walks away. I'm standing there with an empty plate, just basically blinking like a stuck brake light. I head right to the bar, double up on a Grey Goose. My mind racing nowhere all at once. I sit on the grass watching people dance. Think about Auschwitz, think about "Schindler's List" which amounts to just about everything I know about the holocaust. I drink two more doubles, but can't get drunk.
I feel, grateful? Inadequate? Phony? D. All of the above. I think about another drink and remember I still have a four hour drive home to Manhattan. I put my empty glass on a table and mom walks up to me. Gives me a hug and says "Come...". On the dance floor everyone's in a circle, just starting the hora. We walk over the circle opens and we dance. And every few turns of the circle, I'm looking for that little man. And I can't find him. He's nowhere. And everywhere. But I can't see him. And can't forget him.
Wedding was end of May, 'bout three hrs out of the city. Bought a new suit (three button, linen, flax-colored. Went with a French blue spread collar shirt and an Aboud tie--copper red/orange with angled blue stripes). Rented a car so I could drive home same night and wake up next to my daughter. So far, so good.
Kind of wasn't exactly clear on the whole backstory of how the family and their 170 closest friends who'd flown in were ready to burn me at the stake upon arrival since I was a. Not Jewish. b. Not a Rabbi. c. A Buddhist. Found that out when I met the parents an hour before the 5:30pm ceremony. Nothing like upping the ante.
Given I couldn't exactly jump back in my car and bail, I figured my only real options were a. Pray to Yahweh or b. Hit the bar. I head over to the caterers, but they were sweatin' set up and weren't about to slip me a Corona from the cooler. So I did what any self respecting Buddhist would do--walked over to a far off corner of the huge field where the ceremony would be and prayed for help. Still could've used that Corona.
Showtime. We're outside, bride and groom look great. Behind them, 170 pin-drop quiet friends/family waiting for me to pull a goat from a burlap sack and start the proceedings with a traditional sacrifice. See? If they'd done their homework they would've known Buddhist are vehemently opposed to taking life. And that Buddhists love an icy cold cerveza con limon before important rites of passage god dammit! Oops.
Did I mention the ring bearer was an active Marine just back from his second tour of Iraq? He was there in dress blues, sizing me up I'm sure and figuring out whether to go for the straight choke-hold or go WWF and take me out with a folding chair to the back.
So away we go. Readings, vows, rings exchanged, kissing, pronouncing them 'Husband and Wife', off they go happily married and next thing I know there's mom and dad crying and hugging me heartily with thanks for such a beautiful ceremony. Could've been the suit. The suit was hot. Now may I have a Corona? Apparently not. Nice woman walks up, says "I have to say, I came here ready to be very disappointed with you/Buddhism/the ceremony but I was surprised/inspired/grateful/touched. I hyphenate because I care. And because, for the next hour every single person who came up to me said just about the same thing.
People really met what they said but after like the thirtieth person, I had to catch some air. I grab a beer and walk down the dirt road, jump in my rental hit the a.c. and decompress. Should've grabbed two beers. Will next time. By now its dark dinners served and I figure I'll just be another shadow under the big tent reception. Kill my beer (St. Paulie Girl--not my fave but its what stuck to my hand when I blindly grabbed whatever the cater-guy pulled from ice) and walk over to eat.
Okay, despite the storied and difficult legacy of suffering I will say this about the Jewish tradition--it is unbeatable when it comes to stocking a reception dinner. I'm about to fill my plate when my Spidey-sense starts tingling. I turn and looking right at me is this elegant, snowy haired eighty+ yr old gentlemen. He reaches over, takes my hands in his. "I vanna sank you for your words of love. Your vords of beauty. Nevah stop what you are doing. You bring the most important message of all, the message of love. And I should know, our world? It needs love more than evah".
He leans in, puts his mouth right up to my ear, I can feel his breath--and it moves right through me "I should know, I'm a survivor--Auschwitz. Don't forget us, we die one thousand every week". He gives me a the most gentle lovely, kind kiss then walks away. I'm standing there with an empty plate, just basically blinking like a stuck brake light. I head right to the bar, double up on a Grey Goose. My mind racing nowhere all at once. I sit on the grass watching people dance. Think about Auschwitz, think about "Schindler's List" which amounts to just about everything I know about the holocaust. I drink two more doubles, but can't get drunk.
I feel, grateful? Inadequate? Phony? D. All of the above. I think about another drink and remember I still have a four hour drive home to Manhattan. I put my empty glass on a table and mom walks up to me. Gives me a hug and says "Come...". On the dance floor everyone's in a circle, just starting the hora. We walk over the circle opens and we dance. And every few turns of the circle, I'm looking for that little man. And I can't find him. He's nowhere. And everywhere. But I can't see him. And can't forget him.
The Blog Is Back...
...phew, long six weeks. Or whatever. Okay, that's my excuse but never fear I'm back with a whole new series of real life encounters with reality, including but not limited to:
1. The wedding I performed for a couple whose 170 person guest list was extremely unamused I was a. Not Jewish. b. See "a". c. Muliply axbx one hundred.
2. My two year old's encounter with a Tyranosauras Rex and how I learned to not fear "The Big Lizard".
3. How our friend Randy a girl half my size with twice the heart kicked me in the pants and got me "back on blog...".
4. More, lots more. Read on.
1. The wedding I performed for a couple whose 170 person guest list was extremely unamused I was a. Not Jewish. b. See "a". c. Muliply axbx one hundred.
2. My two year old's encounter with a Tyranosauras Rex and how I learned to not fear "The Big Lizard".
3. How our friend Randy a girl half my size with twice the heart kicked me in the pants and got me "back on blog...".
4. More, lots more. Read on.
Apr 26, 2006
Starbucks Patrons Assaulted By Toddlers...
...well, more or less. I take my two year old daughter to a gym class every Saturday a.m. After class, a bunch of us load up our strollers with our writhing toddlers and head over to Starbucks to re-fuel. Typically, there's about four parents. Three of 'em are packing doubles--two kids each. That means seven little ones, twelve to twenty-three months of crying, happy, laughing, jumping, playing todds.
Yeah, you should see the looks we get when we roll in, pushing our convoy of strollers. People shake heads, roll eyes, guffaw, tsk and generally wet themselves at the site of our arrival. Now I know what the Romans felt like when the Vandals showed up ready to sack the place.
Of course, not so long ago I was on the other side of that $4.00 grande two-shot, extra-hot skim cappuccino. Now, its like "any port in a storm". I mean, once you become a parent its like you're viewed as an escapee from a leper colony. You know, you keep showing up at all the places you used to go, but people kind of turn their heads, avoid eye contact and ignore you? Same deal at Starbucks. People stare across the top of their java at you like you personally just brought in a batch of fresh Ebola virus spores and dumped 'em to the ventilator shaft.
But like any self-respecting leper, you learn to ignore the nasty looks, pick your diseased limb off the ground and shuffle along back to your cave. Only problem is, before you do that--you have to secure a table for you and your co-lepers so you can suck down over-priced scalding drinks while simultaneously toddler-wresting a wriggly two year old, save them from asphyxiating on handfuls of lemon pound cake, keep from kicking over the table and carry on meaningful, interesting conversations with other adults who are also living on rationed sleep.
So we roll in to the 'bucks and can you believe it? I spot a free table. Starbucks, 10:30am Saturday morning--primo caffenation hour and I find a free table. Only problem is, the table's in the middle of the room which means we won't be able to fit our strollers next to us. But the table next to it only has a dad and his five year old son--and next to them there's no tables. Just wide open free space. A welcoming plateau of stroller-accommodating grazing land. Our Mecca.
I make a bee-line to dad and his boy, and roll up just as he gulps down the welcoming sip of his java-juice. "Hey, any chance I could switch tables with you guys?". I mean, I'm asking him to relocate all of two feet. Well, angry-dad gives me this look like I just shoveled glass shards in to his drink. He doesn't even reply, just looks me up and down...then up and down. Finally, he makes this big show of like, swallowing his sip, glares at me and goes "Because you have...a stroller?!".
Okay, so I'm like a Buddhist forever, right? So this stuff is supposed to just roll of me like water/duck. But honestly, I can be kind of confrontational (Hmmm, wouldn't have anything to do with DRINKING TOO MUCH COFFEE WOULD IT?) when pushed. And this is exactly the kind of situation where I can justify my self-righteousness (protective father, a helping friend, blah/justify/blah/justify) and go right back at someone.
But the wildest thing happens. Nothing. I mean, this guy fires a hate-rocket at me and it just...passes right through my body. Zoom. Right through. I feel nothing. Nada. Zip. No anger. No impulse to attack/defend/repeat. My mind doesn't even do a double take, you know where I hear myself go after someone then have to talk myself down before I come up with some faux-polite response? Just big, vivid alive space. There isn't even a jet trail from the hate-rocket, just space.
So Space-Dana replies, "No, there's a group of us". Its almost like I'm having this really civil conversation with myself, he's not even an obstacle--he's just kind of this non-threatening outline/cut-out of a person and I've chosen to not color in the cut-out with my projection of anger/threat/obstacle/fill in the emotion. Turns out he's a one-rocket guy and the next thing I know he switches tables and bingo--everyone's has what they need, sans hostility. For the most part.
What hit me right between the eyes most keenly is how much healthier it is to not project. It hit me because I felt different. What I felt was normal. Not like I just had some kind of flame-out which had left me charred, the burnt stench of which I'd be feeling and smelling for hours/days to come. So there 'ya go. My advice? Don't grab on to your own solid state of mind so tightly it gives you agita. And even if you're sure the other person's your problem, bear in mind just for fun, it could be a whole self-imposed smoke and mirrors thing.
Oh, the big bonus of the whole thing? Two tables away there was a family of three? Their kids were screaming so loud it was blowing the plastic lids off people's lattes and no one even noticed our happy little table of Gremlins.
Yeah, you should see the looks we get when we roll in, pushing our convoy of strollers. People shake heads, roll eyes, guffaw, tsk and generally wet themselves at the site of our arrival. Now I know what the Romans felt like when the Vandals showed up ready to sack the place.
Of course, not so long ago I was on the other side of that $4.00 grande two-shot, extra-hot skim cappuccino. Now, its like "any port in a storm". I mean, once you become a parent its like you're viewed as an escapee from a leper colony. You know, you keep showing up at all the places you used to go, but people kind of turn their heads, avoid eye contact and ignore you? Same deal at Starbucks. People stare across the top of their java at you like you personally just brought in a batch of fresh Ebola virus spores and dumped 'em to the ventilator shaft.
But like any self-respecting leper, you learn to ignore the nasty looks, pick your diseased limb off the ground and shuffle along back to your cave. Only problem is, before you do that--you have to secure a table for you and your co-lepers so you can suck down over-priced scalding drinks while simultaneously toddler-wresting a wriggly two year old, save them from asphyxiating on handfuls of lemon pound cake, keep from kicking over the table and carry on meaningful, interesting conversations with other adults who are also living on rationed sleep.
So we roll in to the 'bucks and can you believe it? I spot a free table. Starbucks, 10:30am Saturday morning--primo caffenation hour and I find a free table. Only problem is, the table's in the middle of the room which means we won't be able to fit our strollers next to us. But the table next to it only has a dad and his five year old son--and next to them there's no tables. Just wide open free space. A welcoming plateau of stroller-accommodating grazing land. Our Mecca.
I make a bee-line to dad and his boy, and roll up just as he gulps down the welcoming sip of his java-juice. "Hey, any chance I could switch tables with you guys?". I mean, I'm asking him to relocate all of two feet. Well, angry-dad gives me this look like I just shoveled glass shards in to his drink. He doesn't even reply, just looks me up and down...then up and down. Finally, he makes this big show of like, swallowing his sip, glares at me and goes "Because you have...a stroller?!".
Okay, so I'm like a Buddhist forever, right? So this stuff is supposed to just roll of me like water/duck. But honestly, I can be kind of confrontational (Hmmm, wouldn't have anything to do with DRINKING TOO MUCH COFFEE WOULD IT?) when pushed. And this is exactly the kind of situation where I can justify my self-righteousness (protective father, a helping friend, blah/justify/blah/justify) and go right back at someone.
But the wildest thing happens. Nothing. I mean, this guy fires a hate-rocket at me and it just...passes right through my body. Zoom. Right through. I feel nothing. Nada. Zip. No anger. No impulse to attack/defend/repeat. My mind doesn't even do a double take, you know where I hear myself go after someone then have to talk myself down before I come up with some faux-polite response? Just big, vivid alive space. There isn't even a jet trail from the hate-rocket, just space.
So Space-Dana replies, "No, there's a group of us". Its almost like I'm having this really civil conversation with myself, he's not even an obstacle--he's just kind of this non-threatening outline/cut-out of a person and I've chosen to not color in the cut-out with my projection of anger/threat/obstacle/fill in the emotion. Turns out he's a one-rocket guy and the next thing I know he switches tables and bingo--everyone's has what they need, sans hostility. For the most part.
What hit me right between the eyes most keenly is how much healthier it is to not project. It hit me because I felt different. What I felt was normal. Not like I just had some kind of flame-out which had left me charred, the burnt stench of which I'd be feeling and smelling for hours/days to come. So there 'ya go. My advice? Don't grab on to your own solid state of mind so tightly it gives you agita. And even if you're sure the other person's your problem, bear in mind just for fun, it could be a whole self-imposed smoke and mirrors thing.
Oh, the big bonus of the whole thing? Two tables away there was a family of three? Their kids were screaming so loud it was blowing the plastic lids off people's lattes and no one even noticed our happy little table of Gremlins.
Apr 21, 2006
How Silly Am I?
I mean, really. I just caught myself in the reflection of my own appearance and I'm like, walking, talking, moving, reacting, speaking, thinking, moving, distracting, avoiding, perverting, grasping, presuming and commenting on every thought in my brain. And that was just in one split second of a moment.
If we can just step back for a moment, detach from our own appearance just ever-so-slightly and look at ourselves--its pretty funny. Last night my foot hurt. I've developed a callous from running. I looked at the callous, fingered it, felt some pain--then put my shoe back on and ignored it.
Because even though I know from direct experience its just skin and the moment I wear it down with a pumice stone it'll stop irritating me--there was this moment after I perceived it, just this little itsy-bitsy moment where I formed the thought "that callous is part of me--I could be in pain if I remove it".
Despite the fact I've ground away these suckers before, and I know it won't cause me pain, know in fact that the way to stop the pain (as I've personally and directly experienced myself) is to simply remove the callous--I cooked up the thought that some solid part of me was being threatened and in response to the threat, the callous is still there.
And that's exactly what I do with my thoughts. I don't even not see them as part of me--that's too discriminating, too courageous. I simply create my identity with the thought as it simultaneously forms/arises/appears. Which really, is more economic. You cut out the middle man so to speak, which is objectivity/space--you just go directly from appearance to identification. My foot hurts/I am my foot.
This student once went looking for his teacher--when he arrived at their typical meeting place he found a note "Gone to the freak show". Well, I guess in 10th c. India there wasn't a freak show around every corner, so this student was like totally WTF? He searches all over, finally makes his way to town.
In to the main market area--bustling with activity--people selling, living, dying, stealing, arguing, loving--and he sees his teacher, sitting down just watching all of this frenzy and action going down.
The teacher's just sitting there, frog on a log. Not doing a damn thing. And the student gets it *lightbulb*. This is the freaskshow. This is the circus, the carnival. We all paint ourselves up with this mask of presumed identity and then go running around reacting to everyone else's mask.
Voltaire said "Life is a drama for those who feel, a comedy for those who think". Most of the hardcore, real deal teachers I've ever encountered have at some point absolutely just stunned me at their instantaneous ability to convulse with laughter in the midst of what I perceive to be well, drama.
Once spent a week with this very revered, elderly Tibetan lama. Very serious stuff. First night, at dinner--he goes around the table asks everyone where they're from. You know, getting to know us. With every response he beams, nods in gentle understanding, repeats the person's cherished home "Oh, Mic-hi-gan?". Very grandfatherly, clipped Tib-English pronunciation.
I'm sucking it up. Loving this Lama. To me he's the Burl Ives of Lamas. I just want to curl up with him and watch that "Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer" special and just be cuddled by this kindly little old soul. He gets to me, I reverently whisper "Californi..." don't even finish the sentence he laughs out loud, like hysterically "Mickey Mouse!".
Everyone stops, he stands up, points at me and still, laughing his ass off shouts "Mickey Mouse!". Well, ain't I suddenly the most popular guy to humiliate at the table. Of course, everyone cracks up and now the whole table like, ten people are pointing and laughing, "Mickey Mouse!". And everyone is having this total moment with Burl Ives lama, but me.
I'm of course, smiling playing the whole thing off like "Oh, I get it...California, Disneyland--Mickey Mouse". But inside I'm like "Are you fcuking kidding me? Dude, we were gonna rent the Rudolph special together?! Hang out, cry when Rudolph's nose won't light...". I'm dying. But you know, to him my drama was his comedy.
Oh and it goes on. I'll give you the cliff's notes, but the next acts of the comedy were Act 2: Dana awakens in the middle of the night to discover everyone's shoes have been laced together then tied to his arm while he was asleep in the hopes that he'd move his arm and drop twenty pairs of shoes on his head. Act 3: The day we depart, the entire staff receives the most loving blessing from Burl Ives Lama who promptly turns to me and head butts me. Not head butt like, oh here's the traditional Tibetan greeting with a little extra oomph, head butts me like he's an English soccer player for Manchester United after like, twenty pints of Guinness.
So anyway, for what its worth--if you happen to catch your own reflection in the mirror--any mirror and for just a split second you have that odd feeling like your watching some television show and you spaced out and when you came back you felt like even though you just missed part of the show it didn't really matter because what-the-hell-is-this-about-anyway-and-why-am-I-watching-it?
Well, either turn the volume way up so you don't notice you're spacing out anymore or get ready for some sleepless nights. 'Cuz once you start questioning what's really going on around you...well, things take a turn for the interesting.
If we can just step back for a moment, detach from our own appearance just ever-so-slightly and look at ourselves--its pretty funny. Last night my foot hurt. I've developed a callous from running. I looked at the callous, fingered it, felt some pain--then put my shoe back on and ignored it.
Because even though I know from direct experience its just skin and the moment I wear it down with a pumice stone it'll stop irritating me--there was this moment after I perceived it, just this little itsy-bitsy moment where I formed the thought "that callous is part of me--I could be in pain if I remove it".
Despite the fact I've ground away these suckers before, and I know it won't cause me pain, know in fact that the way to stop the pain (as I've personally and directly experienced myself) is to simply remove the callous--I cooked up the thought that some solid part of me was being threatened and in response to the threat, the callous is still there.
And that's exactly what I do with my thoughts. I don't even not see them as part of me--that's too discriminating, too courageous. I simply create my identity with the thought as it simultaneously forms/arises/appears. Which really, is more economic. You cut out the middle man so to speak, which is objectivity/space--you just go directly from appearance to identification. My foot hurts/I am my foot.
This student once went looking for his teacher--when he arrived at their typical meeting place he found a note "Gone to the freak show". Well, I guess in 10th c. India there wasn't a freak show around every corner, so this student was like totally WTF? He searches all over, finally makes his way to town.
In to the main market area--bustling with activity--people selling, living, dying, stealing, arguing, loving--and he sees his teacher, sitting down just watching all of this frenzy and action going down.
The teacher's just sitting there, frog on a log. Not doing a damn thing. And the student gets it *lightbulb*. This is the freaskshow. This is the circus, the carnival. We all paint ourselves up with this mask of presumed identity and then go running around reacting to everyone else's mask.
Voltaire said "Life is a drama for those who feel, a comedy for those who think". Most of the hardcore, real deal teachers I've ever encountered have at some point absolutely just stunned me at their instantaneous ability to convulse with laughter in the midst of what I perceive to be well, drama.
Once spent a week with this very revered, elderly Tibetan lama. Very serious stuff. First night, at dinner--he goes around the table asks everyone where they're from. You know, getting to know us. With every response he beams, nods in gentle understanding, repeats the person's cherished home "Oh, Mic-hi-gan?". Very grandfatherly, clipped Tib-English pronunciation.
I'm sucking it up. Loving this Lama. To me he's the Burl Ives of Lamas. I just want to curl up with him and watch that "Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer" special and just be cuddled by this kindly little old soul. He gets to me, I reverently whisper "Californi..." don't even finish the sentence he laughs out loud, like hysterically "Mickey Mouse!".
Everyone stops, he stands up, points at me and still, laughing his ass off shouts "Mickey Mouse!". Well, ain't I suddenly the most popular guy to humiliate at the table. Of course, everyone cracks up and now the whole table like, ten people are pointing and laughing, "Mickey Mouse!". And everyone is having this total moment with Burl Ives lama, but me.
I'm of course, smiling playing the whole thing off like "Oh, I get it...California, Disneyland--Mickey Mouse". But inside I'm like "Are you fcuking kidding me? Dude, we were gonna rent the Rudolph special together?! Hang out, cry when Rudolph's nose won't light...". I'm dying. But you know, to him my drama was his comedy.
Oh and it goes on. I'll give you the cliff's notes, but the next acts of the comedy were Act 2: Dana awakens in the middle of the night to discover everyone's shoes have been laced together then tied to his arm while he was asleep in the hopes that he'd move his arm and drop twenty pairs of shoes on his head. Act 3: The day we depart, the entire staff receives the most loving blessing from Burl Ives Lama who promptly turns to me and head butts me. Not head butt like, oh here's the traditional Tibetan greeting with a little extra oomph, head butts me like he's an English soccer player for Manchester United after like, twenty pints of Guinness.
So anyway, for what its worth--if you happen to catch your own reflection in the mirror--any mirror and for just a split second you have that odd feeling like your watching some television show and you spaced out and when you came back you felt like even though you just missed part of the show it didn't really matter because what-the-hell-is-this-about-anyway-and-why-am-I-watching-it?
Well, either turn the volume way up so you don't notice you're spacing out anymore or get ready for some sleepless nights. 'Cuz once you start questioning what's really going on around you...well, things take a turn for the interesting.
Apr 20, 2006
The Week of 4/17: Suffering Goes Big!
In the last four days--sister in law diagnosed w/cancer. Surgery today. Co-worker's baby rushed to ICU with life-threatening low-level hemoglobin count. Thirtysomething friend, newly wed--killed in a car accident. Her husband's teen son, also in the car now in an induced coma.
So here I am praying away for people, doing tonglen. Even went to St. Bart's church on 50th and spent my lunch hour with the "Angel". Saw it/her there years ago when there for a Sakyong Mipam talk. She's in a small room, a larger than life-size Angel in alabaster.
And no I don't watch re-runs of "Touched By An Angel" and I do not, I repeat do not have a pewter angel on my key chain. But I'm telling you, you step in to a small room with a thousand pound, white Angel? Hey, sh*t happens.
Then it hits me--I'm one of six billion people on the planet. Doing my scrawny, undernourished, distracted tonglen practice--who's covering the other 5.97872 billion peeps? Okay, so not all of us are suffering. But if you just stop for a minute and think about the war fare, poverty, disease, famine--at any given moment there are a lot of people in real distress.
And that's just counting the humans. How many beings are in the animal kingdom? So what to do? It seems insurmountable, the amount of suffering being experienced at any given time. Given all that, here I am at work sleepy from waking at six a.m. PTT (pre-toddler time) to practice, but mentally whining because I want an iced mochacino.
I remember when I lived at a Dharma center. There was a Tibetan teacher visiting, waiting just outside the shrine room, ready to go in and give a talk. There was this really sweet family from Montreal there, well they come down the stairs, late for the talk--and see the lama there, ready to go in.
But the little boy (he was about thirteen) was just crying a river. This teacher looks over and the boy's sister says, with that kind of perfect, child's lack of pretense--"He just found out his grandmother dies. He misses her". And man, this teacher's whole face, like the molecular structure of it changed. It softened and re-formed and melted and tears just started streaming down his cheeks.
And he walks over to the boy and puts a hand on his shoulder and the little boy didn't think twice he just grabbed this Lama and hugged him and folded his whole little body in to him and they cried and the boys snot flowed down these monk's crimson robes and they stood there together. And that teacher wasn't going anywhere. A hurricane couldn't have moved him from that boy's side.
I haven't thought about that for a long time. Could I ever care for a stranger like that? I'm going to get an iced mochaninco. I'm going to keep getting up at PTT--something about that feels right. I'll probably forget about other people's miseries until something jars me back to that reality. I'm glad my family's safe.
That teacher? One of the strongest, kindest, wisest most straightforward humans I ever had the good fortune to be around. His ability to be truly present was the result of hard work. A lifetime of literally reshaping his intention. He died a few years later in a car accident in India.
Apr 19, 2006
Transparency Of Concept(s)
From Chogyam Trungpa
In the absence of thoughts and emotions, the Lords (the forces of materialism) bring up a still more powerful weapon, concepts. Labeling phenomena creates a feeling of a solid, definite world of "things." Such a solid world reassures us that we are a solid, continuous thing as well.
The world exists, therefore I, the perceiver of the world, exist. Meditation involves seeing the transparency of concepts, so that labeling no longer serves as a way of solidifying our world and our image of self. Labeling becomes simply the act of discrimination.
In the absence of thoughts and emotions, the Lords (the forces of materialism) bring up a still more powerful weapon, concepts. Labeling phenomena creates a feeling of a solid, definite world of "things." Such a solid world reassures us that we are a solid, continuous thing as well.
The world exists, therefore I, the perceiver of the world, exist. Meditation involves seeing the transparency of concepts, so that labeling no longer serves as a way of solidifying our world and our image of self. Labeling becomes simply the act of discrimination.
Apr 18, 2006
Bonus Points...
...for anyone who clicks on the death/impermanence link under dharma teachings. I dare 'ya...
Am I Enlightened Or Just Really Pissed Off?
From Chogyam Trungpa:
EMOTIONS AS THEY ARE
"In the practice of meditation, we neither encourage emotions nor repress them. By seeing them clearly, by allowing them to be as they are, we no longer permit them to serve as a means of entertaining and distracting us. Thus, they become the inexhaustible energy that fulfills egoless action".
Which got me to thinking, how do I know when I'm "...fueling egoless action" or just being an @sshole? You know, there's people (okay, mainly NY'ers...) who fear getting in to Buddhism 'cuz they don't want to "Lose their edge and go soft", despite appreciating the newly-won sanity of their friends who've gotten in to meditation.
So which is it? R we getting truly righteous or just ridiculous? Are we serenely finishing our lite beers and leaving the bar before the good brawls start as our friends laugh at us behind our backs? Do we need the edge? Can we have our cake...and smash it too?
EMOTIONS AS THEY ARE
"In the practice of meditation, we neither encourage emotions nor repress them. By seeing them clearly, by allowing them to be as they are, we no longer permit them to serve as a means of entertaining and distracting us. Thus, they become the inexhaustible energy that fulfills egoless action".
Which got me to thinking, how do I know when I'm "...fueling egoless action" or just being an @sshole? You know, there's people (okay, mainly NY'ers...) who fear getting in to Buddhism 'cuz they don't want to "Lose their edge and go soft", despite appreciating the newly-won sanity of their friends who've gotten in to meditation.
So which is it? R we getting truly righteous or just ridiculous? Are we serenely finishing our lite beers and leaving the bar before the good brawls start as our friends laugh at us behind our backs? Do we need the edge? Can we have our cake...and smash it too?
Apr 11, 2006
Tonglen Posse: Saddle Up...
...hi all. A good friend's baby just went in to ICU last night. Still doing tests, but looks like a pretty virulent form of Anemia where the red blood cells are attacked by the bodies own immune system.
The little girl's name is Daya, she's about sixteen months old. It would be very appreciated and helpful if you could include her in your practice. The mother's name is Limor--I'm sure a few healing thoughts in her direction wouldn't hurt either.
New link below--a talk on Tonglen by Pema Chodron.
Thanks all.
The little girl's name is Daya, she's about sixteen months old. It would be very appreciated and helpful if you could include her in your practice. The mother's name is Limor--I'm sure a few healing thoughts in her direction wouldn't hurt either.
New link below--a talk on Tonglen by Pema Chodron.
Thanks all.
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